#so i made another account and applied again

[mamatater]

Yall ever been so desperate for a job that you apply for it twice

[lemedstudent2021]

some gems i found (turns out im occasionally funny)

will continue to update as i rake through the wonder that is my blog :)

[ddlydevotion]

Grace and Bo Chow both being infatuated with you 💌 ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing this! This post contains nsfw content/slightly obsessive behavior so proceed with caution. This is also quite long so I apologize for that. Look out for a part two!

currently listening to: Cupid by Sam Cooke

You met Bo first. You applied for a job at the shop and proved yourself to be incredibly dependable. He allowed you to count the money in the register, keep logs of what was going in & out of the store, and take care of client records and accounts. The two of you had a purely professional relationship, but if a professional relationship consisted of longing glances, lingering touches, and endearing nicknames.

You knew he was married, the golden band around his ring finger didn't let you forget the fact that he was. You felt horrible for even entertaining the nicknames and the close contact he kept with you, but you considered yourself to be on the safe side of things. As long as the two of you kept the touchiness to a minimum and didn't take your affection for one another to the bedroom, everything was fine.

His wife, Grace, tended to their shared store on the white side of town. She'd occasionally pop into the store to check in on Bo & their daughter, making sure she completed her tasks for the day. Afterwards, she'd never fail to make her way up to you and ask about your day.

"How are ye doin? Bo been treatin' you well?"

"You're doin' a good job around 'ere, girl. We gotta keep you here, don't want the other stores to try an' take ye from us."

Bo would affirm her praise by nodding his head and adding in his own little two cents. Grace wouldn't shy away from rubbing your arm or placing a delicate finger underneath your chin while saying "you're a real pretty girl, y'know that?". Her physical touch could be disguised as something playful and sweet, something between two women that were fond of one another. But, as the two of them made eye contact over your head they knew that what they had in store for you was anything but playful.

The playful banter between the three of you continued for weeks after that. You didn't expect anything more to blossom from your friendship with the married couple, but the clueless cloud you had over your head was quickly blown away one night. It was usual for them to invite you over to have dinner at their shared home. It was a common occurrence that even Lisa looked forward to as you were never anything but kind to her.

If you try to tell them that you wouldn't be able to make it due to a packed schedule, they'd do everything in their power to convince you to show anyway.

"Oh, we promise we won't keep you long. C'mon ya could just come on over for some dinner and make your way home after that. promise."

"awe are ya sure? Lisa was really lookin' forward to seeing ya again."

Sure, it was common for them to invite you over for dinner. However, it wasn't all too common for them to invite you into their bedroom. They'd usually keep you past midnight to have conversation going in the kitchen, but Bo offered to move the late night ritual into their bedroom. The conversation went on as normal and the wine in your glass disappeared by the minute. You sat with your legs crossed on their wooden-framed bed, the couple sat right in front of you. Bo's hand made a home for itself on the skin of your thigh that peaked from underneath your dress, he rarely ever showed such explicit affection like this. You expected Grace to become angry with the two of you, rightfully so, and have the night come to an end. Instead, she moved towards you and swept your hair out of your face with those delicate fingers of hers you've come to admire.

"I don't think ya know just how pretty ya are. I mean, jus' look at that face, baby. You just might be the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen." Bo's hand moved towards the inside of your thigh and a small smile stretched across his lips. "s'true, sweetheart", both of his hands eventually moved towards the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him, Grace shuffling behind you before positioning your head to lay on her lap.

The night ended with your legs curved around Bo's slender waist as he pumped his cock into you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock stimulating your pulsing clit once he finally bottomed out. Grace kept herself busy, too. She rubbed your throbbing clit with her middle & ring finger, occasionally cradling your flushed cheeks and encouraging you to "take that cock, baby. s'so big, ain't it? I know, I know", shushing your whines and cooing at your fucked out expression. She couldn’t help but smile when you let out a surprised squeal at the feeling of her fingers tweaking and pinching your sensitive nipples.

Your relationship with the Chow's was never made public to the town, I mean, why would it be? Everyone in your close circle knew that the three of you were quite the close bunch of friends, but they didn't know the rest of it.

I can definitely see the both of them being possessive over you. They could see you talking with a friend of yours outside of the store and immediately interrogate you about it.

"She's just a good friend of mine! What's this all about?"

"Y'know damn well what this is all about. She looked like she was imaginin' what ya looked like without your clothes on."

