#has nightmares about you lying in bed and crying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 2 months ago

Text

❛ 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Half a brutal week of finals, your idea of short recovery is simple: horror games, dim lights, and your boyfriend Sol breathing in your ear through voice chat like he isn’t actively trying to ruin your focus. It was supposed to be just another cursed indie night — you, the monster, and a few well-aimed insults...

...until Sol’s reactions hijack the match entirely. One death screen, one whispered apology, and one desperate Discord call later, and suddenly you’re the one getting hunted — not by pixelated nightmares, but by your very real, very flushed, very wrecked boyfriend begging for your attention like his life depends on it. Turns out, surviving finals was the easy part.

…Surviving him? Yeah, good luck with that.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: soooo, on April 7th, while I was supposed to be studying for my psych and chem midterms, I stumbled across some [ art ] by @bonw0n — and yeah, I was this close to dropping everything to write this immediately. I behaved… mostly. Might’ve snuck a few "study breaks" to get some of it out. I’ve seen others write for this request too, so here’s my take — hope you love it, dearest.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x gn! reader, smut, masturbation, voyeurism, mutual pining, voice kink, begging, desperate sol, one-sided voice chat (at first), tension so thick you could choke on it, accidentally turning him on, slight corruption kink if you squint, dirty thoughts two idiots falling harder than they realize, and sol is down bad and it’s so funny.

April is hell for college students. fucking tell me about...

Anyone who says otherwise has either dropped out, is lying, or majors in something unserious like something dumb—underwater basket weaving.

It’s exam season—a month-long bloodbath where coffee becomes a food group, sleep is theoretical, and your notes look like they were written by a madman mid-breakdown. You’ve been living in libraries, buried in color-coded flashcards and PDF textbooks you don’t even remember downloading. Your backpack weighs more than your will to live, and your playlist? Just sad lo-fi beats and the occasional mental breakdown.

But you did it.

You clawed your way through a few of your finals already, each one more cursed than the last. You turned in essays with hands that felt like claws, circled scantron bubbles like your life depended on it. And when the last “Submit” button was pressed today—you didn’t cry.

You almost did. But instead, you stared at your ceiling for twenty minutes contemplating existence… then decided to not kill yourself with another night of studying.

Tonight? You earned a break. And your poison of choice?

Well, overall, after exams, most people do one of three things:

Talk about the exam like it was a shared war trauma.

Vanish the second time’s up—those lucky bastards just evaporate into thin air.

Crash into bed, possibly start crying because of overthinking. Bonus points if you start crashing out.

Then there’s the rest—out at some crusty frat party, doing keg stands like their brain cells aren’t already on life support. Or sparking up until they’re spiritually ascending, eyes redder than the F they just got in psych stats. But not you.

Oh no, you? You’ve got taste. Elegance.

Horror Video Games.

And not the cute, fluffy kind either. You’re not out here playing some "build your dream town" simulator, collecting adorable animals with quirky little personalities who talk about their feelings. Nope, not you. You're not clicking through endless dialogue trees in a visual novel where every decision leads to either a hug or a heartbroken confession—though, let's be real, you’ve totally dipped your toes in those a couple of times. It's fine. No one's judging.

But nope, you're deep in the muck of horror. The darker, the better.

The more twisted, morally questionable, and "I probably shouldn't be playing this at 2 AM" the story is? That's the kind of game you're downloading like it’s got a bill overdue. You don’t need to sip on some overpriced vodka. You don’t need to hit the vape and pretend you’re too cool for life.

What you need is pure, unfiltered psychological trauma in 1080p.

Forget a chill evening—you want to feel like your mind might short-circuit at any second. You need the cozy glow of your LED lights bleeding across a desk littered with energy drinks and half-functioning headphones. You need your haunted little playlist of indie nightmares and "this game is banned in 12 countries" storylines.

This is your version of therapy. Replacing exam stress with the emotional damage of a pixelated ghost child whispering from behind a locked door.

There’s just something magical about sinking into your chair like a sentient blanket burrito, headset on, game booted up, and letting the real world dissolve into static.

Just you, the dark, and whatever fresh hell is waiting around the next virtual corner to emotionally ruin you. Again.

That was all you could think about during your god-awful fifty-minute-long lectures—well, that and how your professor’s voice sounded like someone chewing chalk while reading a textbook aloud. Especially on your longer days, where it felt like your brain was actively trying to escape through your ears or your eyes get heavy—despite sitting right up front of the class you deadass fall asleep in the middle of lecture…

Still, you powered through. Took notes. Faked interest. Dodged a group project like it owed you money. You even hit the library for a hot minute, pretended to be productive, and then finally dragged yourself back to your dorm like a half-dead NPC on a quest for salvation.

First stop? Food.

You threw something questionable-but-edible into the microwave leftover take out you ordered yesterday and stared at it like it held all the answers to your suffering. Greasy, hot, probably taking a year off your life, but comforting in a ‘screw it, I survived today’ kind of way.

Then came homework. Ugh.

You sat down, cracked open your laptop, and forced yourself to speed-run your assignments like you were defusing a bomb. Brain on autopilot. Tabs everywhere. Safari sounded like it was about to take off with your laptop. But you got it done—somehow. Whether your answers make sense? Always, make sure to check everything before you turn in, timestamp and all.

Then finally—finally—you hit the shower.

The hot water came down like it had a personal vendetta, absolutely obliterating your stress, your regrets, and possibly your skin barrier. You just stood there, letting it scald you like a rotisserie chicken, steam turning your bathroom into a sad little sauna with zero luxury but maximum existential crisis.

You hummed. You danced. You nearly slipped. You played that one song—the one you’ve been listening to on loop for days like it’s the soundtrack to your life’s fake documentary. You know, the one that starts off giving you chills and ends up giving you a migraine once your brain decides it’s time to ruin it. Classic move.

Then you stood there longer than you needed to, contemplating your next victim in the horror game queue. Real priorities.

Afterward showering, you did your usual post shower routine then you pulled on your favorite set—something soft and chill but definitely showing more skin than necessary. But who were you trying to impress? No one. You just liked how your blanket felt better that way. Priorities.

Besides, the whole point was to feel the warmth of your blanket better. You wrapped yourself in it, a cozy cocoon, and sank into your gamer chair, legs tucked beneath you, heart already settling into that familiar rhythm.

Your desk was a beautiful kind of chaos—lived-in, deliberate, curated for comfort and carnage. At the center of it all stood your mid-sized monitor, propped on a stack of mismatched textbooks like some sacred relic. It bathed the room in soft, moody colors, its screen already alive with the eerie flicker of the horror game’s menu.

Game boxes were stacked like grim little trophies on your shelves, each one a memory of a night spent half-screaming and half-laughing, usually with Sol on the other end.

Twisted monster figurines stared blankly from their perches, arranged meticulously from “mildly unsettling” to “this one gave me a complex.” And the posters? Cult-classic psychological thrillers and cursed films—tattered at the edges, warped slightly by years of devotion. They stared back at you from the walls, their looming silhouettes shifting every time the screen flashed with static or movement.

Your gamer chair was a throne, worn-in just right—soft, broken in by years of sleepless nights and stress-fueled gaming binges. Draped across it was your oversized blanket, the one that swallowed you whole and made you feel like a cryptid rising from a cocoon. There was something sacred about that chair. It knew things. It had been with you through exam week breakdowns, existential dread marathons, and now, it was your command post.

Your controller was resting on the desk beside you, waiting.

The game was already launched, the lobby open, and your headset nestled comfortably over your ears. The built-in proximity voice chat was activated—just you and Sol in your own little bubble. The room was quiet but not silent. The faint buzz of the monitor, the gentle hum of your fan, the occasional creak of your chair when you shifted—it all became part of the ambiance.

And right on cue… Sol was already online.

His username—pumpkinlover00—pulsed softly in the game lobby like a heartbeat. Waiting. Always waiting. Same time, every night. Like a ritual. Like a promise.

There was no need for a message. No awkward small talk. No fumbling attempts at icebreakers. You two had long since passed that stage. This was muscle memory now—deadass unspoken rhythm built on laggy screams, ill-timed reloading, and the electric hum of shared adrenaline.

You reached for the controller, the soft click of your grip syncing perfectly with the moment his voice crackled through the in-game chat.

“Yo,” Sol murmured, his tone rough and low like he hadn’t spoken all day—maybe he hadn’t.

You grinned, stretching out in your throne of a chair and tugging the blanket tighter around you. “Yo yourself,” you said, thumbing through the loadout menu lazily. “By the way… when were you gonna tell me your gamertag was pumpkinlover00?”

There was a few seconds of silence.

Then, a sigh. The kind that screamed regret.

“It was a dare,” Sol said, as if that explained anything.

You snorted, already grinning as you adjusted in your seat, “Yeah, okay. But pumpkinlover00, though? Be honest. Did you also bake it a pie and whisper sweet nothings to your jack-o-lantern?”

“You keep talking and I will leave you mid-extraction,” he warned, dry as dust.

“Do it. I’ll tell everyone in the dorm that you made a shrine out of pumpkin guts and played Linkin Park while crying.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t just tell them,” you said, spinning your controller in hand with flair. “I’d make PowerPoint slides. Full color. Transitions. Soundtrack.”

He groaned, however you heard the little snort of laughter he tried to bury. Then his eyes landed on your own in-game tag floating proudly above your character’s head: DumpsterSnacc_.

“…You named yourself after trash food,” he muttered.

“Excuse me? I named myself after a rare and powerful snack born in the fires of poor life decisions and gas station cuisine. I am the forbidden flavor.”

“Sounds like you were found in the dumpster.”

“Bold talk from a guy whose username sounds like a seasonal candle from fucking grocery store.”

He laughed at that—low, sudden, genuine. “Alright, alright. Let’s see which one of us gets ghost-murdered first.”

The game flickered to life with its usual guttural startup scream, the kind that sounded like it had regrets and 3 unpaid debts. Your mission scrolled across the screen in grim text, paired with a deep voiceover that could narrate your funeral.

You selected your loadout: flashlight, flares and, of course, your unshakable sense of superiority.

“Alright, Pumpkin Spice,” you said, cracking your knuckles. “Ready to yank some haunted toaster ovens outta Satan’s basement?”

Sol chuckled. “Lead the way, Snaccrifice.”

The screen cut to black. And the horror began. Eveything loaded in with an unholy screech—part static, part radio distortion, part something that sounded like it came from a throat that shouldn’t exist.

You and Sol had just booted up the latest co-op indie horror hit: R.E.P.O. session. A physics-heavy, proximity-voice nightmare where you and a friend sneak into abandoned, rotting buildings to repossess cursed artifacts... all while being stalked by something that learns how you play.

Smart. Fast. Shapeshifting. The kind of monster that knew your patterns better than your therapist. Naturally, you both took it dead seriously. It was so serious, in fact, that your characters were dressed like absolute clowns. Literally.

You had picked grey skin with the bright neon outfit, oversized heart sunglasses, and an inflatable donut ring as a belt. Sol, not to be outdone, went full chaos: Green skin, a banana suit, and ski goggles, paired with bright orange gloves. His character model moved like a confused mall Santa.

“I swear to god,” he muttered through the proximity voice chat, distorted by digital reverb, “if we die looking like this, I’m logging off forever.”

“No you’re not. You're emotionally attached now,” you replied, confidently stomping your ridiculous pink boots toward the first hallway.

You’d already picked your roles.

You were the lead retriever—the brave idiot who runs in, grabs the cursed junk, and throws it back like it’s Black Friday at a pawn shop.

Sol? He was the cart dude—your ever-loyal partner who stayed behind just far enough to avoid immediate death, but close enough to catch whatever hell you flung his way.

He pushed the in-game collection cart behind you with janky, glitchy physics, the wheels squeaking like it was haunted by a grocery store demon. You turned around dramatically, forcing your character model to do a sudden 180.

Because the game used proximity-based voice chat, this also forced your character and Sol’s to make deep, intense eye contact. Eye contact that was only made worse by the exaggerated googly eyes stuck to your sunglasses. “Alright,” you said in your Serious Voice™, stepping forward with authority. “Game plan.”

Sol’s character nodded, “Hit me.”

“We’re hitting the west wing first. Storage room. There's an artifact in there worth at least $1800 in-game bucks. Probably cursed. Probably breathing. I’ll go in, grab it, scream if I die. You stand back, push the cart, and if something runs at you, throw it my way and run.”

There was a pause.

“That’s… that’s your plan?” he asked.

“It’s a working plan.”

“It’s a dumbass plan.”

“It’s our dumbass plan.”

You both stared in silence again, your avatars breathing heavily, noses almost touching on screen. Sol finally sighed. “I hate that I trust you.”

“I hate that I’m the brains of this operation.” You smirked, turned on your flashlight, and marched forward.

The darkness swallowed you both whole.

Behind you, the sound of a cart creaking along… and the soft jingle of a banana suit bouncing into the unknown.

You were just finishing loading a creepy little porcelain baby head into the cart—its painted eyes were scratched out and it laughed when you dropped it, so that was great—when the game's staticy radio pinged.

Incoming call.

Username: Hyugo_WasHere

You froze. So did Sol.

“No,” Sol said immediately, full volume, the word sharp enough to slice the tension. “Do not answer that.” Too late. You were already clicking accept.

The call connected with a loud, cheerful “Yooo! Pumpkin Boy! You in that haunted IKEA game?”

You grinned. “Hyugo, you tryna R.E.P.O some haunted junk with us?”

“Am I?” he said. “Am I ever. I’ve been watching Sol’s stream on Discord on mute for like ten minutes. Sol’s scream when the mannequin fell was a chef’s kiss.”

“It fell from the ceiling,” Sol hissed. “And it grabbed my shoulder. You would’ve screamed too.”

“I would’ve shot it,” Hyugo replied flatly.

Sol groaned, already defeated. “I swear to god, if he logs in—”

“He’s already at the party,” you said casually, watching the character list update.

A second later, a new player spawned in the safe zone, cyan color. And dressed like a goddamn menace. Hyugo’s avatar was in tight metallic leggings, a sparkly vest, and a jester hat with bells that jingled with every movement. His character moved with the swagger of someone who wanted to be shot first.

“Why are you like this?” Sol muttered.

“Stealth is a suggestion,” Hyugo declared, spinning in place.

“You’re going to get us murdered,” Sol added.

But you? You were already laughing. “Let’s go, Yessss, let’s go team. The ghost’s not ready.”

As the mission progressed, the building changed. Literally.

The layout shifted the deeper you went, doors that led to supply closets now opening into winding hallways, entire wings that didn’t exist in the beginning of the match suddenly sprouting up like tumors. The wallpaper pulsed. The ceilings dripped. Somewhere in the distance, something screamed like it had teeth where lungs should be.

You, Sol, and Hyugo pushed on. Slowly, methodically.

You led the charge, grabbing cursed relics and slapping them into the cart with casual violence. Sol stuck close, flashlight flickering, cart wheels creaking, muttering price estimates like a haunted appraiser.

Hyugo, despite all odds, actually helped. He wandered ahead with a scanner, pinging valuable loot and joking in proximity chat about how your footsteps sounded like wet noodles. “$1200 mirror up here,” Hyugo called once, voice crackling. “Probably possessed. Can I make it kiss itself?”

“No,” you and Sol said at the same time.

Still, you were doing fine.

The cart was getting full. The radio said Extraction Ready in 3 Items. You were winning. So, you split up briefly—Sol stayed behind with the cart while you moved into a shadowy side room to grab what looked like a golden antique camera. It was twitching in your hand as you placed it in the cart with a clang.

That’s when Sol ran in. Not walked. Not jogged.

He sprinted in like something was directly behind him, eyes wide, headset audio crackling with his panicked breath. “Gun.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Gun!” he barked again.

“Dude, what—?”

“GUN!!” He was just repeating it now, flailing his arms like his in-game model was having a seizure. “BIG—GUN—HE HAS A GUN—”

“Who has a gun?!”

“THE BLIND GUY!!” Sol whisper-shouted. “HE ALMOST SHOT ME!”

You blinked, slowly crouching. “You mean the monster has a gun? Like an actual gun?”

“Yes! A fucking shotgun. Like He’s blind, but he’s got aimbot—he hears you, and just—” Sol mimed a gun recoil. “Pop. Dead. No warning. No build-up. Just excellent ass hearing and bullets.”

You snorted. “So what I’m hearing is: don’t make noise.”

Because the Blind Huntsman was coming.

The cart was half full, sitting between the overturned desks and office rubble. You had all scrambled to hide, moving fast as the soft, dragging footsteps of the Huntsman echoed from the hallway—his boots heavy, and his breath sharp, unfiltered, like someone breathing through shredded cloth.

You dove under a busted-ass metal table in the middle of the room, the thing barely standing on three legs and draped with old-ass hanging wires and paper folders that probably hadn’t been touched since the building caught its first haunting. The light was dim, pulsing like a dying heartbeat from some emergency light in the hall. Dust settled thick on the floor, the smell of old rot and burning metal clinging to the air.

Across from you, Hyugo’s stupid cyan avatar ducked under another table, practically hugging the wall like some horror-movie goblin. He looked so ridiculous in that clown-ass outfit y’all let him pick, and the way he moved just made it worse—jerky, crouched, twitchy, like someone who was definitely going to get caught first.

And then there was Sol. Goddamn Sol. Man had one job—hide. But instead of tucking under a desk like a normal person, he panicked and wedged himself behind the door. Behind. The. Door. Like the Huntsman wasn't gonna swing it open and yeet him into next week.

Earlier, before shit hit the fan, he had said all calm like, “I’m gonna scope the hallway next. The cart’s almost full. Let me just—wait, hold on—” His mic clicked. That dreaded click.

You knew something was wrong. So did Hyugo.

Both of your avatars shifted ever so slightly—tense, alert.

Then Sol said it. “I’m getting a call.”

You silently screamed. Huygo’s shoulders went up like “no way this idiot’s serious.”

You hissed, “Sol, no—”

But he said it. Out loud. “Hello?”

The door didn’t creak open. It detonated—BOOM.

The sound rattled your headset so hard your mic peaked. Splinters flew, chunks of drywall exploded like confetti, and dust swallowed the whole room. The screen shook like a natural disaster, and you actually jumped IRL, heart hammering. Sol’s body got flung back like a ragdoll—slammed straight into a metal filing cabinet, bounced, and crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. It was the worst-looking hit you’d ever seen in-game. Just flopped there, half-folded behind some drawers.

And yet… somehow… the bastard lived.

He slowly sat up, stunned as hell. Twitchy, like he had just experienced every lifetime trauma at once. His mic crackled in all staticky, and he muttered: “…what the fuck.”

You were dying. Not in-game. In reality. Trying so hard not to lose it. Your whole body was trembling from how bad you wanted to laugh. You slapped both hands over your mouth and held them there like a makeshift muzzle, eyes wide, shoulders shaking.

You peeked out at Sol’s avatar.

He was looking dead at you.

And you felt it. The shame. The betrayal. The comedy. Whoever coded that eye tracking in this cursed game deserved an Oscar. Sol just sat there, traumatized, and stared at you like “you saw that, didn’t you?” And yeah. Yeah, you did. And it was the funniest shit you’d seen all week. Then Hyugo’s dumbass peeked out too.

Hyugo peeked out from his hiding spot—real slow, real cautious—and locked eyes with Sol first. Sol’s avatar, still slumped against the cabinet like a traumatized Victorian ghost, stared back. No words. Just… the kind of look that said "Don't you dare."

Then Hyugo turned and looked at you. Your own avatar, tucked safely under the rust-ridden desk, met his gaze with the same energy. A silent pact. Do not make a sound. Not a breath. Not a giggle. Not even a pixel twitch.

And Hyugo? He was trying, man. He really was.

You could see it—his character model shook slightly, his shoulders giving that telltale twitch. Like he was holding in a sneeze. You knew the warning signs. The snort was coming. And then—“Pfft.”

CRACK.

The Blind Huntsman didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t pause. That cursed bastard snapped around the second he heard the slip. One single shot. Pinpoint. Surgical. Hyugo’s head went supernova. Cyan body parts everywhere. His avatar’s body slammed into the edge of the metal table with this sickening clunk, arms flailing once before collapsing in a stiff, horrifying ragdoll motion. His limbs twitched for half a second… then silence.

Just the head left. Rolling.

Like the Huntsman said, “shut the hell up” with extreme prejudice.

Dead. Instant. No revive. No second chances.

The man got deleted like he owed the server money.

You were fully biting down on the sleeve of your hoodie now, hands over your face, trying not to scream with laughter. Shoulders shaking, breath hiccupping through your nose like a possessed hamster. Your eyes were stinging from how hard you were crying—silent tears of pure, uncut chaos.

Sol’s mic crackled again, dry as hell. No emotion. Just raw judgment. “…I hope you get haunted, bro. I really do.”

You couldn’t even answer. You were beyond words. The cart you were supposed to be pushing? Yeah. You just stared at it. Like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could will the mission to complete itself.

And the Huntsman? Still there.

Pacing slow. Heavy boots echoing through the static haze. He hadn’t forgotten. Not about Sol. Not about you. He was still walking. Still waiting for someone to slip up. And you could feel it—He was pissed.

You and Sol managed to slip out while the Huntsman circled the wreckage, still checking corners like a paranoid ex. You bolted left, Sol darted right—no words, just instinct and pure panic-fueled coordination. Both of you were half limping, half sliding into the hallway, ducking behind the rusted lockers and broken shelving until the Huntsman's heavy steps grew distant.

There was a long, quiet beat once you were safe.

Then—“…Did we just leave Hyugo’s decapitated ass in there?”

You stared at Sol. He stared back. Then you both turned to look at the cart you’d spent ten minutes loading, still sitting abandoned in the middle of the room next to Hyugo’s... head.

“Motherf—”

The next ten minutes were pure stealth-game agony. Crawling back, avoiding cameras, sensors, trying not to alert any monster. You had to watch the Huntsman loop its route three times before Sol gave you the go-ahead. He moved to the body. You got the cart.

Teamwork, right?

Eventually, you loaded the final files, got the cart into the hallway, and hit the extraction point with barely a second to spare. The screen faded to black.

Round complete.

The next scene dumped the three of you back into the familiar starting truck. Same cramped space. Same dim, flickering fluorescent light humming overhead like an anxious fly. The air in the truck felt heavier than before, like it still remembered the chaos from the last round.

Sol stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring at absolutely nothing with the weight of every bad decision Hyugo had ever made. You were perched on one of the benches, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeve still a bit damp from when you nearly choked on your own laughter earlier.

And then there was Hyugo.

His avatar spawned in silently, just standing there for a long second like he was processing his own digital funeral.

Then he exhaled like someone twice his age. “…damn, I got clapped.”

That was all it took.

You started laughing again, that quiet, breathless kind that rocked your shoulders and made your stomach hurt. Hyugo cracked up beside you, doubling over, no shame at all.

“Who the hell answers a phone call in the middle of a mission, bro?” you snorted, elbowing his character like it could knock some sense into him.

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just slowly raised his arm and pointed at Hyugo like he was pressing a mental “report player” button.

“That's what your ass get,” he said flatly. “Prank-calling me mid-hide with your creepy-ass burner number? You deserved that karma in 4K, dumbass.”

Moving on, the next map flickered into existence as the truck doors groaned open. Bright, sterile white lights cut through the foggy interior, revealing a massive abandoned science lab, all clean metal, reinforced glass, and flickering emergency signs that suggested terrible things had happened here. The air was thick with strange green mist hissing from the vents, swirling in ghostly patterns around overturned desks and shattered containment pods.

Hyugo was still sprawled on the floor from his latest brush with death, groaning dramatically. You and Sol stepped over him like he was part of the scenery.

"Science lab, huh?" you muttered, adjusting your gear.

"Great," Sol sighed. "Haunted test tubes. Love that."

Hyugo finally pushed himself up, grinning like he hadn’t just been yeeted toward acid twice in the last five minutes. “Oh, y’all are gonna love this.”

He opened his inventory with a smug flourish, the soft chime echoing like a game show reveal. And there it was:

The Hourglass.

Not just rare—stupid rare. Glowing in vibrant shades of purple and pink, pulsing slightly like it had its heartbeat. The mist around your group even seemed to freeze for a second, as if reality itself was like, wait, what.

You and Sol both just stared. At it. At Hyugo. Then, back at the Hourglass, like you were waiting for a hidden camera reveal.

“You found that?” you asked, taking a cautious step forward.

“Yup,” Hyugo said proudly, hands on his hips. “Just vibing in the vents. Found it near a corpse. Thought it was lore or something.”

Sol blinked like a tired professor dealing with the world’s most dramatic intern. “Hyugo.”

“Yeah?”

Then it happened.

Hyugo’s model jerked slightly, like a status effect triggered, and when his mic crackled back to life, he was no longer speaking like Hyugo. No. Now, he was channeling something deeper. Something ancient. Something theatrical.

He straightened up with cartoonish grandeur and spoke in the slow, wise tone of a final boss monologue. “Sunny,” he began—Sol’s cursed nickname—“I have acquired… the capsule.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The capsules. Of time. The very essence of fate distilled into radiant fragments. This—” he gestured dramatically to the Hourglass, “��is our salvation. Our burden. Our destiny.”

Sol deadpanned. “…You’ve been holding it for three seconds.”

Hyugo ignored him. Spun on his heel with dramatic flair. “We are going to win this game. For the realm. For the vent corpses that came before us.”

You crossed your arms. “Hyugo—”

“If it means I have to sacrifice my life…” Hyugo continued, raising one hand to the digital ceiling like a knight accepting a divine quest, “so be it. Let my KD be shattered. My dignity obliterated. My outfit scuffed—”

Sol raised his weapon slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Hyugo gasped. “You would turn on me now, Sunny? After all we’ve been through? After I carried you through that cursed stairwell map with the glitchy ass doors? Have you no heart?”

You tried not to laugh. Failed.

“Onward, you two!” Hyugo declared suddenly, pointing dramatically at the truck doors as they creaked open to reveal the misty lab ahead. “We must go! For glory! For loot! For Sunny’s tragic lack of skills!”

Sol muttered, “I have skills—”

“SILENCE! The prophecy unfolds!”

And with that, Hyugo bolted forward, cape fluttering—he didn’t have one, but you felt like he did—into the ominous green mist, yelling something incoherent about “ether trails” and “data packets of destiny.”

You glanced at Sol. Sol glanced at you.

“I’m not reviving him when he gets face-checked by a mimic chest,” Sol said, voice flat as asphalt.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You know we’re following him anyway.”

“…Yeah. I hate that,” he muttered, already moving.

Without a second of hesitation, Sol opened his inventory with the resigned grace of someone prepping for a ritual he swore he wouldn’t take part in. One swift flick later, he pulled out the gun—the gun. Sleek, matte black, gold trim. The kind of in-game weapon that costs 7,000 currency, your soul, and your firstborn. Came with a single magazine and a kill count higher than most player stats.

Your eyes widened. “Sol—”

Before you could even finish your sentence—BANG.

Hyugo collapsed like a folding chair. A single headshot. Dead. Instant. No fanfare. His body rag-dolled across the floor and slammed into the lab wall with a sad little clunk, the Hourglass clattering beside him like a dropped Fabergé egg. “…WHAT THE HELL?!” Hyugo’s mic exploded back to life as his model twitched on the floor.

You exhaled. “What the helly?”

Hyugo groaned. “What the helly??”

“What the helleante?” “What the helleon musk?” “What the helleberry pie?”

“What the Hellebron James?” “What the Helly Rae Jepsen?”

“Guys.” Sol’s voice cut in, calm but worn, like a man hanging by a single thread of patience. “Shut the fuck up.”

He walked over, still holding that overkill gun in one hand like it weighed nothing, then, without missing a beat, used the grab function to hoist Hyugo’s limp avatar off the ground. His digital arms dangled, legs flopping like a sack of potatoes in skinny jeans. “Bro—BRO,” Hyugo shrieked, squirming. “Put me down! What are you doing?! SOL—Sol stop—STOP—”

You trailed after them, watching like an exhausted parent witnessing their two chaotic ass sons take very different approaches to conflict resolution.

“Sol. Come on.”

Sol’s avatar stopped just at the edge of the glowing, toxic pit bubbling in the middle of the containment zone. The green light cast eerie shadows across the lab walls. He slowly turned his character model, head cocked toward you.

One word. “Justice.”

“BRO I’LL BUY YOU A SKIN,” Hyugo screamed. “A WHOLE PACK! LIMITED EDITION! I’LL PAY FOR IT WITH MY OWN CURRENCY—”

Sol took a step closer to the pit. Paused.

Hyugo whimpered. “Please don’t Wario-yeet me into acid, I’m useful…”

Another step. The acid hissed below, eager. Hungry.

You raised a hand like a referee about to blow the whistle. “Sol. We do need him to activate the switch in the next room. You remember the puzzle door.”

Sol sighed, heavy and reluctant. “I hate teamwork.”

Hyugo, still dangling: “I LOVE teamwork.”

After a long moment, Sol dropped him. Hyugo screamed like a dying fax machine as his avatar plummeted toward the acid below—arms flailing, mic peaking—until you lunged. Frame-perfect grab. Caught him by the hoodie just before he splashed into the bubbling green abyss. His scream cut off immediately. For a second, the whole game seemed to lag, his body glitching mid-air as you held him up like some divine intervention.

Silence. Then: “—Y-you saved me,” Hyugo breathed.

You dropped him. He hit the floor with a loud thunk.

"Don't thank me," you muttered, brushing off your sleeves. "I just didn't wanna hear that scream again."

Hyugo groaned, rolling onto his side. "You two are bullies."

Sol casually reloaded his gun. “You’re welcome for the content.”

Hyugo sat up, rubbing his digital head like he could still feel the gunshot. “I’m getting a new squad.”

"You say that every round," you smirked, already scanning the lab. Beyond the glowing acid pit, the corridors stretched into eerie, sterile hallways, the green mist rolling between shattered glass panels.

Oh, yeah—and the rest of the game? Oh, it completely fell apart. What started as a semi-coordinated dungeon crawl quickly devolved into Hyugo’s personal chaos playground.

You were trying to play with some semblance of focus. Sol was attempting to maintain professionalism, a beacon of composure in the chaos. And then there was Hyugo, who effortlessly turned the entire game from a tense "sci-fi horror dungeon crawl" to a wild, unhinged improv comedy show—complete with light war crimes.

He was a menace. No—he was the menace. A digital gremlin incarnate. One moment, you’re creeping down a shadowy lab corridor, the eerie hum of the ambient music seeping into your headphones, the air thick with tension. You’re on edge, weapons ready, your mind focused on the mission at hand… and then—BOOM.

Big Sean’s “I Don’t F*ck With You” intro explodes through team chat, its intro blaring like a furious soundboard god had just unleashed chaos upon you. You whip around the corner just in time to see Hyugo, arms flailing, sprinting full speed through a doorway, the music pounding in the background. Behind him? A grotesque, duck-shaped miniboss, honking like a malfunctioning bike horn and spewing acid everywhere.

You couldn’t help it.

You were dying from laughter, struggling to even aim properly, your screen a blur from tears of hilarity.

Sol, on the other hand?

“TURN IT OFF,” he growled, weapon drawn, hands visibly shaking with frustration. His usual calm demeanor? Gone.

Hyugo didn’t even flinch. “I WOULD RATHER DIE!”Instead, he leapt. A full-on swan dive off a second-story catwalk, arms spread wide in dramatic, angelic fashion, while the music still blared through the speakers. His avatar ragdoling gracefully down to the depths below, and that ridiculous duck miniboss followed right after.

You? Hysterical. Barely holding it together.

Sol? “I hope it eats him.”

The only thing more ridiculous than Hyugo's antics was the fact that you all still couldn't stop.

The next round? It was a complete disaster.

You were trying to maintain some semblance of control, moving stealthily through a high-alert containment zone. Alarms blared in your ears, the shrill sound slicing through your focus. Enemies were everywhere, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Sol was on point, carefully lining up a perfect shot on a sniper perched high in the rafters. It was the kind of moment that made you feel like you were finally in control.

And then, suddenly—LOUD BABY CRYING.

The mic exploded with static, the shrieks vibrating through your headset. You froze, your camera whipping around to see what the hell was going on. There, crouched behind Sol, was Hyugo.

And he wasn’t even doing anything. He was just vibing. No weapons, no tactics. Just existing, silently in the corner.

The worst part?

Every time you looked directly at him, he shot off like a rogue NPC with a death wish. His character zigzagged around the hallway, darting every which way, a trail of baby wails following him like an ominous echo through the halls. It felt like you were being haunted by the ghost of daycare past, each screeching cry more absurd than the last.

Sol's jaw was clenched so hard you could practically hear his teeth grinding together. He spun on you, his frustration practically palpable. “I’m this close to uninstalling.”

You shrugged, not even bothering to hide your grin. “Let him live. He’s the only one distracting the minibosses.”

Sol’s glare could’ve burned a hole through steel. “He’s distracting me.”

Of course, things didn’t get better.

You were one artifact away from completing the mission.

Going back for the legendary Hourglass.

A cursed, time-warping relic that everyone knew was crucial to the final steps. You had made it this far, fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, to push forward. The whole mission had come down to this one piece.