It'd make them inexplicably upset to see you in a relationship with anyone that isn't them. They'd never allow you to do so without putting up a fight, though. It'd be foolish for you to think they'd let you go so easily. Even if you did get romantically involved with anyone else, you'd never be truly satisfied. Grace and Bo raised your standards to the damn moon and it'd be impossible for anyone to try and fill their shoes. Whenever your partner did anything wrong, you couldn't help but think "they'd never do that to me."

Helping Grace whenever she's working on a sign for a client. She doesn't hold back on sharing just how proud she is of you when you finish up a paint job.

Sharing many passion filled nights with the couple at the Juke Joint. You spend so much time sat at the bar without ordering anything just to talk to Grace. Bo pulls you in to dance with him and no one around bats an eye. What's wrong with two friends sharing a dance together? However, the way his glistening eyes gaze into yours with such intense passion behind them is anything but platonic.

It's incredibly easy for you and Grace to hide the true nature of your relationship. Nobody suspects anything even when her arm is firmly wrapped around your waist, or when her lips graze your cheek in a sweet peck. That's just how good friends celebrate one another.

They always find themselves on your front porch with gifts and they hardly ever show up empty handed. The gifts range from sundresses perfect for the southern heat, pastries they know you'll enjoy, savory treats the both of them worked on.

You're constantly heading over to their home and being convinced to stay the night by the sweet-talking couple. They don't entertain the possibility of you staying in a spare room, they want you to make yourself familiar & comfortable with their bedroom. Their spare room is honestly quite useful in having visitors believe that's where you stay, assisting in avoiding any questions about the true nature of your 'friendship'.

Bo wraps himself around your body like a koala and Grace curls herself into a fetal position in front of you, relishing in the feeling of your warm arms around her.

taglist: @officialthrad @bochowswife @thegr33nc0met @missroro @mjwhis @foreid let me know if you'd like to be added!

[kyra45]

THIS POST IS OLD AND OUT OF DATE AND NO LONGER APPLIES TO NEEDING TO SEEK OUT DIFFERENT VERIFICATION. GAZAVETTERS IS NOW UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT THIS POST WAS MADE BACK WHEN THERE WAS AN ISSUE. I HAVE DISABLED REBLOGS TO PREVENT MISINFORMATION TO THOSE WHO DONT USE TIMESTAMPS.

—

If you were previously verified by gazavetters, please seek out a different verification account as currently they’ve deleted all their posts + the document they was using to list accounts they verified.

(If you were previously verified by gazavetters, please seek out a different verification account as currently they’ve deleted all their posts + the document they was using to list accounts they verified.)

I know some accounts follow me that verify fundraisers or know some of them, so please spread the word about the current situation since a lot of gfm blogs used them to get verified and now that’s all deleted.

—

5:40pm update

From what I can gather from a reblog on the original post, the blogs runner has become upset that some blogs are resorting to unnecessary tactics to raise funds while trying to raise money theirself. The account was ran by multiple accounts, but it seems the main one has decided to cut ties with verifying all gfms and will leave the blog to be though I’m unsure what will happen to their list.

The blogs runner was upset that it was taking so long for gfms to be verified, so they created the account in order to speed up the process and recently realized they didn’t agree with what some accounts have done to get attention from popular blogs. (Or something like that.)

All in all, if you was verified by them I would suggest unfortunately still seek verification from other blogs due to this one now shutting down it seems. But please don’t harass the original blog owner he is going through a lot as is. Any existing verification is still acceptable, but any posts around it are gone leaving just the document itself which is why I suggest getting another verification done so you’ll have an extra one on hand.

This does NOT mean accounts verified by them were scammers; Do not take this as a sign of that. It’s just an unfortunate situation being cleared up and measures taken to ensure this don’t happen again at some point.

From what I’ve seen, the document has been restored again.

Read the update here

[salemlunaa]

ᥫ᭡∘˚That extra push for pure consciousness ᥫ᭡∘˚

The secret to being victorious like those with the success stories…

∘˚ᥫ᭡PART I | THE VICTORIOUS

Now that it’s 2025 a lot of you have had enough, although time is a concept you’re a little mad at the fact that you didn’t induce pure consciousness last year and you’re NOT taking no for an answer this time around.

Now when we look at this community. Amidst the complaining and some negativity, there are so many success stories, those who were victorious.