Sol exhaled slowly, trying to keep it together. “Alright. Where’s the Hourglass?”

Before you could even answer, Hyugo shot up from the corner where he’d been hiding, far too excited. “Ooh! I’ll get it!”

You and Sol both said it in unison. “NO.”

You pointed at him, voice firm. “I’ll get it.”

You sprinted off, cursing under your breath as you dashed through the corridor, praying to every god in existence that Hyugo wouldn't somehow decide to follow you and make the situation even worse. The last thing you needed was him trailing behind you like a damn toddler in a toy store, causing chaos at every corner.

When you finally returned, panting, gripping the eerie-looking relic in your hands, you were met with a sight that made your blood boil: Hyugo, standing atop a console, looking absolutely delightful in that damn ugly seasonal cosmetic hat.

He spun around like he was auditioning for a low-budget action movie, and before you could even blink, he started blasting the most obnoxious clapping sound effect. His character mimicked a ridiculously exaggerated movement, like he was giving backshots to Sol's and yours.

That was it. You were done.

No more laughter. No more tolerance for his nonsense. The mission was right there, within reach, and yet here he was, ruining everything with his antics.

You slammed your hand down on your mic key. “Hyugo, what the hell is wrong with you?” you growled, voice dripping with annoyance. “You can’t be serious. Every time we get anywhere, you turn this game into a circus. We’re not here to play dress-up and throw sound effects around. This isn’t a comedy show!”

You glared at him through the screen, fury bubbling up. “I’ve been trying to finish this mission for hours, and all you’ve done is run around like a damn gremlin, causing chaos and wasting everyone’s time! I swear to god, if you don’t knock it off—”

Hyugo, of course, just stood there, you knew for a fact that he’s grinning like an idiot behind his fuck ass character. The last shred of your patience snapped. You looked at Sol’s character on the screen, knowing he was feeling the exact same way. Sol’s normally calm demeanor was clearly strained, but he wasn’t saying a word.

“Hyugo,” you seethed, “I’m done. Just—get out. If you can’t take this seriously, then don’t waste our time. You’re a walking distraction and a complete menace. Maybe if you stopped playing clown, you’d actually be useful for once.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, you spun around in your seat, fingers slamming against the buttons in a blur of frustration. The shot rang out, and with a satisfying pop, Hyugo's avatar’s head crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

There was a long, tense silence. You were still fuming, but you didn’t care anymore. Hyugo was out of your hair. The relic was in your hands. The mission was finally going to be over.

Or so you thought.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice crackled through the mic, calm and far too chipper. "Alright, I’m logging off for the night," Hyugo announced, as if he hadn't just spent the last hour turning the game into a goddamn circus. "I’m gonna play something else. This is... yeah, this is too much for me."

You blinked, taken aback. He was serious? After everything? You were half-expecting him to jump back in and say, "Just kidding!" or somehow start another round of chaotic shenanigans. But no. This time, he wasn’t even bothering to tease Sol. No baby were crying sound effects, no loud meme noises blaring through the speakers, no swan dives off catwalks.

You let out a long sigh as the weight of the chaos slowly lifted from your shoulders, but just when you thought you could finally call it a night, Sol shot you a look that could only be described as a challenge.

“Don’t tell me you're actually done,” he said, a smirk creeping into his voice. “Come on, it’s late, but we’re so close. You’ve gotta finish the level with me. I dare you.”

You raised an eyebrow. You were exhausted, physically and mentally.

The idea of continuing felt like a cruel joke, but you knew one thing: Sol wasn’t backing down, and he had a way of wearing you down with that competitive streak of his. "Fine," you muttered, giving in. "But if I regret this in the morning, I’m blaming you."

Sol gave you a look through the camera—equal parts smug and tired triumph—as you queued up a new level, eyes bleary but still gleaming with challenge.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, stretching like a smug cat. “This one’s deep in the DLC vault. Real freakshow hours.”

You smirked, fingers already flying across the controller. “Bring it on, coward.”

What loaded next was an obscure, borderline-broken DLC map—one of those buggy, cursed messes made by a dev who clearly needed therapy and a hug. Everything about it was off: the lighting was dim and sickly, the corridors were way too narrow, and worst of all, voice proximity was cranked up to hell. It didn’t just pick up speech. It picked up breathing.

Neither of you noticed it right away—until Sol whispered a dumb joke and the monster twitched on the screen.

“Oh hell no,” he muttered, sitting up straighter. “This thing reacts to voice pitch?”

You hummed, too tired to even laugh properly. “Mmhm. Screeches at loud noises, tracks whispers like a bloodhound.”

“Great,” he deadpanned. “So basically, I die if I sneeze.”

You forged ahead anyway, navigating through the maze of twisted hallways and creaky floorboards. The monster’s guttural growls kept brushing up against your nerves, but your exhaustion forced you into a kind of laser-focused calm. Your voice dropped lower, slower, softer—soothing, unintentional, intimate.

“Go left,” you murmured. “No—wait... not yet... okay, now. Stay close to the wall.”

There was silence on Sol’s end. Long, uncomfortable silence.

“Why are you... whispering like that?” he asked, voice a little thinner now.

You didn’t even look up. “Monster hears pitch. Screams attract it. I’m trying to not to get us murdered.”

“Sure,” he said, and then quieter, “It’s just... wow. Okay.”

Another corridor, another wave of tension. You were crouched behind a rusted shelf, heart thumping, flashlight flickering like it had stage fright, as the game’s monster—this twitchy, multi-limbed freak that sprinted at sound—skulked somewhere nearby.

You leaned into your mic, voice steady, low, breath soft. “Hold your position… grab the crowbar… don’t move… until I say so.” Smooth. Silky. Calculated.

And then—“Sol?” Nothing.

“Sol?” Still nothing.

You peeked down the hallway just in time to see Sol’s in-game avatar standing completely still like some tragic mannequin left in a post-apocalyptic mall. Just… chilling. No movement, no reaction—man really just decided to embrace the void mid-mission. Then, out of the shadows, the monster shrieked like a dying lawnmower and launched itself at him.

“SOL—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You screamed his name like he’d walked into oncoming traffic. His character didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, stoic as hell, right until the monster decapitated him with enough force to send his character’s head flying halfway across the screen like it owed him money.

“Oh my god—SOL, YOU DIED, YOUR HEAD—YOUR FUCKING HEAD WENT INTO THE SKY.”

Still no response.

Just the sound of the monster doing a victory screech and your own mic picking up your frantic panting as you became the hunted next. Now it was your turn to run. You booked it, chart in hand, tripping over half-looted shelves and whispering panicked commands to no one. You were not about to leave those high-priced relic items behind. No way. That shit was worth more than your character’s life, and you were committed.

You could feel the vibration through your controller ramping up—like it was trying to match your pulse. The sound of claws scraping concrete got closer. Louder.

Then—“Nnnh…” A noise. Quiet. Way too quiet. But there.

You froze mid-run. “Sol?” No answer.

“…Are you—are you for real jacking off right now?!”

A pause. Then, barely audible through your headset, a low mumble:

“Keep talking… please,”

“I AM IN A GAME, YOU SICK LITTLE FREAK! THERE IS A DEMON CENTIPEDE THING TWO FEET BEHIND ME—I AM FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE—AND YOU’RE TRYNA BUST?!”

The controller was still buzzing in your hands like it had a personal vendetta. Maybe it was the in-game monster. Maybe it was your own nerves. Or maybe—just maybe—it was Sol, breathing way too hard in your headset and dragging your sanity down with him.

And the worst part? It was funny. Because you'd forgotten—actually forgotten—you were even dating him. You were so used to Sol being somewhat mean, clingy, pouty, and generally up in your business that his little habits no longer register. Until now. Until this very cursed match. Because this?

This was a whole other level.

Just when you rounded the next corner—BAM. The monster dropped from the ceiling vents like it had a grudge, tackled your character, and splattered your health bar in one hit. Your screen flashed a dramatic, unforgiving red:

YOU DIED.

You blinked at the screen. Jaw slack. Controller limp in your hands.

“…Are you kidding me?” you said, voice cracking. “I just got jump-scared to death because you decided to moan in my ear like we’re in some low-budget audio drama.”

Nothing. Just silence. Then, his mic crackled.

There was rustling, a shift, the soft sound of movement, and then Sol exhaled. Shaky. Like he’d just run a marathon—or committed a sin.

“I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, breathless and too soft for comfort. “I couldn’t help it. Your voice… it was driving me crazy.”

Your face went hot. Neck, ears, everything. You curled your toes on instinct. That stupid familiar twist of heat hit your stomach before you could even think to shut him up.

“Sol,” you hissed, but it came out more like a whimper.

“I—can we switch to Discord?” he asked suddenly, almost desperate. “Please, please, Pumpkin. Just for a sec. I need you to see what you’re doing to me.” He begged, using said nickname.

Your heart stuttered.

You weren’t proud of it, but the way he begged—soft, needy, breath catching like he was barely holding it together—yeah.

You were a little turned on.

Fine. Maybe more than a little.

You stared at the screen, still frozen on your defeat, the red YOU DIED taunting you like it knew exactly why. The headset felt suddenly too hot on your ears, like it was echoing back his voice over and over again. Your fingers flexed around the controller like it owed you an explanation.

“Sol, we’re in the middle of a game,” you muttered, but the protest was flimsy, half-hearted at best. Because let’s be real, your fingers were already flying to open Discord with the kind of speed that betrayed just how curious you really were. How desperate, aww.

“Then quit it.” His voice was a rough whisper, thick like honey poured over gravel, dark and syrupy-sweet. “Quit the game. I don’t give a damn if it’s ranked, or cursed, or if the final boss was personally designed by the devil anymore. I just need—”

A low, broken groan tore from his throat, vibrating through the call and sending an electric shiver straight down your spine.

“—need you to look at me.”

And when the video call connected?

God. You looked. And you immediately regretted it.

The screen flickered to life, and there he was—Sol, wrecked and breathless, like he’d been fighting for control and lost. His black and neon-green hair was a disheveled mess, sweat-damp strands clinging to his forehead. His shirt was rucked up past his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his abdomen, the tantalizing dip of his V-line—like he’d gotten impatient, like he’d been touching himself just thinking about you—well, of course, all he thinks about is you after all.

Bruises littered his skin, dark and possessive, marking him up in a way that only made him look wilder, more feral. His red-orange eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the color, glassy with desperation. His hands trembled where they braced against his desk, mic discarded like even that was too much to hold onto.

“You did this,” he accused, voice raw, wrecked. A confession. A prayer.

Your throat went dry. Heat flooded your veins, crawling up your neck, your cheeks, your ears—everywhere. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting, just to keep yourself from whimpering.

“You’re insane,” you breathed.

Sol nodded, feverish, eager. “For you? Every damn second.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky, breathless. “We were just gaming—”

“No.” His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “You were gaming. I was trying not to lose my goddamn mind listening to you—your threats, your fucking voice, whispering curses like you were trying to ruin me.”

“I was not!” you protested, weak, already squirming.

“‘I’m gonna shove this bat so far up your undead ass, you’ll respawn with it sticking out your mouth,’” he quoted, verbatim, voice dripping with accusation. His gaze burned into you, unwavering. “Tell me that wasn’t filthy. Tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe that one was a little hot.”

His grin was wicked, triumphant, as he leaned closer to the screen, like he could taste your surrender. “So,” he murmured, voice dipping into something dark, hungry, “still think we’re finishing that match?”

Your cursor hovered over “Rejoin Game.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate click, you closed the tab.

“…I hope that monster knows it died for a very good cause.”

Your breath hitched as Sol leaned back, his fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt with a slow, deliberate smirk. "You wanna see more?" he taunted, voice dripping with sinful amusement. "Then say it."

Your lips parted, heat coiling low in your stomach as you narrowed your eyes. "Take it off. Now."

A sharp, breathy laugh escaped him as he obeyed, dragging the fabric up and over his head in one smooth motion. His chest was perfectly—toned, flushed, his pierced nipples glinting under the dim light of his room.

You hadn’t noticed before, but each one was adorned with a small silver med-sized bars, the metal catching the light as his breathing quickened. "Fuck," you muttered, biting your lip. “Aww, you’ve been hiding these from me?"

Sol’s grin was all teeth. "Not hiding. Just waiting for you to ask."

Your gaze raked over him, lingering on the way his stomach tensed as he shifted, his fingers toying with the waistband of his pants. "And what else are you hiding, huh?" you challenged, voice dropping into something darker.

"You gonna show me everything, or do I have to make you?"

A shudder ran through him at the command, his pupils blown wide. "Fuck—" His fingers trembled as he undid the button, the zipper sliding down with a hiss that sent a jolt straight to your core.

And then—"Holy shit."

Your eyes locked onto the glint of metal there, nestled along the length of his cock, a delicate Frenum piercing tracing from the tip down to the flushed, aching pink of him. He was big, thick, and heavy in his hand as he gave himself a slow stroke, the silver bead catching the light obscenely.

"You—" Your voice cracked. "You’ve had this the whole time?"

Sol’s breath came in ragged bursts, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk. "Yeah," he admitted, voice wrecked. "Thought you’d—ah—like it."

You did. God, you did.

“Play with yourself,” you ordered, rather quickly—voice dripping with dark command, leaving no room for hesitation. “Let me see how pathetic you look when you’re desperate for me.”

A sharp, wounded whine tore from Sol’s throat, but his hand obeyed instantly, sliding down his stomach to wrap around his cock—already hard, already dripping, the metal of his Frenum piercing glinting under the dim light. His fingers moved in slow, torturous drags, his breath hitching as he squeezed just the way he knew you liked to watch.

“Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerked, chasing his own touch, his thighs trembling. “Tell me—” he gasped, voice wrecked, “tell me how I look.”

You leaned closer to the screen, lips curling into a cruel smirk as you drank in the sight of him—his black and green hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, his pierced nipples pebbled tight under your gaze, his abs flexing with every ragged breath.

“Like a whore,” you purred, low and filthy. “All these piercings, all these pretty little decorations—just for me to look at, huh? You like showing off? Like knowing I’m staring at your cock and thinking about how mine it is?”

Sol moaned, high and broken, his free hand flying up to pinch and twist at his nipple, the metal barbell catching the light. His back arched off the bed, his whole body shuddering. “Yours,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Always—fuck—always yours.”

You watched, transfixed, as his fingers moved faster, his strokes turning messy, needy. His other hand kept playing with his nipple, tugging at the piercing just to hear himself whimper, just to feel something sharper.

And God, you were losing it too.

Your thighs pressed together, trying to relieve the ache building between them, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Not when you could see the way his cock twitched in his grip, the way his stomach muscles clenched as he got closer. Not when you could hear every broken gasp, every bitten-off moan.

Your mind raced with want—with the desperate, clawing need to have him here, in your room, on your bed, begging for you to climb into his lap and ride him until neither of you could think.

You imagined his rough, massive hands dragging down your body, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he whined into your ear. You could almost feel the heat of his skin under your palms, the way his muscles would tense as you traced every scar, every bruise, every inch of him.

And his piercings—fuck.

You wanted to lick them, to bite down just hard enough to make him gasp, to suck his nipples until they were red and swollen. You wanted to taste every part of him, to sink onto his cock and feel that Frenum piercing drag inside you, hitting every perfect spot until you were both sobbing.

But most of all?

You wanted to see those eyes—those obsessive, red-orange eyes—locked onto yours as he came undone beneath you, whispering your name like a prayer.

"Be careful with yourself, pretty boy," you murmured into the mic, voice dripping with false sweetness—but the tremor in your breath gave you away. Your fingers slid between your thighs, slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips twitch. "Wouldn’t want you to break before I’m done with you."

"Sol," you breathed, voice dripping with sin as your fingers traced slow, teasing circles over your own skin—just watching the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath hitched when you bit your lip. "You have no idea how badly I want to touch you right now."

His throat bobbed, his grip tightening around his cock like he was barely holding on. "Fuck—tell me," he begged, voice already wrecked.

You tilted your head, letting him see the hunger in your eyes—the way you ached for him. "I’d start with your face," you murmured, dragging your fingertips down your neck, mimicking the path you’d take on him. "Kissing you so deep you forget how to breathe. Then your neck—"

Your teeth grazed your lower lip, just imagining the way he’d shudder. "Biting you just how you like it. Gentle? Or hard enough to make you whimper?"

Sol’s hips jerked, a broken sound escaping. "Hard—fuck, please—"

You smirked, dragging your nails down your chest, watching his gaze follow every movement. "Then I’d take my time with these," you purred, rubbing your own nipple just to watch him lose it. "Your piercings—god, I’ve thought about them so much. The way they’d feel against my lips, cold metal and hot skin. I’d tease you until you were begging me to move lower."

His breath came in ragged pants, his hand moving faster, desperate. "Lower—where—?"

You let out a slow, sinful laugh. "Guess."

Your fingers trailed down your stomach, lower, lower, until his eyes burned with recognition. "Oh, Sol," you sighed, voice thick with want. "You liar, such a bad boy. All this time, you never told me about this."

You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him, the way that frenum piercing would feel pressing against your tongue. "I’d take my time tasting you, savoring every inch—until you were shaking, until you couldn’t stand it."

Sol’s back arched, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk like he was about to snap. "You—you knew—?"

‘No," you admitted, your own fingers slipping between your thighs, moaning softly at the contact. "But I dreamed about it. About how it’d feel when you fucked my throat, when that little metal bar hit the back of my tongue. You’d try so hard to be good, wouldn’t you? But I’d make you lose control. Make you push deeper, until I was choking on you—until you came so hard you screamed."

He let out a strangled groan, his thighs trembling. "Or—fuck—or you could ride me," he gasped, his voice raw with need. "Take what you want, use me—‘

You cut him off, “Fuck—fuck—fuck—“

Your breath hitched as you rocked against your own fingers, Sol’s blown-out, filthy gaze locked onto you through the screen. He was watching—watching every twitch of your thighs, every shuddering gasp, every slick, desperate stroke of your fingers. And God, the way his lips parted, his chest heaving, his cock twitching against his stomach—like he was made for this. For you.

"That’s it, pumpkin," Sol groaned, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into his own thighs as he fought not to touch himself yet. "Look at you—fuck—look at you, taking yourself apart just ‘cause I’m watching."

You whimpered, arching off your gamer chair, your free hand fisting the blanket. "S-Sol—"

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough, needy. "Tell me what you’ve been thinking about. What you dream about when you’re pretending to focus on your goddamn finals."

Your hips stuttered. Fuck.

"Y-You—" you gasped, your mind spinning with him—Sol, yours, always yours, forever yours—jumping on him, riding him, your mouth around your cock as you ordered him to take it and be still until he was sobbing your name. Or maybe him pounding into you—vice versa if you have to be honest, his thick cock splitting you open, filling you up so good, so perfect, slow and deep one second, then brutal the next, fucking you senseless until neither of you could think—

"Fuck, Sol—!" You bit your lip hard, your thighs trembling. "I—I want you—inside—want you to fucking ruin me—"

A sharp, punched-out moan tore from Sol’s throat, his hand finally—finally—wrapping around his cock, stroking hard, fast, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. "Yeah? Where?" he growled, his hips jerking up into his fist.

"Tell me exactly where you want me, pumpkin—"

"E-Everywhere—" you whined, your fingers working faster, your body burning. "My mouth—my hole—fuck, just—fill me up, Sol, please—"

"Fuck—" His head tipped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“J-just you—fuck, you cumming so deep inside me—gonna make me drip with it—" You moaned, loud and shameless, your climax crashing into you like a fucking tsunami—and just as you came, shaking, screwing your eyes shut, you heard Sol break.

Sol’s breath hitched, his rhythm faltering. "I’m—I’m close—"

You locked eyes with him, your own pleasure coiling tight, unbearable. "Then come," you demanded, your voice a dark, delicious command.

"Come for me, Sol. Let me hear how much you need this."

And when he did—when his whole body shook, when his voice broke into a desperate, pleading cry—"Ngh—pumpkin.”

His back arched off his chair, his cum flying—literally hitting his camera with a wet splat, his cock pulsing in his hand as he kept stroking, milking himself through it, his moans filthy, pathetic, perfect.

"Shit—look what you did—" he panted, his voice wrecked, his cum streaked across the screen like some kind of obscene trophy. "Fuckin’—everywhere—"

You laughed, breathless, your body still buzzing. "Mmm… should’ve been inside me instead."

Sol’s eyes darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Next time," he promised, his voice low, dangerous, "I’ll make sure none of it goes to waste."

Then, with a smirk that sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core, he leaned closer to the camera—and licked a stripe right through his own mess.

"Fuck," you breathed.

Sol just grinned, his lips glistening. "Better than video games?"

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. "Shut up."

He laughed—warm, bright, yours—and you couldn’t help but smile.

The screen between you flickered with the remnants of what just happened—Sol’s chest still heaving, his lips parted, his skin flushed down to his collarbones. You both just breathed for a second, the air thick with satisfaction, the kind of exhaustion that curled warm in your stomach.

“Fuck,” Sol muttered, voice rough, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re gonna have to clean this shit up.”

You snorted, stretching lazily, your muscles loose and tingling. “Your camera’s never gonna recover.”

He glanced at the mess streaked across his lens and groaned, but there was a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it.”

You both took a second to recover—him wiping his screen with the hem of his shirt, you grabbing tissues to clean yourself up—moving in comfortable silence, the kind that only came when words weren’t necessary. When the heat between you spoke louder than anything else.

Then, softer: “Exams fucking suck,” you sighed, flopping back onto your chair, legs still trembling slightly.

Sol huffed a laugh, rough and warm. “Tell me about it. I think my brain’s just soup at this point.”

“Same.” You grinned at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of his gaze on you. “But at least we’ve got this.”

“This?”

“Yeah. This.” You gestured vaguely between you, as he shifted in his seat, giving you another glimpse of his toned stomach, the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips. “The games. The dumbass voice chats. The… other stuff.”

There was a pause.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it—

“This is the only part of the day I actually look forward to.” Sol admitted.

Your breath caught. “…Yeah,” you murmured after a beat, voice softening. “Same.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded—warm and electric, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Then Sol broke it, his voice dipping into something teasing but dangerously sincere.

“Your voice is dangerous, you know.”

You laughed. “Why? ‘Cause it almost got you killed in-game?”

“No.” His tone shifted, low and deliberate.

“Because I think I’m kind of into it.”

“Oh my god—” You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across your room, your face burning.

Sol laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and you could picture him—sprawled back in his chair, smug as hell, that lazy grin playing on his lips.

You both laughed it off—mostly—but when the moment settled, neither of you moved to leave the call. The screen stayed open, Sol’s heavy-lidded gaze still fixed on you, lingering like he was memorizing every detail.

Fuck. The night couldn’t end like this.

You glanced at your clock. “…I don’t have another final until Friday.”

Sol’s eyebrow arched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, then slowly—deliberately—spread your legs, letting him see the mess you’d made, still glistening between your thighs. “So… you could come over. Bring snacks.”

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against his desk, like he was fighting the urge to reach through the screen.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smirked, then—just as his eyes darkened with hunger—you poked at the screen, sticking your tongue out before abruptly ending the call.

Leaving him with nothing but the image of you.

And another hard bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck,” Sol groaned to the empty room, already scrambling for his keys. He grabbed his jacket, his pulse racing.

Yeah. This was so much fucking better than video games.

The call between you and Sol was already too much—voices tangled in panting breaths, the slick, filthy sound of skin on skin, the way Sol whined your name like a prayer. It was overwhelming. Distracting. So much so that you didn’t even notice the other set of ragged breathing.

A third participant in the call.

Hidden in the shadows of the voice channel—camera off, letting go rugged breaths —Hyugo sat frozen at his desk, bathed in the dim blue glow of his monitor. All he’d meant to do was pop in, apologize for trolling you both earlier, maybe convince you to queue up another round. But then he’d heard your voice. Sol’s voice. And then—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His fingers, which had been idly scratching at his thigh, froze. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden—like he’d just taken a hit straight to the chest.

This wasn’t just a call.

This was filth. A live, unfiltered, obscene performance—and he was the unseen, uninvited spectator.

And that alone made him hard, fast.

It wasn’t long before Hyugo’s baby-blue hair, usually tied back in a neat half-pony, now hung loose—sweat-damp strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. His lips—god, his lips—were bitten raw, his teeth sinking into the fabric of his own shirt to stifle the pathetic little noises threatening to spill out.

He hadn’t meant to stay.

He definitely hadn’t meant to touch himself.

But the way you talked to Sol—low, commanding, dripping with filthy promises—it wrecked him. The way Sol begged for you, voice cracking on your name, the way he whimpered when you teased him—

Hyugo’s hand was already slipping past the waistband of his sweats before he could stop himself.

“Fuck,” he breathed, silent, trembling.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to be listening.

But god, the way you talked about ruining Sol—

His cock twitched in his palm, already leaking, already aching as he quickly fisted himself, trying to be quiet. He could’ve put himself on mute, but—

The risk of getting caught turned him on more.

So he tested himself, gagged by his own shirt, watching his cock pulse in his grip, his thighs tensing as he fought to keep his hips from jerking forward.

He should leave. He should close the call.

But instead, his fingers tightened, stroking slow, so fucking slow, just to drag it out, just to hear more.

By the time Sol left the call, Hyugo was ruined.

His thighs shook. His free hand clutched at his own shirt, dragging it up to his mouth to bite down as his hips jerked forward—

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

He barely had the presence of mind to grab a few napkin from his desk, cupping it over the tip just as his orgasm ripped through him—a silent, shuddering cry muffled into fabric as he spilled into his palm, his cock throbbing with every pulse.

“F-fuck—!”

He slumped back in his chair, chest heaving, skin burning, his cock still twitching as he dabbed himself clean, careful not to let a single drop ruin his precious gaming setup.

Disgusting. Pathetic. And so fucking good.

He still couldn’t believe you two—blissfully unaware, oblivious to the fact that he’d just come to the sound of you and Sol falling apart.

Hyugo’s lips curled into a shaky, guilty smirk.

"Maybe I should still be annoying in y’all’s games more often," he thought, breathless, wicked.

This wasn’t better than video games, but—Fuck.

He didn’t mind shit like this now. He’d take it every damn time.

…y’all… should I write a threesome? jkjk…

Also... not gonna lie, writing this made me like Sol. Just a tiny bit.

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #solivan brugmansia #the kid at the back sol #tkatb sol #tkatb vn #sol brugmansia #sol x reader #tkatb smut #the kid at the back #sorry not sorry #tkatb x reader #the kid at the back hyugo #tkatb hyugo #hyugo sugimoto #hyugo x reader #the kid at the back smut #the kid at the back mc

827 notes · View notes

oracleofevil · 2 months ago

Text

𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 || 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

author's note: i made one for my mouthwashing blog and I was like, fuck yeah i can make one for re too! who's gon stop me??? I'll make one for the ladies maybe

warnings: slight angst, major fluff, slight toxic behaviour.

characters included: 𝗹𝗲𝗼𝗻, 𝗰𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀, 𝗹𝘂𝗶𝘀, 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗼𝘀, 𝗮𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘁, 𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻.

,'✿— 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 —⁠✿,'

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐒. 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

before you guys go to bed he has to make sure all the doors and windows in the house are locked, no exclusions, no excuses. he checks them twice just in case. force of habit.

washes your hair whenever you're too tired, doesn't say a word. has very gentle hands.

he never fully relaxes whenever you hug him from behind, jolts his shoulder as if he's bracing for impact.

insists on knowing your location at all times, you call it 'controlling behaviour' he calls it 'just in case' he knows the world much better than you do.

likes just falling on top of you whenever you're lying down on the couch or the bed.

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃

works out obsessively and painfully on the days you guys have arguments, he thinks the sweat will burn the guilt out.

brings home protein bars and vitamins instead of flowers, calls it 'survival'.

when he kisses you, it's as if it's the last time, he's so intense and rough that you have to often remind him, 'you don't have to right here's.

gets those 'everything free' pastas and insists that it tastes good.

sometimes accidentally yells and then curses himself out.

𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐑

has a secret file on you, blood type, health stats, allergies, etc.

has a habit of staring at you out of the blue, as if you're an artifact.

corrects your facts mid conversation or while you're arguing in that same deadpan voice.

reads aloud scientific facts from his encyclopedias or journals, you think it's as close as it's getting to him reading you stories. and he finds your attempt at understanding him cute.

fixes your posture mid hugs and kisses, you reason that it's his way of affection, 'fixing things'.

does NOT let you go anywhere without some form of tracking, you call it paranoia, he calls it protection. It is paranoia.

𝐋𝐔𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎

you find random notes when he's gone for days, 'i love you' in the sugar jars. 'make sure you have dinner' in your shoe.

he talks to you a lot in spanish when he's drunk, says 'i love you' in spanish a lot.

if you're a smoker, he lights your cigarettes even when he's the one who's trying to quit. he finds it sexy.

checks the locks of the house 3 times before you guys sleep, then makes you check it 3 times. he may not trust the world but he trusts you with all his being.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐀

he freezes up whenever you cry, doesn't move, because he's seen way too many people die while sobbing.

tries to make you dinner every chance he gets but always ends up almost setting the kitchen on fire.

sings while cleaning, whenever you try to record him he pretends to get mad.

gets anxious when you don't reply to his text in under 5 minutes,

makes you laugh whenever he senses you're about to get upset. it's an old habit.

𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

he keeps your voice notes saved, listens to them whenever he feels down.

he has nightmares he doesn't speak to you about. if he gets a nightmare when you're both asleep, he just wraps himself around you as if you're a body pillow.

double knots your shoes whenever you're distracted, he doesn't want you to trip.

fixes everything in the house without you even noticing something was broken.

a very, VERY light sleeper. if you so much as cough, he's awake and by your side.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆~!

944 notes · View notes

dem0batz · 6 months ago

Text

Apple Spice and Oaths

Caleb x MC!Reader // Love and Deepspace

Author's Note: I've been plagued by thoughts of Caleb. My brain has been rotting and frothing since his trailer release. Not as edited as I would have liked but I needed to get this out into the world.

Summary: After years of forbidden moments with Caleb, it all finally comes to a head when he is about to leave for pilot training. 🔞Content Warnings: (adopted) brother/sister kink, virgin MC, yandere Caleb, dubcon, sexual coercion but MC wants it, references to Dawnbreaker Zayne, Dacryphilia, implied oral (—>f), PIV, cum eating, small blood reference Word Count: ~2400 words | read on AO3 | Chapter List

The bed dips behind you, a soft creak echoing through your room. A chill hits your spine, making your bones tremble before warmth presses into your back and the blanket seals the two of you in.

“Caleb…”

“Shhh, you’ll wake Gran.”

Your half-hearted protest dies on your lips when your brother’s arm falls across your waist, pulling you closer to his chest. A strong forearm slides under your neck, searching for a comfortable position for the both of you. His familiar scent of apples and spice hit your nostrils as he snuggles in closer, entwining your limbs together like so many times before.

You really should send him back to his own room. This thing between the two of you has gotten out of hand. It wasn’t normal for siblings to do the things the two of you have and someone needs to put a stop to it before it’s too late. Before you both cross that line neither of you can ever return from. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him to leave when the warmth of his breath hits your ear with a relieved sigh, his body relaxing into yours.

“You know I can’t sleep without you, pipsqueak.”

Caleb buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent with a light groan. Warm lips press against the sensitive skin as a large hand slides under your sleep shirt. His fingers are chilly as they dance across your abdomen, teasing around your navel on their path upward. Just as they reach the swell of your breasts, you press down on his hand to keep it from going higher though your nipples were tingling with desperation.

“That’s not sleeping,” you whisper.

“Can’t help it,” Caleb whispers back, his lips continuing to brush your neck even as he speaks. “You smell so good. So pretty. Feel so good in my arms. I need you, pip. Always need you. You plague my every thought ‘til there’s no space for anything else. ’m fucking crazy for you, pretty girl.”

A lump tightens in your throat. Though he doesn’t try to force his way to your chest, you can feel his fingers twitching against your ribs with the need to move. You would be lying to yourself (which you do often) by saying that you didn’t want it to. That you didn’t crave him the way he craves you. After you lost Zayne, Caleb was the only you had left and you had clung to him like a life line. The only reason he felt so comfortable crawling into your bed in the middle of the night is because you didn’t tell him to leave the first night he did it.

Agonizing dreams of an adult Zayne, bitter and lonely, kept infiltrating your peaceful sleep, morphing into nightmares that left you whimpering and trembling with overwhelming grief. It took a week of suffering these dreams before you were brave enough to tell someone. Dismissing it as exam exhaustion was enough to Gran worked well enough and she didn’t question you much after, but Caleb didn’t buy it. His thumbs had swept over the circles under your eyes, a frown on his face telling you without a single word that he didn’t believe you. Though he didn’t say anything in front of Gran, Caleb wasn’t one to let things go.

He crept into your room that night to find you tangled and sweaty in your sheets, crying in your sleep as visions invaded your dreams of sharp black ice piercing through Zayne’s body while you were frozen in place and unable to go to him. Caleb shook you awake and held you while you cried, babbling incoherently until you fell back into a deep, calm sleep in his arms.