Those who went to bed with a body they hated and woke up with their desired look. Those who went to bed in a one bedroom apartment and woke up in a mansion. Those who went to bed hating their family and friends and woke up with their desired relationships with their desired people. Those who went to bed with nothing to their name and woke up with a fat ass bank account.

Those who with their backs against the wall and their outer man experiencing the most treacherous of circumstances made it out of the trenches with one induction of pure consciousness.

You wanna know how to get there. Spoiler alert: you ARE there

∘˚ᥫ᭡ PART II | THE LINK BETWEEN THEM ALL

Before you will ever follow the path of being successful, you must realise what they all had in common.

They realise they that all this complaining was doing nothing for them. They decided that in that moment they had their dream life, no matter what they saw, they were a master at inducing pure consciousness. No matter what the 3D showed their outer man, their inner man was victorious.

No more reaffirming failures, no more revelling in the fact that they fell asleep while trying a few times. No more doomscrolling. No more looking at others success stories wondering when it was gonna be them when it could be them NOW.

They realised it was time for them to adopt a new mindset: That the state of pure consciousness is just first nature to them. That they are gods no matter what. That as god, the 3D and time doesn’t exist to them, nope! not real anymore. That circumstances weren’t a thing anymore. That the void state is the easiest thing a person can induce. That pressuring themselves for a timecrunch is pointless because their inner man doesn’t experience time and they get everything they want instantly. That pure consciousness is just a state consciousness that is something as effortless as being in the state of awake and the state of asleep.

It doesn’t take long to flip your thoughts. So many people with success stories have said so many times that if they knew how easy it all was, they would’ve done it sooner. Challenges are nice but you don’t need to spend weeks on them, never did never will.

∘˚ᥫ᭡ PART III | THE APPLICATION

Another thing they did was fucking apply. You’re tired of hearing that? great! because bloggers are SO tired of repeating it.

Yes failure and procrastination can be comforting. This is a great community, but don't stay here longer than you need to. And yes memes about how you "woke up in your cr again 🙄" and how little time you actually spend trying to shift awareness can be funny and relatable. But those who have success stories under their belts had to choose between comfort, relatability + aesthetically pleasing scripts and actually living their dream life. And to be victorious you must make that choice too.

So go do it, stop this dumbass belief that you are exempt from the success of inducing pure consciousness. Yes, you are the operant power and your reality relies on you and you alone, HOWEVER, if so many can do it, it's evidence that you can too. No more looking at those success stories for motivation or looking at them in jealousy when that can be you now.

To be victorious you must think like them. Believe you are successful and you will be. No you’re not “faking it till you make it” YOU ARE SUCCESSFUL. you ARE one of them.

Believe and assume like a victor and you will be one, the 3D will always conform. That’s law.

🍦🩰 To be victorious like the others, you must believe it now.

[auntopossum]

Capital 'T', Capital 'M': The Manager

Saja boys x Gender Neutral! Reader

Content warning: Job Application

Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business

Authors note: Sat down. Read through the Saja Boy x Reader tag. Thought: "Man, I wish there were more manager stories. I eat these up." Paced, possessed for 2 hours while listening Your Idol on repeat. Thought: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Blacked out. 4k long, first chapter

Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Summary: If anyone were to come up and tell you that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them to get out. That's because the Saja Boys are totally normal humans. Nothing odd about them at all. That's just their quirks from how harsh the idol life is. What's wrong with temporary tattoos? You don't like their newest stage concepts? The media thinks the Saja Boys are a group of absolute, adorable and perfect, bunch of angels. The world believes you and your boys got where you were through luck, willpower, and skill. They praise you, The Manager, for being so open and honest about their struggles through idol-dom. Everyday you get better and better at cultivating the ultimate Professional Persona. Of course, if you're actually honest, then why are your pants on fire? No really. These pants are on fire. You and your boys got where you were because you saw the boys lay out a perfect pair of pants and heard them discuss how it needs to be lit on fire. Then, you put them on and lit them yourself. And if anyone were to run up and scream that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them you'd do it all over again.

Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business

Your bedroom reeks. It’s nearing the rainy season, and already, the humidity has been hitting hard. Your A/C unit begs for mercy as it miserably chugs along, dangling precariously from your apartment window. Powdered flavoring and oils stick to the letters of your keyboard. Your monitor and pulsing PC lights are the only things illuminating the bags under your eyes. Thumping bass can be heard through your taped over window along with the roar of thousands of fanatic music enthusiasts. Tonight is the Huntr/x’s last performance before they go on an undisclosed hiatus. 