So while Caleb claims to be unable to sleep without you, it was the opposite. Any night you had to sleep alone was spent tossing and turning until you gave up all together, the insomnia taking it’s place. You had no idea what you would do once he leaves next week for pilot training, something you were both dreading but didn’t speak of. This is why you had to learn to be without him and why this needed to end.

As much as it pained you to, you begin to pry his arm from your torso.

“Please don’t. Don’t push me away.” His voice cracks on your name, cracking your heart with it.

Caleb was your rock, so strong and sturdy to lean on. It wasn’t often he showed vulnerability, typically only in these quiet moments you shared in the dark. It was enough to make your resolve waver. Sensing your hesitation, he presses up against you, his erection digging into your lower back.

“But you’re leaving me,” your own voice trembles with the sting of tears on your lashes.

His other hand grips your jaw from it’s position, twisting your neck toward him until your breathing mingles, lips grazing one another. It’s hard to see in the dark, but there’s just enough light emitting from a soft night light nearby to see the hardening in his eyes.

“It’s not my choice!” he hisses. Your eyes widen at his outburst, so unlike the calm, loving brother you had come to known. Realizing himself, his eyes soften. “I’m sorry, pipsqueak. I just… can’t have you thinking I’m leaving because I want to. There are things I can’t explain to you right now but I promise, one day it will all make sense. Forgive me?”

With only a moment of hesitation, you nod. You would always forgive him. There was nothing he could do to make you hate him when he looked at you like this. His lips brush over each of your eyes, collecting the tears that had began to build on your lashes. They move down to press against your own, softly at first, then more insistent as his tongue prods at the crease until the salty flavor of your tears bursts on your tongue.

Your grip no longer tight around his wrist, his fingers begin to trail lightly upward once more until his now warm palm grazes your nipple with a light squeeze of your breast. A soft sigh escapes your lips at the sensation and you find yourself moving against his tented sleep pants. Taking that as permission, Caleb moves you to your back without breaking the kiss, locking your ankles together at his lower back as he settles between your thighs.

His kisses turn more aggressive, nipping at your lips and inhaling every little moan and sigh, imprinting them in his memory to use when things inevitably got difficult at the base. It would have to be enough to keep him sane until he was able to come back home to you.

Before long, Caleb’s lips make their way down your body, tugging and pulling at your clothing until you’re naked and writhing beneath his tongue, not for the first time.

“Caleb!” You whisper-hiss. “Caleb, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers against your clit while his fingers work against the soft spot inside that makes you see stars. With his encouragement, you fall apart on his smooth face, body trembling from the effort as you bite the corner of your pillow in an effort to suppress the shaking moans wanting to burst free. Caleb works you through it, licking and nipping until overstimulation has you pushing his head away.

He crawls his way back up your body with eyes dark and hungry, your essence glistening on his chin. Your body quakes with the intensity of the look on his face and when he settles above you once more as his lips devour yours, a combination of his taste and your own mingling on your tongue. Now naked from the waist down, himself, Caleb’s stiff cock presses against your inner thigh, the tip swollen and sticky with pre-cum.

Reaching down between the two of you, he firmly graps himself in his hand to slide between your drenched folds. In a panic, your palm finds his chest, pushing against your brother though his weight doesn’t budge.

“What are you doing?”

“What we should have done a long time ago.”

The tip presses inside, making the both of you groan probably a little too loudly as your slick insides clench around him, inviting him in against your will. He slides in a little further but you press against his chest again.

“Wait, wait. This is going too fast.”

His head falls to your shoulder in frustration, the soft tendrils of his dark hair tickling your sensitive skin.

“Where did you think all these years were leading to, pip?” his muffled voice sounds in your ear.

Though he stopped moving, the first couple inches of his cock rest inside of you still.

“We’re siblings, Caleb,” you say, trying to be the reasonable one though you want nothing more than for him to finish what he started.

“Not by blood. Besides,” he pauses, one hand wedging between your bodies to allow his thumb to start circling your clit, renewing the delicious feeling in your abdomen. “It’s kind of hot, right? Doing something forbidden.”

Your insides quiver and you clench around him with a slick gush at the dirty words.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, pipsqueak?” he chuckles darkly in your ear, beginning shallow thrusts. Not enough to be all the way in, but enough for the anticipation to start building again. “Is my little sister gonna let me fuck her, hmm? Has anyone else ever been inside of you before?”

Face growing hot, you shake your head in denial, unable to say the words out loud.

Caleb’s body trembles above you as he presses in a little further. You can feel him right there.

“Good,” he growls in your ear. “I probably would have had to kill anyone else who touched you first and the only blood I want right now is this.”

In one thrust, Caleb pushes past your barrier, swallowing your cries with a possessive kiss as he tears through your hymen. It hurts at first, but not in a way you would have expected. It was more of a quick pinch, and while the first few thrusts were a little uncomfortable as you adjusted to the intrusion, your slick walls begin to welcome him.

“Knew you would feel good, fuck. That’s my cunt, isn’t it, pip?” Caleb moans, holding one of your legs at the knee and keeping you open for him as he grinds roughly into you.

“Caleb…” you whine, arms tightening around him while your nails find purchase on his bare back.

He hisses through the sting your nails cause, hoping like hell that you’re leaving marks behind that will take weeks to disappear. He wanted to feel you on him weeks from now, back sore with every movement during drill training. His thumb never let up from your clit, sending you higher and higher with every thrust. His cock twitches inside with the need to release inside of you, to claim you, but he won’t allow himself to let go until he gets one more from you.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Hold onto me. I’ve got you. Come for me. Come all over your brother’s cock.”

You can’t bring yourself to admit that his dirty words aided in getting you there, but before you can stop it, a tightness pulls in your lower stomach almost painfully before releasing. Spots dance behind your eyes in blinding flash of light. For a moment, you fear your heart might give out and that you’ll have to be rushed to the hospital, left to explain why you a cardiac event while naked with your brother. But the feeling passes as you start to float down, still half-blind with your ears ringing. Caleb ruts into you a few more times with curses on his tongue as you clamp down around him, ropes of hot cum splashing around your inner walls and painting them with him.

He collapses on top of you, his weight heavy and making it difficult to breathe, but you just pull him closer while your heart rates sync to a steady pace. You lay there together for several quiet moments, each of you soaking in what just happened and how this changes everything and nothing at the same time with him leaving soon.

Those thoughts are pushed away as he lifts up his head, dark hair laying on his brow as a boyish smile peeks out from beneath. His lips find yours, more bold now than ever before, like it’s his right to do so, but you don’t push him away, instead meeting him halfway. You feel his length twitch inside and he pulls away, shaking his head and mumbling against your lips.

“Don’t get me going again, pretty girl. You’re going to be sore enough as it is.”

With a final peck, he rises to his knees, pulling out of you slowly as you both watch. His flushed cock is shiny with both of your fluids, the sight making your heart stutter back to life. Caleb looks entirely too smug as he swipes through your folds, gathering some cum tinged pink with the loss of your virginity on his fingers. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them in and humming with satisfaction as the taste of both of you fills his mouth. With another swipe of your pussy, he does it again, this time bringing his fingers to your mouth. When you don’t immediately open for him, he traces his wet fingers across your lips.

“Come on, pipsqueak. Memorialize this moment with me. It will be just like when we were kids. Remember? When your hurt yourself because we were messing around, showing off our Evols.” You nod hesitantly.

“I remember ending up with a wound on my hand from the blast of our Resonance sending us both flying. I cut my hand when I landed on the pavement.”

Caleb nods too, confirming your story.

“Right. Then I cut my hand with a rock and we made an Oath to never tell Gran what we were doing because she would have kicked our asses. This will be like that, except now we’ll swear to never forget one another.”

“I could never forget you, Caleb. I don’t need an Oath to know that.”

Something painful, yet unreadable flickers across his face before the playful smile returns, making you wonder if you imagined it.

“Yeah, well how about you just entertain me for a while longer? What do you say, pretty girl?”

He offers his fingers again and this time you open your mouth to accept them.

Taglist: @comatosebunny09

#love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #caleb x you #lads caleb

712 notes · View notes

blueberrypancakesworld · 23 days ago

Text

You are our blood

Erik Campbell x fiancée!reader

warning : emotional, hurt/comfort, kissing, cuddling, mention of death, no use of Y/n

Summary : A summer day celebrating a family reunion turns into a deadly accident. Erik, deeply affected by the loss and not wanting to show it, seeks comfort in the arms of his fiancée. But no one could have guessed that there was more behind his death than just the order of birth, and so she must help him find his way in a family that has lied to him for decades.

info : I also need something emotional for Erik, something gentle, something where you can cuddle him after he's been shocked.

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What started out as a nice summer morning, cuddling in bed, having coffee together on the dark couch while watching cartoons and Erik rescheduled a few appointments for piercings and tattoos.

Turned into a disaster just a few days later, a series of unfavorable events that led to a bloody, gruesome death and turned the family/summer party into a death anniversary.

It had all gone so well, Erik and she had made their way to his family's house at lunchtime with sausages and beer, her hand holding his as he kissed her cheek when she called him “Grill Master” before heading off to his sister's side.

The Jenga game was intense, at least according to her future father-in-law who was trying to break his record, “Just you wait, I'm the champ!” he had announced and a few laughs and pretend boos could be heard as he successfully took another wooden look out of the tower without it falling over.

Teaming up with Julia, they both reached for the mixed drink Bobby had made them as they heard a “Looking good babe!” from Erik who cheered on his future wife as she was about to pull out the wood.

Despite Erik's attention to the fire and the food at the grill, his eyes kept drifting to the game and his sweetheart, who reminded him how lucky he was.

Giving him an air kiss, Julia and Howard waited in anticipation as she put her hand on the tower and with a hasty jerk pulled the piece out...it held.

A cheer went up through the two women as another round was their victory before the party continued, but only a few minutes later it was not laughter but bloodcurdling screams through the garden as Howard's blood spread and his family witnessed the horrific accident.

A pleasant summer's day had turned into a nightmare for an entire family.

She had never seen Erik so quiet, so withdrawn and absorbed. Of course he had withdrawn, especially on stressful days, and only returned from the store late at night.

But now, no matter what she tried to do to help him, he hardly seemed to react.

Nothing she did to bring him down from his shock helped and she herself tried to pull herself together.

When they had called the ambulance, when someone had to call the funeral parlor and also when it came to the will, Erik seemed to be upset, hardly said a word and just held her hand in silence.

Erik didn't seem to be mentally alert and it was only when they were lying in bed late that day and she had just switched off the light that she heard the soft crying and sniffling as he tried not to be too loud.

Seeing how his body, covered by the large t-shirt, trembled slightly, as he reached out his hands, trying to wipe away the tears.

When he finally realized that he had lost his father, “Oh Erik I'm here let it all out” she said softly and moved closer to him, pulling him gently close.

He clung to her tightly, incomprehensible mumbling coming from his lips as he cried bitterly, just cried and apologized and asked for his father.

She had only known Howard for a few months but he seemed to have been the perfect father, Erik was truly saddened and she herself had been pained to have to bury Howard so soon.

He had been the first to embrace her when the engagement was announced and had taken her in immediately.

While she stroked Erik's head, tracing the dark strands again and again, giving him gentle kisses whenever he gave her a teary look and holding him until he had cried himself to sleep and she herself fell into a grief-stricken sleep.

He would never have shown himself like that in public and the fact that he was so open, so vulnerable towards her, touched her deeply that evening.

But the next few days were no better, she noticed how he hid his pain behind his usual facade, but whenever she reached for his hand she felt the slight trembling, the grateful look he gave her or the kisses that were longer as if it would give him the strength he needed.

At least after the funeral, Erik seemed to have got over everything, even if the nights were still full of cuddles and she just let him talk about his father.

She knew that he needed time to grieve, so at least during the day he was his old self again.

This was especially good as Stefani seemed to have lost her composure since the death of her grandmother, because what was initially just lies, talk and speculation degenerated after Howard's death into them all sitting in front of a big plan and the black-haired girl trying to explain to them that they were all going to die.

Her wild flailing around was directed at Erik, “After Howard's death, you're next Erik” she said and her cousin just gave her the middle finger.

Erik pretended it didn't bother him, but she could see how these meetings and a supposed supernatural reason annoyed him “Stef whatever is going on please stop” she tried to appease her good friend who still gave her a stunned look.

She had really liked Stefani, had helped her here and there at university before she graduated. But now she didn't recognize the younger girl at all, they were all still shocked and grieving, but Stefani only seemed to make it worse.

Stefani might not have seen it, but when she looked at Erik, the man she had promised to marry as soon as they had saved up enough money, there was sadness.

He had lost his beloved father, had lost a pillar in his life and now his cousin was feeling something about him being the next to die.

Everyone dealt with grief differently but this was too much, Erik's hand laid on hers for a moment and the quiet, “It's okay” let her know that he blamed it on grief for her uncle too, but none of those present believed a word she said.

Much worse, however, was what was yet to come.

After she had driven back to the apartment with Erik, he decided to go into the store for a short while, “Take care of yourself!” she had called after him and his reply, “Always baby!” had only eased her fears to a limited extent.

Even when he turned around again to pick up his leather jacket and give her a gentle kiss on the forehead, she could see that Erik just needed a little distraction and if it was work then it would be.

Even though Stefanie was probably just talking nonsense, she couldn't get rid of the unusual feeling in her heart when she saw her future husband walk out the door and she wanted to chase after him and stop him.

A feeling that she should be right about, not only because of the fire that broke out in the store that night, but also the message from Erik that he was in the emergency room because of his burns, of which he sent her a picture followed by a selfie with a big smile.

She almost collapsed but Erik's reassurance and joy when the burnt heart was next to his father's tattoo slowly turned her around, “I think maybe it was Dad with a message,” he said as they turned into the street to his parents' house.

The bandage around his arm was visible but the smile on his lips told her that he was feeling better, that the pain of the injury had seemingly taken away his grief...but pain was only temporary and death was capricious.

So capricious that only hours later the Campbell and Reyes family were sitting together again and slowly but surely everyone gave Stefani a hearing and belief.

“But if Erik is the oldest, why is Julia-” she broke off her sentence as she felt Erik's hand on her shoulder, her fiancée looking as sad as he was surprised that he wasn't next.

If Stefani was really right, why would Julia be killed, crushed and simply torn from life without anyone by her side? What had Stef seen that they didn't see and why could she still see her future husband when she looked next to her?

These were questions that Stef couldn't find in Iris's book either, no matter which chapter she leafed through she couldn't find an answer.

Death skipped over people, but it always came back for everything that should have perished in events or should never have been born in the first place.

Until a sigh came from Brenda and everyone slowly turned to the now widow who was slumped in her chair, wiping her tears with a handkerchief again and again, she seemed the most upset of all, a fact that no one could blame her for when you lose your husband.

Especially when you hear from your niece that death comes for your children too, but Brenda's last snort was tinged with silence, “There...there's something you need to know...it was decades ago but-but it explains why well Erik is still alive” she began, slowly rising from the chair to slowly approach her firstborn.

She almost felt a small jolt go through Erik's body as his hand slipped from hers and he also stood up to go to his mother, “What do you mean?” he asked visibly confused and the others were also confused as to what Brenda meant as she held out her hand to Erik.

“Erik you...your father Howard is not your father, it was a few years before I met Howard and-” she started but was interrupted by Erik's sharp intake of air as he held a hand out in front of him and pushed her away.

“You what? What do you mean dad's dead that's no” he also stammered as his heart seemed to skip a beat.

As he looked from his mother to his brother, to the little brother he was now only half-brother to, he suddenly realized he only had to look in the mirror to see that his hair was proof enough.

He seemed to either want to run away or have a crying fit, “Erik please I had no choice and Howard was there, he loved you his own son” his mother assured him but her son just shook his head as tears welled up in his eyes.

The rest of the family was silent, in shock at the explanation that made so much sense, that if Erik was not part of Iris's bloodline why Julia had to die.

Wiping his face and trying to blink away the tears, he only dared to ask, “Who is my father?” which almost made Brenda sob again as she was reminded of a painful time, a good reason why she had married Howard and had fallen out with him.

The blonde elder seemed to struggle with herself for a moment before she uttered “Jerry Fenbury” and another disgusted sound left Erik, who once again recoiled from his mother as if she were contagious.

Shaking his head, cursing unintelligibly, mother and son argued back and forth until Erik hurried wildly out of the living room and disappeared into the house followed by his mother who was pursued by her daughter-in-law who couldn't watch the argument any longer.

“You keep looking and protect Bobby, I'll take care of them,” she said to Stefani, as the cards had changed and Bobby had to be protected to keep them all safe as she followed them through the house.

It was only moments before she found them again, or rather Brenda, who was standing outside the guest room trying to get Erik to open the door, "Brenda...shall I try, it's a bit much at once," she said carefully, placing a hand gently on the older woman's shoulder.

She saw the pain in her eyes, saw Brenda let out a sigh as she smiled gently, she knew it was a lot, knew her son was upset and scared but she also knew her daughter-in-law was right.

Talking to him now, forcing him to open the door would only cause more damage, “I-I never meant for it to come to this,” she muttered and the two of them hugged briefly before his mother slowly made her way back to the others.

Brenda looked after him for a moment before she turned to the door herself and knocked gently on it, “Erik, it's me, your mother's gone,” she let him know and waited a moment as she heard movement behind the door.

Before the click in the lock signaled that the door was open and she slowly came in, Erik was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, still processing that he wasn't his father's son, “Quite an upset, huh?” she said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

The last time they had been together in this room, squeezed together on a bed too small for two, had been at Christmas, the memory distant but now with Erik beside her so close again, “Yeah but it doesn't matter,” he murmured, looking slowly at her, the tears having stopped flowing but his concern still there.

A look of understanding crossed her face as her hand ran over his cheek, freeing his soft cheek from tears and stroking his slightly crooked beard, “Exactly, it doesn't matter and do you know why?” she asked him and he looked at his fiancée confused, as if he didn't understand what she was getting at.

Bringing her other hand to his arm and gently stroking the tattoo, pointing to the branded heart, she replied, “It doesn't matter who Jerry Fenbury is, Howard loved you like his own flesh and blood.

He was and has been a father to you for almost three decades now, Erik, he would still be proud of you no matter what any genetic test says,” she explained, watching him share this information.

How his expression changed from incomprehension to anger and fear and then to acceptance as he looked at the tattoo and the heart, when his hand placed itself on hers and she saw the small smile on his lips.

“I'm still family...and so are you” he replied and pressed a kiss to the ring on her hand before finally smiling properly again, finally pulling her into a hug and giving her a deep kiss.

It didn't matter if he was his father's son now, it didn't matter who his mother had bred him to, Erik was family, his fiancée and soon to be wife was family they all shared blood and love and that was what mattered nothing else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@zombiepoe , @monkeydoll5 , @captainthomasrobbie , @nearest-x-dearest , @porterroths , @starry-eyed-wild-child , @everdxen-mellark , @megangovier , @zer0-has-gr8-tits , @animekpopsimp , @mythicalcowboyatheart , @rhaenyrathecruell , @sadslasher13

#final destination #final destination bloodlines #erik campbell final destination #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #male x female #reader is female

205 notes · View notes

moon-poe · 1 month ago

Text

Late Nights

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x reader (Thunderbolts x reader)

Word count: 861

Summary: Bob still has trouble sleeping and you're there to comfort him as his lover.

--------------------------------------

It’s about 2am and you were scrolling through your phone, watching funny videos. Knowing damn well you should’ve been asleep by now but you weren’t tired. But then a knock on your bedroom door interrupts your video.

You got up and before you could open the door, another gentle knock was heard. You opened it to see Bob, standing there with red eyes, a couple tears rolled down his cheeks. You frowned at the look of him; he was wearing some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, fiddling with the end of the sleeve with his fingers.

“Oh honey, come here,” You spoke gently, letting him in your room and closing the door. You turned to him and looked up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him. A sob was heard from Bob as he put his arms around you, so tightly, as if he were scared you were going to disappear at any given moment.

You rubbed his back slowly while your head was resting in his neck. You placed a small kiss on his skin. You gently pull back and grab his hand, bringing him over to your bed. You then sit fully in the middle and Bob follows you, sniffling. He’s sitting in front of you and immediately wraps his arms around you again, and you let him.

This poor man has been through so much trauma, so much hurt, he deserved the world. He deserved endless love and you were going to give it to him for the rest of your life. You both have been dating for a while, but haven’t gotten to the stage of sleeping together in the same bed yet. But maybe tonight was going to be that night. Yes, you both shared many naps on each other’s beds, but never overnight. His dreams hadn’t been that bad… until now.

You tucked your head in his neck again as he let out a small cry. You could feel more tears dampening your shirt. You didn’t mind at all. “Sweetie, what happened?” You quietly ask, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck, messaging it and running your hand through his brown hair.

Bob sniffled. “I.. I had another nightmare. This one was so- so bad. V-void took over and he destroyed everything, he hurt you… r-really bad and I-” a sob racked through his body, you could feel him trembling. He pulled back and looked at you, making sure that you were really there and that he wasn’t still dreaming.

You placed both your hands on the sides of his face, your thumbs wiping the tears that had fallen. “I am here and I am safe honey. I am okay,” you said, leaning forward and placing a kiss on his forehead, then leaning your forehead against his. Bob’s breath was still staggering a bit as he leaned more into your touch, closing his eyes.

“It felt so real,” Bob whispered, placing his hands on top of yours, bringing them down to his lap slowly so he could hold them. You lifted your head and Bob opened his eyes, looking into your e/c. “I know,” You frowned,”but you will never have to worry about that. I am not going anywhere, I promise.”

Bob nodded a little, still gripping your hands, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles. You could tell he was so tired by the bags under his eyes.

As if he had been trying to stay awake and not fall asleep to see Void, ruining everything and everyone he cared for. Especially you. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he lost you. And he would do anything to protect you.

“Why don’t you stay here, and not just tonight. Forever,” You said. “I don’t want to keep waking you up.” You shook your head, “You are not going to be a bother, you are my life, my lover. You can wake me up as many times as you need. It doesn’t matter what for, I am going to be here for you, through the thick and thin.”

You could see Bob's lips turn into a small smile as he nodded,”You’re the love of my life too, Y/n.” You smiled,”Good.”

Bob let go of your hands and crawled under your blankets, lying his head on one of your pillows. You follow and do the same, then open your arms to him. Bob moved closer and laid his head on your chest, his one arm lying on your tummy. But then he leans up to look at you and kisses your lips. You kiss back, your lips moving together in sync.

“I love you so much, thank you for staying,” Bob said against your lips, then pulled back to look into your eyes lovingly. “I love you so much too, and I will always be here,” you said as you pushed some of his hair out of his face.

He lies back down on your chest and quickly falls asleep, listening to the steady beat of your heart. You kiss the top of his head and close your eyes, falling asleep soon after.

#Marvel #Marvel x reader #bob reynolds x reader #Lewis pullman #lewis pullman x reader #Bob reynolds x you #Top gun x reader #Bob Floyd x reader #Bob Floyd #Bob reynolds #Sentry #Void #Void x reader #Thunderbolts

267 notes · View notes

wendichester · 2 months ago

Note

OKAY HEAR ME OUT FOR AN ANGST DRABBLE

Reader with heavy religious trauma x Castiel. I'm curious how their dynamic is and how reader deals with the resurfaced memories

｡𖦹°‧ sanctuary isn't a place,

summary. the lord, heaven, belief... these aren't exactly good terms within you. that is until you meet castiel. he changes everything.

pairing. castiel x reader genre. soft angst

wordcount. 674

notes / warnings. heavy religious trauma themes, memory flashbacks (non-linear), mentions of childhood emotional abuse tied to religion, feelings of unworthiness, internalized fear of divine punishment, anxiety/panic, crying, confrontation with faith

You don’t mean to flinch when he enters the room.

But you do.

It’s small—barely perceptible—but he sees it. Of course he sees it. Angel of the Lord and all that.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, voice low like a prayer too afraid to echo.

You force a smile. One of the fake ones. The kind you used to wear like armor back in Sunday school when the pastor’s wife asked how you were and the only honest answer would’ve gotten you grounded for a month.

“I’m fine.”

You're lying.

There’s something about him—always has been. The coat, the eyes, the presence. It's not him specifically. It's what he is.

Divine.

Holy.

Everything that used to haunt your nightmares, wrapped in trench coat and blue eyes and sincerity so pure it makes your skin itch.

You sit on the edge of the motel bed, fists clenched in your lap like a kid in confession. The room is too quiet. Too heavy. The silence carries weight, like incense in an old church—cloying and choking, perfumed with expectation.

He doesn’t sit. Not right away. He just tilts his head, studying you in that quiet way of his. No judgment. Just concern.

“You’re uncomfortable around me.”

It’s not a question.

You don’t deny it.

“I’m not... trying to be,” you whisper. “You’ve never done anything wrong. It’s just... complicated.”

Castiel steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal. Like he knows. And maybe he does.

“Is it because of what I am?”

You nod.

Your voice wavers. “You remind me of them. Not you—but the way they talked about angels. About God. The way they made me believe I was broken. Dirty. That I had to earn love or I’d burn for eternity.”

Your breath hitches. The words taste like old fear, dragged up from the pit of your gut.

“They used God like a weapon,” you continue, voice cracking. “Turned prayers into shackles. I used to be so scared all the time. Scared to think the wrong thing. Feel the wrong thing. Be the wrong thing.”

You’re crying before you realize it. Quiet tears that slide down your cheeks without drama. Just… grief. Old and rusted but still sharp.

And Castiel—he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer some holy fix-it speech or throw out scriptures like bandaids.

He sits beside you. Carefully. Leaves enough space so you don’t feel caged.

“I was told once,” he says softly, “that angels are warriors. Messengers. Instruments of God’s will. But... I’ve learned that we can also be witnesses. To pain. To injustice. To humanity.”

He glances at you then—so gently it hurts.

“You deserved love. Not fear. Protection. Not punishment.”

Your lip trembles. “I used to pray so hard. Every night. Begging God to fix me. Or at least answer me. Tell me I wasn’t going to hell. That He didn’t hate me.”

A long pause.

Then: “Did He ever answer?”

You shrug. “Not until now, I guess.”

Castiel looks almost startled. “You think I’m the answer?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe you’re just the first one who didn’t make me feel like I had to be perfect to be worthy of love.”

That cracks something open in him. You can see it—in the softening of his features, the way his shoulders dip, like even he can’t carry the weight of what’s been done in the name of Heaven.

“I am sorry,” he says, and it sounds ancient. Like he’s apologizing on behalf of every divine being who ever let you down.

You believe him.

You look at him then, really look. Not at the angel. Not at the vessel. Just him. The one who’s chosen over and over again to stand with humanity. With you.

“You don’t scare me,” you whisper. “Not really.”

His gaze is steady. “Good. Because I would never harm you. Not in the name of Heaven. Not in the name of anything.”

And when he tentatively reaches out—offering, not taking—you let him hold your hand.

Because this time, the touch isn’t a chain.

It’s sanctuary.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#castiel #castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel spn #castiel angst #castiel fluff #castiel novak #castiel fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #.req

237 notes · View notes

aastroopheel · 27 days ago

Note

my beautiful queen do you think you can write another fluffy Cook fic I’m begging 🙏🙏🙏 your last one was so good and I’m desperate

Okay so, um, i had no imagination tbh. BUT, i thought about different headcanons so here you go. (either way you can ask me for something in specific and i'll try to write it!!)

(JAMES) COOK HEADCANONS --

Relationship Cook

Cook! and his name YOU are the only one who makes his name sound good for him. Like yeah, go ahead and call him James, but hey! make sure to give him a kiss on the cheek or he will scowl like his little brother

Cook! who is protective to a fault Cook’s loyalty runs deep. If you're his person, he will not let anyone mess with you — even if it means throwing punches. He’s the kind of boyfriend who walks on the outside of the pavement and subtly checks the exits when you’re out, just in case.

Cook! who is rough exterior, soft interior He doesn't say "I love you" easily — not because he doesn’t feel it, but because vulnerability terrifies him. But he shows it in other ways: bringing you your favorite snack unprompted, staying up all night when you’re sick, or holding you a bit too tight when he thinks he might lose you.

Cook! who is terrible at talking, great at listening Conversations about emotions? He flounders. But when you’re ranting or crying, he listens like it’s life or death. He might not say the "right" thing, but he’s fully there, completely present — and when he finally speaks, it’s always more real than expected.

Cook! who is adventurous and unpredictable Dates with Cook aren’t candle-lit dinners — they’re midnight road trips, climbing rooftops, or crashing weird art parties. He believes in living fully and wants to pull you into that chaos — to make you feel alive, like he does when he’s with you.

Fluffy Cook

Cookie! who secretly loves cuddles (but will deny it) He acts like he’s too cool for cuddling, but the minute you pull him close, he melts. He likes being the little spoon more than he’ll ever admit, especially when he’s having a rough day. If you try to get up too early, expect a groggy “Where you goin’? Stay, yeah?”

Cookie! who just really likes you a lot Loud, loyal, always wants to be around you. He’s constantly touching you — arm over your shoulders, fingers brushing yours, feet tangled under the blanket. When you laugh at his dumb jokes, he gets this boyish grin like he’s just won a medal.

Cookie! who tries to cook for you He 100% sets off the smoke alarm trying to make you breakfast. He's not good at it, but he keeps trying, showing up with burnt toast and eggs that may or may not still be raw. But the effort? Heart-melting. He acts like it’s no big deal, but he watches your reaction like it really matters.

Cookie! who leaves drunk voice calls instead of texts

“Oi, saw this dog that looked like you. Not in a bad way, yeah? Like, cute. You know what I mean. Anyway, miss you.”

Cookie! who falls asleep holding your hand Even when you’re just watching TV or lying in bed, he’ll reach for your hand. If you pull away, he sleepily grabs for it again. It’s instinct for him — like you’re his anchor.

Cookie! who always hyping you up You could be wearing pajamas or talking about something you’re insecure about and he’ll go, “Nah, you’re fit. Like—stupid fit. And smart too. You're mental, how do I even deserve you?” He doesn't say it in poetic words, but he means it. Every time.

Cookie! who heals slowly, but with you He still has nightmares. Still carries guilt. But you’re the first person he trusts to see that side of him. Some nights he opens up, slowly, in pieces. And when he does, it’s raw and real — the kind of honesty that says, “You make me want to be someone better.”

Cook! who pushes you away when he needs you most When something triggers his guilt or anger — nightmares about Freddie, reminders of the life he left behind — he shuts down. He’ll disappear for hours (or days), claiming he "needed air" when he really just didn’t want you to see him unravel.

“Didn’t wanna wreck your day with my shit. I don’t want you to look at me like I’m broken.”

Cook! who can’t believe you actually love him He struggles to believe he deserves real affection. Sometimes when you say “I love you,” he jokes it off, or looks away and mutters, “You shouldn’t.” There’s a deep fear that if you really knew everything he’s done, you’d leave.

Cook! who gets into fights when he feels powerless He still has that hair-trigger temper — especially when he feels like he’s losing control. If someone disrespects you or brings up his past, he’s on edge. You’re the one pulling him back, reminding him that reacting like that doesn’t fix anything anymore.

Cook! who keep Self-Sabotaging When things are going well — like too well — he’ll start picking fights over nothing. Late replies. Passive-aggressive comments. He’s testing you, even if he doesn’t mean to.

“Bet you’ll leave like everyone else. Go on, might as well do it now.”

Because deep down, he’s convinced love won’t last for someone like him.

Cook! who is haunted by his past He won’t talk about Freddie for a long time. When he finally does, it’s quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“He was my mate. I didn’t protect him. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t stop myself.” He still thinks about what he could’ve done differently — and you’ll see it in the way he clutches his fists when he's alone.

Cook! who is scared to let you all the way in Even if you’ve been together for months, there's a part of him you don’t get to touch. He loves you, but he holds part of himself back — a part too dark, too scarred. And it kills him, because he wants to give you everything, but he doesn’t know how.

Cook! who masters unspoken apologies He’s not good at saying “I’m sorry,” but he’ll show it — quietly patching up the wall he punched, buying your favorite snack after a fight, sitting at the edge of the bed in silence until you say something. When you do, he crumbles.

“I don’t wanna lose you, alright? Just don’t know how to be normal.”

Cook! when you become his safe place (which terrifies him) You're the only thing in his life that feels calm. And that scares him more than any fight ever could — because now he has something to lose. He starts taking care of himself not for him, but for you. It’s messy, but it’s real.

Somehting um.. spicy?

Cook! who desperate kisses when it all cracks

You’re both pissed, not because you want to be, but because it’s who you are.

“You’re such a pain in the arse, you know that?” you say, voice sharp.

Cook smirks, eyes flashing with mischief and something darker. “Yeah? Maybe you like it.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer, daring him. “Don’t push it.”

“Or what? You gonna run off crying?”

The air’s thick, the tension almost physical.

“You’re a bloody mess, James. You don’t know how to keep anything together.”

“And you think you’re any better? Always on my case, like I’m some project.” He’s right in your face now, no space left.

“I don’t have time for your drama.”

“Neither do I, but here we fucking are.”

The tension between you is electric, like the whole room’s holding its breath. You can feel it—Cook’s eyes locked on you, dark and unreadable, but burning with something fierce. It’s that look he gets when everything’s about to break loose, and you both know it.