The rhythmic beats pound away at your already frayed nerves. You close your eyes and pray to anything that can answer as your email loads your latest messages. Junk. Junk. Junk. College asking for money. Junk. Tracking number for latest purchase. Food delivery receipt. Junk. Junk. Junk. Jun— Hang on!

Re: Job Applicant

It’s from one of the job listings you applied to. One of many. Many. MANY. MANY!  

You cross your fingers over your mouse as you click to open it. Please. PLEASE. PLEASE!!!

Of course. It isn’t an offer. Why would it be? That’d be really silly. It’s not like you haven’t applied to nearly a thousand job listings in hopes for something. But… It isn’t an outright rejection. The email informs you at the bottom with size 8, gray font a different listing within their company, ‘Better suited for your skillset’. The overtly friendly wording pisses you off, but you grumble and follow the link anyway. 

It takes 5 minutes to create a new account, despite already having made one for the other job listing. It takes 1 minute to upload your resume, bullshitted cover letter, and appropriate licensure. It takes another 5 minutes for the website to actually load and accept the files. It takes 12 minutes to re-enter all your relevant information. Something that can be easily seen on your resume. That you had been forced to upload. It takes 22 minutes of crying and bashing your fists on your desk, ‘God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!’, as you struggle for nice things to say in the mandatory 2k word essay. The application website has the audacity to demand you beg and sing their praises. Demand you explain why you felt destined! to work at this low paying job. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. goes the beat of the music. Chug. Chug. Chug. goes the hospiced air conditioner. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr. goes the struggling fans of your computer. 

The scream you let out is completely silent, and for a moment you see pure red—then blue!—then black! You hold your breath, trembling with a slew of broiling emotions and watch as your monitors and computer system attempts to reboot itself. Luckily, it takes less than a minute to come back, and you’re able to safely restore your tabs. All is OK. It’s OK. You’re OK.

Except you’re not. You’re so very not OK. The application website, which took 2 minutes and 26 seconds to buffer and refresh, informs you with an absolutely pathetic ‘ :( ‘, letting you know in a bastardized version of comic sans that you missed the window. They have already hired someone else. 

The scream you unleash is buried by the cheering over taking the city air. You shriek until your lungs are burning and your eyes stop watering. Checking the time, you decide to call it quits for the night. With a sniffle and a snot filled HONK! into a tissue, you shrug your jacket on and fumble for your keys. Slipping on some sandals, you miss your door’s key hole several times before finally, shakily locking it. 

It’s time for a little sweet treat. You deserve a lil’ sweet treat. You need a sweet lil’ treat, or you’re going to pass out.

With a whoosh the automatic door to the convenience store opens, and you step easily over the threshold. You furiously blink your swollen eyelids as your face is assaulted by their industrial A/C. Shuffling further in, you grab a small basket and make a bee line to the refrigerated drink section. 

Faced with 5 door’s worth of options, you pause and consider your choices. Mist curls around you as you squat to inspect a can. Too focused on envisioning its artificial taste on your tongue, you miss the several, ‘excuse me!’s coming from behind. You only move, just to fall flat on your ass, with a flinch as a burning hot hand sears into your shoulder. 

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t mean to startle you!”, apologizes the man above you with the perfect face. No really, that dark black hair and smooth face is uncannily perfect. You ignore the hand being offered to instead grip the rubber siding of the door. With a zombie-like groan, you haul your aching body up. 

“S’all good.” You mumble out, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket instead of making eye contact with the handsome stranger. That’s when you notice three more pairs of shoes by you. You twitch, slamming the fridge door closed, and stumble back into the slightly exposed abdomen and legs of a fourth pair. A set of uncomfortably warm, burly arms steady you, and you nearly flush with fever yourself. 

“While we have you~” purrs another equally good-looking gentleman. They sport a unique cut of pink hair and step too close into your personal bubble. Something cold touches the underside of your chin, and you're forced to look up into their face. “What is this?” The object moves from your skin to reveal itself to be a beverage can. 

“Uh…” You stupidly say, leaning back into the hot, supple chest behind you in an effort to clearly read the label being shoved in your face. “Soda?”

“What’s it taste like?” asks the boy to your left with blue hair, hugging a party sized bag of chips like a life line. 

You look over the vibrant packaging, and thankfully, it’s a brand you have the unfortunate luck to recognize. Intimately. There was a dark, dark time back in college where you drank enough to make a little christmas tree from the recycled tabs. 

“Chemically sweet. Exactly like—” you gesture with a semi-restrained limb to the can’s exterior. “You would expect the color, ‘icy blue’, and the name, ‘Coastal Tundra’, to taste like. 

“Is that… a good thing?” asks the original, beautiful stranger. They look slightly off kilter, and you take a moment to survey the cluster of absurdly handsome young men. The heat radiating by your back feels obscenely good as your muscles cease their insistent ache. 

With a long huff, blowing an imaginary strand of hair from your face, you lean back on your heels before recoiling to your tiptoes, momentarily forgetting how close they’ve gotten. You let a weary smile grow on your face and look straight at the nutrient label of the displayed soda.

“It is if you want a new vice.” You laugh with exhaustive experience. “55 whoppin’ grams of sugar and over 150mg of caffeine. Enough to kill ya’ and then raise your anxiety-filled corpse back from the dead.”

Immediately after you let the casual joke spill from your lips, you regret it. Swiftly, all 5 men dart back as if burned, and you shiver in place, resisting the urge to turtle into your jacket. 

“Sorry! I’m just gonna—” You swing open the door nervously, nearly whacking the dark haired man in the face, and dart down into a squat. As you grab your chosen beverage, you gently close the now fogged up door and turn around to find all exits blocked off.

Khisssss! sing both the icy blue can and the sealing fridge door. Your thoughts flatline as you watch Mr. Hot Muscles crack open the drink and chug it back into one go. After a moment, he sputters and chokes. You gulp down thick saliva as the clear, carbonated soda dribbles down his thick adams apple. He folds over in a near perfect bend, gasping for breath. His pink haired friend slaps him on the back several times while a look of confusion passes over the man’s face.

“So?” demands the blue one, shuffling closer to reach for the can that’s been placed on the freshly waxed tile. 

Finally recovered from choking, the man straightens to an impressive height and smacks his lips in consideration. Pondering with a sculpted hand on his chin, he announces to his fellow, pastel-wearing monkeys, “They’re right.” He nods his head sagely. “It’s exactly what you would expect that color to taste like. I can’t think of any other way to describe it.”

“But is it good?”

“No… but yes?” Smack. Smack. Lickkk. “It was honestly painful in my mouth, but the after taste has me craving more.”

“That’s how they getcha.” You comment, reminding the circus of your existence before realizing your error and slowly backing away. No luck though, as you’re roughly yanked to the side. Suddenly, you have the blue haired boy slung over your shoulder. 

“What’d you recommend?” He asks, voice slithering through your ear in a ticklish whisper.

You look up through your lashes at the gang and struggle. Despite their interesting choice of bright colors, they’re giving off seriously, drop-dead gorgeous vibes. Are these rich lil’ boys coming down from their castles to play with the common folk or something? Everything about their appearance screams Money, but none of them have that kind of nepo-baby air about them. If anything, they feel more like a clamoring bucket of small crabs, moments away from being speared through as fish bait and intimately aware of that fate. 

“What’s the vibe?” You try and shrug the sweltering weight off, to no avail. 

“Vibe?” mumbles one to another. 

“Mood? Theme? Aura?” You attempt to take a step further, wriggling your shoulders with a gnash of teeth. Can this guy get off you? You do not want anyone to be so close to you right now. Not when you’re so miserable. Not when you’re so tired. Not when your poor nerves are so fried and your tears have all but dried up. You take a shuddering breath as you successfully dislodge your clinger and turn to face the misty fridge once more. Your head throbs from stress and dehydration, and you press your forehead against the cool glass in search of relief.

“Heh. Whatever a bunch of out-of-touch demons would enjoy,” jokes the pink one from directly behind. He’s snuck close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, his hips and chest hovering just out of touch.

You tilt your head to press the left side of your face into the door and regard the black haired one with one fatigued eye. 

Eyebrows raised in a challenge, you hum. “I like that. Original.” Eyes dart back to the shelves to scan for a good recommendation. Torn between two, you find yourself asking, “Freshly arrived or been here for too long?”

Nobody says anything for a moment, and you distract yourself from your own emotional constipation by doodling a smiley face in the condensation. Immediately, it reminds you of the ‘ :( ‘ from the stupid, awful job website, and soon, you're sporting a frown to match it. 

“Freshly arrived.” declares a previously unheard voice. You glance at the man with hair shrouding most of his face, but his lips are quick to fall into a deliciously neutral position, as if he never spoke. 