You both breathe hard, and just when it feels like this is going to explode into something ugly—Cook grabs your shirt, yanks you close, lips crashing into yours like a goddamn storm. Before you even have time to think, he’s moving fast. His hands grab your waist, pulling you so close there’s no space left between you. His fingers press into your skin, rough and urgent.

His lips hit yours hard, no warning, no slow build-up, just pure, desperate need. The kiss is fierce and demanding, his mouth taking control but somehow still searching, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words.

You taste the sharp edge of his breath, the faint tang of whatever he’d been drinking, the undeniable heat that radiates from him. His hands move with purpose, one sliding up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone while the other snakes around your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

Every second feels stretched thin — like you’re suspended in a moment where nothing else exists but the wild urgency of him. His body presses against yours, every movement frantic but somehow perfectly timed, like he’s trying to make up for every second he held back before.

When he finally pulls away, breath ragged and eyes dark with need, that wild grin flashes across his face — cocky and vulnerable all at once.

You can’t help the smile that curls on your lips, heart pounding like a drum.

i tried

#james cook #jack oconnell #james cook x reader #headcanon #james cook headcanons

171 notes · View notes

sparklykaminarii · 1 year ago

Text

"I'D UNDERSTAND "

[•~college!au, aged!up kirshima x reader~•]fluff/slight angst/smut

[•~synopsis: you find out your boyfriend was just using you, don't worry ejiro will help you forget all about that~•]

[•~a/n: inspired by a situation my friend was js in, send requests!!~•]

you couldn't believe it. after all that time? all those memories you two had together. it was all for nothing.

you and your (ex) boyfriend had been dating for a couple weeks. even though it was merely a couple weeks, you were convinced that he was the love of your life. you knew that he was the one. or at least you thought so-

gradually things got distant, he stopped making an effort overall, while you put in everything you had. you were confused and frustrated. you didn't do anything to him? so what was going on?...

then earlier this afternoon, you were catching up on some nearly-late homework assignments. as you scribbled your way through some equations a light buzz vibrated against your thigh.

curiously, you took out your phone and glanced over at the notification. you had got a message from your boyfriend.

you open his chats eagerly, for once he started a conversation with you. but your moment of glee soon came to an abrupt end as you read the first couple words.

"y/n. we need to break up"

you felt your heart shatter into a million pieces. your stomach dropped making the guilty and panicky feeling overtake your senses even more.

you continue reading the paragraph, each word making that sick feeling grow in you. you couldn't believe that this was happening. it had to be a nightmare.

"tbh i was desperate for a prom date cs all my friends going had one and i didn't wanna be left out and at that point they were making fun of me so yea i shoulda js told the truth from the start instead of lying"

emotions flooded your mind. betrayal. disappointment. anger. were just to name a few. you were at a loss for words. you thought he actually loved you. he treated you better than any other guy you were previously with. and you get played?

you drop your phone, tears flooding your eyes as you fall onto your bed, head buried in the pillow below you. the only thing you felt like doing now was to cry your eyes out dry. sob until you got better if that was possible anymore. you felt stupid.

teardrops dampened the pillowcase below you face as you say there in sorrow. but your moment of mourning was soon interrupted by a series of knocks. a familiar voice following.

"y/n? you left your textbooks in the library-"

you quickly fix yourself up, taking in a couple deep breaths and wiping the tears off your cheeks. you swiftly get up from your bed, praying that the faint pink tint plastered all over your face wasn't too obvious.

your hand curls over the doorknob and you open the door slowly. being greeted with a familiar red haired boy. eijiro kirishima, your best friend. one of his arms holding up a stack of books, while the other was shoved in his jacket pocket.

"h-hey eijiro... thanks for bringing me these" you whispered, hiding your shaky rattled voice. eijiro looked down at you with a small frown. "you okay, y/n?" he asks, handing you the books, worry and concern evident in his tone.

those three words were all it took to make you crack. you erupted back into that familiar sorrow, eyes overfilling with water.

you then feel strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a warm and comforting embrace. without any thought you cry into his chest, a spot in his hoodie getting soaked.

a hand strokes your back softly as his soothing voice whispers in your ear "let it out, it's all gonna be okay y/n, I promise..." you hug him back even tighter, too lost in your emotions.

a couple moments pass before eijiro pulls away for a quick moment, arms still wrapped around you.

"you wanna tell me what's wrong?..."

you explain to kirishima everything that had just happened. he knew about this boyfriend you had and wasn't too trusting of him to begin with. he has a gut feeling something was off but he didn't want to burst your bubble so he kept quiet.

at least that's what he told himself. in actuality he couldn't tell if he was just jealous of him or if he actually had a guy feeling. something eijiro had never told you was that he had the biggest crush on you ever since you two had met. and every time you mentioned or introduced him to a new guy the only thing he could think of was how much better he was.

this moment was no different either. you told him in the past about how your boyfriend was treating you. from all the dry and lackluster conversations to the lack of attention. he heard it all. and he tried his best to comfort you, to try to look out for the both of you. when in reality he wanted you all for himself. he wanted to tell you how much of a better boyfriend he could be.

his blood boiled and his heart was full of fury. "that is so messed up." he grumbled arm wrapped around one of your shoulders as he held you in close, inhaling tye sweet scent of your shampoo.

"I know... im so tired of this ejiro. am I really that unlovable?.." you ask, glancing back up at the red haired male, eyelashes decorated with tiny teardrops. kirishima feels his cheeks reddened and blush as he thinks carefully about his reply. he could ruin your friendship if this doesn't go his way. but if it does workout, his dreams will come true. a moment passes before he replies.

"y/n, honestly I can't even hide this anymore from you. I love you. I mean it I swear. it drives me mad seeing you let these guys take advantage of you like this, you're too pretty and perfect to be treated like this. please- let me show you how good I could treat you-"

and that's how it all started. you were laid down on your back, thighs pushed all the way to your chest as kirishima towered over you.

"relax for me mamas... ima make you feel so good..." he cooes into your ear, hand caressing your cheek. you listen to him and let go of all the tension you were holding in, a breathy exhale leaving your lips.

kirishima teases his tip in between your fold and clit, making the both of you let out a small moan. soon enough he gently pushes himself in, groaning at the way your wet walls clam down on his length. you grip the bedsheets next to you as the feeling of the pleasureable yet painful stretch engulfs your senses.

"you okay princess? can I start?..." he asks, checking in for any signs of discomfort on your face. it took everything in him to not start moving and pound the life out of you, he had fantasized about this moment since forever and it was finally in his hands.

you nod, and kirishima starts moving at a slow pace, making sure you were okay, after all the last thing he would ever want to do, is to hurt you. but soon enough he picks up the pace gradually, making you cry out for more. "your takin it so well for me mamas..." he praises, his hips bucking into your cunt even quicker.

"f-fuck she was made for me hm? bet that lameass boyfriend couldn't get ya like this" he mumbles, pointing your chin down to make sure you maintain eye contact with him.

he begins to get rougher, hands quickly shifting your legs from pressed against your torso to now your calves on his shoulders. the new position made him ram into that spongy spot, making your moans even louder.

it all felt so good, from the way his cock was now even deeper in you, the way his thrust became harsh and passionate you could only shut your eyes from the ecstasy.

"don't close your eyes on me mama, keep them open or I'll stop." he commands, drilling into your hole even faster now, the sound of skin slapping follow suit. you open your eyes, listening to his warning. he smirks and whispers down into your ear "good girl... you're so obedient for me mamas" he grins.

he pounds into you harshly, faint mumbles of " so-so sorry mamas... can't hold back anymore" as he drills into you, his grip on your hips was sure to leave a purplish bruise the next morning.

you feel the familiar know in your stomach tighten. "m'so close eijiro please!-" you mewl. "cmon baby... tell me who fucks you better? me or him?" he teases. "y-you do..." you mutter out, somewhat inaudible. he lightly slaps your cheek "the fuck was that?. tell me who the fuck you belong to-" he grunts out. "y-you, I only belong to you eijiro-" you cry out

"good girl, listenin to me so well..." eijiro grins and places a hand on your bud, digits rubbing quick circles all over it. bringing you over the edge.

your back arches and your thighs tremble. you let a loud moan as you feel the pleasure overwhelm you. the sight alone was enough to make kirishima reach his own high. he pulls out and begins to stroke his cock, letting out pretty groans as his lips part slightly.

long ropes of cum decorate your stomach as you both pant out heavily. you close your eyes, as you catch your breath. while you do so kirishima notices your phone on the other side of the bed, open.

he grabs it quickly without you noticing and snaps a quick photo. hurriedly tapping on your exes icon and sending him the photo.

"kinda sad that you let such a pretty girl like her go. it's okay i'd understand, you didn't deserve her anyways"

#mha smut #mha smash #mha #my hero academia #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijirou #mha kirishima #kirishima smut #bnha eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x reader #mha eijirou #bnha smut #anime #val !!

738 notes · View notes

ysrjune · 3 months ago

Note

hey there !! I was wondering if i could request a teen!dad scott barringer x teen!mom, like when they find out and probably comfort eachother cuz SCARY and then just the pregnancy overall like them cuddling and being cute, finding out the baby’s gender, shopping for baby, just overall the fluff and then picking names bc i feel like that could be such a funny conversation please no pressure i just think your scott barringer stuff is already good and so cute i love your fluff

[ I love this request. it's soo cute ☺️ ALSO TY FOR THE COMPLIMENTS BB I APPRECIATE IT SM 🩵🩵 I love writing for scott!! hes a bit of a bitch about it in the beginning cause I think thats how he would react to it at first #eventhoughitwashisfault #dumbbitch😣 ]

ENJOY ! ♡

"You're joking with me, right? Like, you're not really having.." he pauses, really taking it in. "A baby." Scott stares down at the cheap test and back to you. "This isn't funny. Don't mess around with me," He says your name with rising anger.

"No. I'm not lying. Why would I lie about something like this?" You cross your arms, starting to become annoyed. "Because you like to pull pranks on me, that's why." Scott responds fast. His eyebrows raise in annoyance as he begins to speak again. "This isn't funny, but it better be a damn joke." He sets the test to the side. "This isn't real. I know it's not."

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "It's real, Scott! It's real. I don't know what else to tell you!" His heart drops to the pit of his stomach. No way. This is just a nightmare that he'll wake up from soon. He stares you deep in the eyes and then stands up from the bed and paces around. "Oh my fucking God." His voice cracks. "Why?! Why me?! I mean.. are you even sure it's mine?!" He points to himself with his hands. Is he joking? seriously? IS IT EVEN HIS??

"Of course it yours. Why would you say that?!" You yell. "Are you trying to call me a whore or something?!" Tears finally spilled on your hot cheeks. "And why you? Why you?! YOU because you can't fucking use a condom and your pull out game is weak!"

Scott side eyed you. He was embarrassed. It IS his fault, but he wasn't going to admit it. What he would do is shut up. A few moments of silence pass, and he hugs you. "Are you gonna have an abortion.." He asks softly. You look up at him and shake your head. "No," you sniffle. "I've thought long and hard about it. I wanna keep it." You say. Scott sighs. "Alright. How long have you known about this?" His arms tightened around you. "Two days."

His hand goes to your back and starts rubbing it. "Do your parents know?"

"No. They can never know."

"Dont be stupid. They have to know. I don't think they'll believe you're just getting fat." He says, relieved that you couldn't see how hard he was trying not to crack a smile and hold in his laugh. You roll your eyes. "I guess." You sigh. "I'll tell them when they get home. You shouldn't be there, though.. my dad has a gun under his bed." You allow yourself to let out a giggle.

Scott smirks and looks down at you. "I can run out-run your old man." He wipes your tears with his thumb. "Stop crying, okay? Im sorry I was being.." He tries to find a word, but you beat him to it. "Mean?"

"Sure, if that's what you wanna say. But you gotta understand why I was.. am.. freaked out. Babe, we're 16. I turn 17 in like a month, but still." He rubs your shoulders. "Teen dad.." he bites his lip. "What's everyone gonna think of me? Think of you? There's like one other girl thats pregnant and she's a druggie."

"They wont know. I'll just wear hoodies all the time." You sniffle. "I've only told Jasmin and Nelly." You didn't have many friends. People you talked to in class? Yes, but not many friends. "I'm not gonna tell the guys. They're all nosy and'll tell everyone." Scott says.

That night at dinner, you brought it up to your parents and Oh they were pissed. Your fathers face went pale and he just stared at you. It was so spooking. He says your full name and then bangs his fist on the table. "DANG NABBIT GIRL, YOU JUST TURNED SIXTEEN AND YOU THINK YOU CAN GO AND HAVE A BABY WITH THAT DUMBASS?! WHYYYY III OUGHTAAA!!" He said a lot of other stuff but you tuned him out, trying not to laugh and cry at the same time.

Your mom calms him down and takes him to the room. After, she came back and sat next to you. "Sweetheart, In no way am I happy about this.. but im glad you said something instead of trying to keep it a secret." She holds your hand. "We'll support you through this, baby girl." She kisses it. "Just let your daddy calm down, okay? He won't let you go through this alone." She says.

4 months, and your belly was already showing a little bit. Scott always loved to kiss it, rub it with his palm, and gently lay his cheek or the side of his face against it. He liked how warm it was all the time.

Scott lays the side of his face on your belly as you two are laid on the couch. He was on top of your legs, a blanket pulled over you as your fingers were running through his hair. The TV was on, playing your favorite show that you've watched so many times already. Scott was watching it with you, but he had fallen asleep. When you notice, you smile and quickly snap a photo and then set it as your lockscreen. How cute!

"you look really good for being pregnant." He says hours later when he's awake and back in your room. "So, other pregnant women dont look good?" you questioned. "Uh, I didn't exactly say that, but.. yeah." He huffs and kisses your belly. "I dunno why, but I like you pregnant." He had a weird thing for the line on your abdomen. He was always staring at it and tracing it with his thumb. #Weirdo

How Scott would react to having a boy:

He would be so thrilled. Happy out of his mind. He could teach his little man how to play sports just like him. He would dress him up in jerseys and beanies. His son would have the nicest shoes even as a toddler. Cool jewlery, nice haircuts, good hygiene—he'd be the best boy dad. Well, let's be honest. Scott wouldn't be an out of this world dad, but he would be a good one. Never missing his sons practices, not yelling at him 24/7.

When his son is old enough, he'd tell him how to catch a ladys eyes. He wouldn't go too far since his son would be 13. But he'd at least say the obvious: Always smell nice, act nice, never pressure a girl into anything, and NEVER get one pregnant. He told his son how exhausting, expensive, and hard it is to be a teen parent.

Teen years are the worst but also the best. Your son has his attention, and that is just so damn annoying. He's also stubborn. You're always fighting with your son, and Scotts is always fighting with him, too. The boys fight more, though. About dishes, laundry, respect for you and him, curfew, grades—the whole shebang. He doesn't abuse his son. He would never. But if your son were to EVER disrespect you (like trying to hit you or call you something like 'bitch' or 'stupid') He'd smack the shit out of the boy. Sometimes, when he's being a smart-ass, he'll backhand him on the back of the neck.

Scott and 16 year old Junior were playing basketball at the park on a Friday afternoon. Junior was doing really well until a few cute girls from his school were passing by. Junior, being a perv just like his dad used to be, was staring at their asses. He was guarding really bad and hardly made any baskets. Scott looked over to what was distracting his son so much, and he literally rolled his eyes and sighed. He understood what it was like to be a teenager with hormones, but really? When they're playing basketball? "Hey," Scott nudges Junior. "Focus here, boy." He hands the ball to him. "You can look at them when you start playing like you actually know how."

How Scott would react to having a girl:

He wouldn't be as excited as he'd be if you were having a boy. Would he be happy?... um. Next question. But either way, he still loves your little girl. Dressing her in cute outfits, letting you teach him how to do her hair, playing dress up and with dolls (in secret), tea parties, and watching princess movies. He loves spoiling his baby girl.

When your girl was 13, Scott didn't give her the privilege to date boys. "Not until you're older than.." he looks over to you. "Her!" Scott cracks a smile but is still serious. You raise an eyebrow at Scott, but let him finish his whole: you're too young to be thinking of boys, you just finished using training bras. Making your daughter cringe.

Scott wouldn't really mind having a tom-boy, but he would prefer his baby to stay girly. He doesn't care about her wearing makeup. She just can't do too much, or else she'll "look like a skank." Crop tops? Whatever, to be honest. He would rather his girl actually dress like one instead of wanting to wear pjs all the time. Here and there, it's fine, but all the damn time? Ew.

He's always buying her things and taking her out for daddy-daughter dates. He holds her hand no matter how old she is. That's still his little girl! And no one could say otherwise.

"Stay still, im almost done." He's trying to do her hair. "Can mommy do it instead!! You're hurting me, Daddy!" The little girl whines, trying to soothe her scalp with her finger. "Fine.." He gives up and sighs, picking her up and taking her to the room where you were doing your makeup. Todays plans were to go watch a movie, shop, and then eat. "Babe, can you do it? I keep hurting her. I feel bad." Scott says and puts her down. "Please, momma! Daddy doesn't know how." She pouts her lips at you. You add lip gloss and then look at your daughter and then Scott. "Of course I can, cutie." You smile.

Scott was offended by how easy you did the girls hair. "Are you kidding me? That took you like 10 seconds!" He complains. "Scott.. it was just a ponytail."

He stands there until your daughter runs back to him and tugs on his pants to pick her up. "Well exCUSE me." He rolls his eyes and picks the toddler off of the ground and returns to the living room.

Shopping for baby clothes gives him a rush, making him nervous. He's really taking in whats happening.

"These are so cute!" You squeal at the small mittens on display. "Gloves? Why do babies need gloves?" He raises his eyebrow. "So that they dont scratch themselves and stuff. It helps them stay warm, too." You smile at him. "Atleast make sure we dont buy any ugly ones, then. Hot pink is a no." He hugs you from behind, caressing your belly.

"Oh my God. I remember watching this." He takes a winnie the pooh onesie in his hand. "We're taking it. Its cute." He adds it to the cart.

This guys likes spending his money on you and baby. He feels responsible and like a good dad already. Speaking of good dad.. hes afraid he'll be a bad one. But hes not. Thats #cool

Hes so embarrassed when he sees people from his school in the stores you're at. Some people just sode eye him cause they dont really know who you are. You didn't go to the same school as him. So of course they're gonna stare when they see a guy from school with some random ass pregnant girl.

Not many knew he even had a girlfriend, but thanks to the group of girls that saw you that day at the store, everyones knows your business. Or they assumed, actually. Scott kept to himself anyway, so its not like he was talking to everyone about his and your situation. When people stare at him in school, he ignores it. And by the time your belly was starting to really show, you switched to online classes.

Almost a year after your kid was born, he switched to a school that offered an early graduation if you have enough credits.

"How about Priscilla?" He suggests a girl name. Priscilla was cute, but it wasnt the one. "No, something else." "Gina." "No." "Rolanda?" "What the hell? No!" "Sherley." "No, Scott." "Wait, I got it.. Everly spelled as E-V-E-R-L-E-I-G-H." "This conversation is over, Scott."

"SCOTT!" he blurts out, trying to figure out a name for your son. "No." "Henry." "Ew." "Spencer." "Like the store?" "Michael." "Eh." "Nathaniel? Vern? Van? Patrick? Arthur? William? Spongebob?! I cant think!" He complains. "I think you should just leave the names to me, sweetie.." you stared at him awkwardly.

—

you ended up with Priscilla

it's Benny.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaas-xo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw

159 notes · View notes

jennxxe · 1 month ago

Text

SFW Alphabet // Bobby Campbell.

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

a/n — my first alphabet eveRrrRR

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

— He is so sweet. He's the sweetest boy you've ever met, and it shows every time you’re with him. He shows affection in little, constant ways. Forehead kisses when you're tired. Bringing you snacks because “you looked snack-deprived.”

— He’s super physically affectionate, always touching you, pinkies linked when you walk, a hand on your thigh in the car, absentmindedly stroking your back while watching TV.

— Gift giving is a huge love language for him. If he sees something that reminds him of you, it’s in his hands within 0.2 seconds. Hair clips, socks with frogs, keychains shaped like tiny sandwiches—he brings them all like a lil penguin giving you pebbles.

— He writes your name on everything he loves. His water bottle has a heart with your initials on it in Sharpie. His controller that you use when you come over? Same. The back of his notebook? Covered. Subtle? Never.

B = Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

— The friendship probably starts from him defending you in the most unexpected way. Someone says something annoying and Bobby just blurts out, “Hey! Don’t be a asshole!” and suddenly he's sitting next to you like you're besties.

— He’s the type to remember your favorite chips and buy it every time you hang out. He will absolutely show up at your house just to ask how your day was.

— He sends you memes at 2 a.m. that are so dumb they're funny. He is also a sucker for wholesome memes from 2020.

— He’d be loyal to you even if you lost touch for months. One message from you and he’s back in your life like you never left.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

— He was made to cuddle. He needs cuddles like oxygen.

— He likes to lay on top of you like a koala, all limbs and sleepy weight, humming softly when you run your fingers through his hair.

— He’s especially clingy in the mornings. He’ll whine if you try to leave bed early. "Five more minutes," he mumbles, then wraps around you tighter like he’s Velcro.

— Movie nights turn into snuggle piles, head on your chest, legs tangled, one hand holding yours while the other absentmindedly pets your thigh or stomach.

— Post-nightmare? He clings to you like his life depends on it, whispering little thank-yous for being there until he falls back asleep.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

— He wants the house, the dog, the lazy Sunday mornings, all of it. The idea of building a little world with you? That’s heaven to him.

— Cooking? He tries, bless him. You’ll come home to something that vaguely resembles pancakes and him proudly saying, “I used a whole egg this time!”

— He’s a cleaning chaotic neutral. He tries, but he’ll get distracted halfway and you’ll find him lying on the floor with a broom across his chest whispering “this is my final form.”

— Laundry is a mystery to him. He once washed an entire red sock with your white clothes and now refers to it as “The Pinkening Incident.”

— But he’s got the heart. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed (even if it's just toast), and he’ll fold your clothes wrong but kiss your forehead when he hands them to you. He’s trying.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

— He would be heartbroken. Even if he’s the one initiating it, you’d see the pain all over his face.

— He’d do it face to face. Eye contact. Voice shaking. Trying not to cry. He’d constantly reassure you that you’re not a bad person, that it’s not because of anything you did. He’d be big on “I still care about you, even if this isn’t right anymore.”

— And oh, he’d probably keep something of yours, quietly tucked in a drawer. Not because he can’t let go but because he’ll always have love for what you were.

— You’d probably hear from him on your birthday. He’s the kind of ex who still hopes the world treats you gently.

F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

— He’s so down. He falls hard, and when he knows, he knows.

— The moment he realizes you’re his forever person, he starts planning. Not the wedding, the life.

— He doesn’t need a huge ceremony. Just you, a ring, and the promise of always waking up next to each other. He proposes clumsily, probably with a speech he forgets halfway through, dropping the ring box because his hands are shaking from excitement.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

— He’s so gentle with you. Like you’re made of stardust and warm cotton.

— He gets clumsy sometimes, knocking things over, tripping on his own feet, but when it comes to your heart? He handles it like it’s fragile and precious.

— He’s the kind of guy who cups your face in both hands before kissing you, just to look into your eyes first.

— He’s soft. He’ll cry if you cry. He feels deeply and wants to know everything you’re thinking, always trying to make you feel safe.

— He apologizes when he raises his voice even if it was just during a video game. “I wasn’t mad at you, I promise,” he’ll say, nuzzling your shoulder.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

— He lives for hugs. No greeting is complete without one. Big, strong arms wrapping around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like you weigh nothing.

— He’s the kind of guy to hug you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth or doing dishes, burying his face in your shoulder and swaying slightly.

— His hugs are warm, grounding. When you’re upset, he holds you like a shield. When you’re happy, he lifts you up and spins you.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

— It slips out way earlier than he planned. Maybe you did something small like laughed at one of his bad jokes or touched his hair in that way he loves and he just breathes it out.

— “I love you.” Cue him freezing. “Wait. Wait—I meant—*no I meant it but—*crap.”

— He panics for half a second until you say it back. Then he melts.

— From that moment on, he says it constantly. In texts. In whispers. Shouted from another room. Drawn on foggy mirrors. Scribbled in the margins of his notes.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

— He gets puppy jealous. Not possessive—but adorably pouty. If someone flirts with you, he’ll cling to you more after. Stand a little closer. Hold your hand tighter. He’ll quietly sulk on the couch, arms crossed, until you cuddle into him. Then he softens. “You still like me the most, right?”

— He trusts you entirely, but sometimes his brain goes “what if I’m not enough?” and you have to smother him in kisses until he believes you again.

— Honestly? He loves when you remind him he's yours. It turns the puppy pout into full-on golden retriever tail-wagging mode.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

— His kisses are soft, a little eager, a little messy but always full of love. He kisses your cheeks when you're sad, your forehead when you're sleepy, and your lips when he just can’t help it anymore. He loves kissing the tip of your nose, it makes him laugh every time you scrunch it up.

— He absolutely melts when you kiss his neck or his jawline. Will literally groan and go boneless like you cast a spell on him.

L = Little Ones (How are they around children?)

— He’s adorable with kids. Like full-on jungle gym level of adorable. Kids climb him like a tree and he just laughs, giving piggyback rides and letting them tie his hair up in little bows (even though it’s barely long enough). Not to mention that he would 100% be doing whatever the kids are. ESPECIALLY trampolines ;)

— He makes silly faces, plays pretend with zero hesitation, and is somehow always the monster or the horse—roles he commits to like he’s winning an Oscar.

— If a kid is shy? He gets down to their level and gently offers his hand like they’re meeting royalty. “Sir Bobby, protector of snack time, at your service.”

— You once caught him showing a five-year-old how to do a secret handshake he made up on the spot. It was twelve steps long.

— He’s in love with the idea of being a dad someday. Probably doesn’t say it out loud at first, but when he holds a baby, that soft, reverent look in his eyes says everything.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

— He’s not a morning person, he’s a morning cuddler. You’ll wake up before him and be trapped under 190 pounds of clingy affection, his arms around your waist, face smushed into your neck.

— When he does wake up, he’s soft and raspy and kiss-happy. Kisses your temple, your shoulder, your back, any part he can reach.

— He makes a mess of the kitchen trying to make breakfast for you. Pancakes are burnt, the bacon is questionably crispy, but he brings it to you proudly on a tray with juice and a flower he picked from outside.

— Sunday mornings with him are sacred: cozy clothes, lazy music, newspaper comics, and his head in your lap while you play with his hair.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

— Evenings are for unwinding. After a long day, he wants nothing more than to be tangled up with you under a blanket.

— You’ll watch movies, usually comedies or action movies, because he likes seeing you laugh. He rubs your back while you drift off, pressing lazy kisses to your hair.

— Some nights, you two have deep conversations in the dark, your fingers laced, voices barely above whispers. Other nights? He just wants to hold you and hum a random tune until you’re both asleep.

— He snores a little but it's cute. You can bury your face in his chest and feel the way his heartbeat slows with yours.

— Every night ends with him murmuring, “G’night, babe. Love you so much.” Sometimes he says it two or three times, just to make sure you heard.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

— He’s surprisingly open, but in a gentle way. He doesn’t unload everything all at once, he waits until it feels safe and the moment is right.

— The first time he tells you something serious, it’s probably during one of those quiet night talks. He stares at the ceiling, voice soft, words careful.

— He tells you about the weird things that hurt him as a kid, about his biggest fears (like disappointing people), and about the dreams he doesn’t tell anyone else.

— He doesn’t like seeming weak, so he’ll try to joke sometimes when he’s nervous but one look from you and he folds, eyes getting glossy.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

— He’s not quick to anger at all. He’s got the patience of a saint especially with the people he loves.

— If something frustrates him, he gets more puppy sulk than rage monster.

— He does get overwhelmed sometimes, especially when he feels like he’s failing, but he’ll step outside, run a hand through his hair, and breathe before ever snapping.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

— He remembers everything. Even stuff you don’t remember telling him. You mention once that your favorite candle scent is jasmine? Boom. Jasmine-scented candle shows up next week.

— You told him when you were five you wanted to be an astronaut? He brings you a plushie in a tiny space suit “for your childhood dreams.”

— He knows the date of your half-birthday. He remembers your go-to boba order. He’s memorized which days you’re most likely to get overwhelmed and sends you comfort memes on those days.

— His notes app is full of “Things She Likes” and it’s just… pages of tiny details. Songs you hum. The color you wear when you feel confident. That one tea that helps when you get headaches.

— He may seem ditzy, but when it comes to you? He’s tuned in 100%.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

— It’s the first time you looked at him like he was your entire world. He remembers it in vivid detail. Maybe you were sitting on a park bench, and you turned to him mid-conversation with this look of awe.

— He swears time stopped. The sun caught your hair just right, and you smiled at him like he was the best decision you ever made.

— That moment lives rent-free in his mind. He thinks about it when he’s falling asleep, when he’s missing you, when he’s doubting himself.

— Nothing will ever top that memory except maybe when you say “I do.”

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

— He’s incredibly protective but never overbearing. It's not about control, it’s about care.

— He protects with warmth. He’ll hold your hand when you're anxious, walk you home at night even if it’s out of his way, and always, always double-checks that you’re okay even when you say you are.

— As for being protected? He lives for it. If you gently tug him behind you or speak up for him in a tense moment? Boy melts. Fully gooey-eyed.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

— He tries so hard. Like it might not always be Pinterest-perfect, but the love is bursting at the seams.

— For anniversaries, he hand-makes you something. A playlist. A scrapbook. A list of all the reasons he loves you written in glitter pen on notebook paper.

— Dates range from elaborate picnics under the stars to surprise pizza nights with handmade menus.

— Gifts? Thoughtful as hell. He once bought you socks with little suns on them because “they remind me of how warm you make me feel.”

— He’ll fold your laundry while humming, cook you badly scrambled eggs with a proud grin, and always carries your bags without being asked.

— He’s all effort, no ego. It’s messy sometimes, but he just wants you to know he cares every single day.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

— He leaves socks everywhere. Like... everywhere.

— He eats way too fast. Like, blink and his plate’s clean. It’s barbaric and kind of terrifying. That being said, he also forgets to check what has peanuts and what doesn’t.

— He hums constantly. Even in quiet moments. Even at 3AM. You’ll be spooning and suddenly hear “Sweet Caroline” hummed into your shoulder.

— He’s bad at texting back. Not because he doesn’t care, he just forgets. He’ll open your message, smile at it like a dope, and then put his phone down without answering.

— When he's nervous, he bites his nails and pulls at his sleeves like a kid. He doesn’t realize he's doing it until you gently stop him.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

— He pretends he’s chill about his looks, but he totally flexes in front of the mirror when he thinks you’re not looking.

— He’s lowkey proud of his arms. And his jawline. And his hair (especially after you ruffle it and call him handsome).

— He doesn’t care about being flawless, but he does care if you think he’s hot.

— “Do I look okay?” he’ll ask before a date, cheeks pink, hands tugging at his shirt. He always looks good but your compliments make him stand taller.

— His guilty pleasure? Skincare. He lets you do face masks on him and he loves it. Bonus if you massage in the moisturizer.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

— Without you? A puppy in the rain.

— You’re truly his best friend, his safe space, his therapist when he loses Mortal Combat.

— He doesn’t cling in a toxic way, but the thought of losing you is his worst fear. He’d miss the way your voice sounds when you’re sleepy, the smell of your shampoo, the way you always stroke his hair before falling asleep.

— If he ever lost you, he’d still talk about you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them)

— He has a playlist called “Songs That Remind Me of Her” and he updates it weekly.

— He also has a habit of doodling your name in notebook margins. Sometimes surrounded by hearts. Sometimes in bubble letters.

— When he’s sad, he wears your hoodie. Even if it’s tiny on him. He’ll stretch it over his broad frame and bury his nose in the collar like it’s holy.

— He keeps a Polaroid of you two in his wallet. He looks at it when he’s nervous. Once he pulled it out before a presentation just to feel brave.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

— He hates cruelty. People who mock others for being vulnerable? Instant ick.

— Like, if someone thinks they’re too good for cartoons or cry-laughing at dumb jokes? Bye.

— He’s also sensitive to yelling. If someone raises their voice just to intimidate, it rattles him.

— He doesn’t vibe with coldness, he needs warmth, laughter, touch. Someone emotionally distant would make him feel unwanted.

— Also: he physically can’t handle scary movies. Once screamed and threw popcorn in the air during a jump scare.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

— He’s a blanket thief. You start the night tucked in and wake up shivering while he’s rolled up like a human burrito.

— Sleeps with one arm over your waist at all times. If you move away, he instinctively pulls you back in like a sleepy magnet.

— He talks in his sleep. Half the time it’s your name.

— He has a habit of kissing the top of your head while still asleep.

— You are his favorite pillow. Full stop. Chest, thighs, belly, wherever you are, he’ll be on top of it.

— And his favorite position? Koala-mode. Arms and legs wrapped around you like you’re his emotional support tree branch.

#final destination 6 #final destination x reader #bobby campbell #bobby campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination franchise #the final destination

116 notes · View notes