With a thumbs up, you sidestep and whip the door open. This time, you actually hit the dark hair stranger. With a horrific, sickening crunch, chilled plexiglass makes contact with a perfectly sculpted nose. Before he can stumble away, you close the accidental weapon and lunge for his arms that rise to shield his damaged, no longer pristine, face.

“Oh fuck! Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” you cry out, wrapping your fingers around his forearms. The skin burns under your clammy palms, but you hold firm and keep him from escaping. “I know first aid! Let me take a look!”

Then, a second round of crunching and popping occurs, muffled by taloned hands. A pair of watering, glowing eyes peeks at you through bloodied fingers. With the strength of someone two seconds away from truly Mc-freaking-losing it, you rip his hands away and take in the fully repaired cartilage. He uses your momentary hesitation to pull away completely, and you watch him tug his sleeves further down his arms. Just like your dying PC back at home, glowing tattoos pulse in a steady pattern from beneath his shirt and up his flaming cheeks. 

“Holy shit. Those are sick as hell.” You dumbly compliment, leering down at any inch of exposed skin, only to be met with swift disappointment as it returns back to its typical, normal human tone. 

Everyone is silent yet again, and you start discretely shuffling towards the candy aisle. 

Unsure of what to say, you’re rewarded with a whispered, “Uhhhh, thanks?” from him. You wordlessly pass him the chosen drink with a nod, and start step, step, stepping away. 

Dipping around the corner, you successfully get the hell out of that dodge and can now put your mind towards better things than properly socializing. Like minding your own god damned business and focusing on something sour, sweet, or savory. Down the ways, you can hear a quiet argument break out.

“What the fuck was that, Jinu?” 

“You think I planned to get my face smashed in?”

“So much for us being discrete and blending in.”

La la la. You love minding your own business. It’s just that there are so many options, and you’re standing here dutifully looking at them all. Still as stone so as to not bring attention to your proximity. 

“And you didn’t think to charm them or anything?”

Oh wow, what a steal! Buy 1 get 4 free for a mix and mash of this brand’s candy! 

“I’m not about to charm someone this soon! We’re trying to not catch any attention from hunters until we get ourselves established.”

Hm. This nutrition label is very informative. You could stand here in this exact spot all day. 

“And how are we supposed to gain a name for ourselves if we keep this up? We can’t just magic our way to fame you know!”

“Maybe they didn’t notice?”

“Are you kidding?! They totally noticed! They even complimented him!”

“That was a compliment?”

It’s so awesome that these sour snacks have jokes written on the back. It was like they knew someone would be forced to suffer through a critical enough situation that one must kill time by reading microscopic font. It’s so incredibly interesting because you are totally here minding your own business.

“Hang on if we can’t just charm our way through this plan, where are we supposed to even start?”

“I bet Jinu doesn’t even have a plan.”

“I have a plan!”

“Ok then. What’s the next step, oh leader of this-is-a-stupid-idea-that’s-totally-not-going-to-get-our-asses-scorched-by-hellfire.”

“First… We need to get a… manager?”

“Why was that a question?”

You just can’t choose. Do you go for the share sized chocolates or the 3 discounted packs of salted chews? It’s a really difficult decision, and you have to stand perfectly still and contemplate such a monumental choice.

“It’s hard to properly do research from the other side of the barrier! I’m pretty sure the best place to start would be to get a manager!”

“This is because you couldn’t figure out how to use that… Not-spider web thing… What is it???”

“The internet?”

“Yeah, that!”

“Well, what do we have to do to get someone for a manager? Pay for a newspaper ad? They still have those right?”

“I saw some for sale by the entrance. It’s really impressive how far printing presses have come.”

“I know right? I was shocked when I saw how colorful everything is!”

The tile by your foot has been placed upside down. You believe this because the spacing and cluster of small dots is more pronounced on one side, than the other and thus ruining the flow of the nonexistent linoleum pattern. It is very critical that one takes the time to notice these things. So important, you think you’ll just continue to chill here and check the ceiling tiles as well. 

“Guys. We’re getting off topic. Manager.”

“What kind of qualifications does a manager even need to have?”

LA! LA! LA! This is the region of Minding Your Own Business.

“And how much do we even pay them?”

You’re holding your breath because you’re totally in your own world and not listening to the goings-on of other people.

“Honestly, it doesn’t even matter. We really just need someone who can be a human front for us to help get hunters off our backs.”

“Ha. And make sure we don’t show our age.”

“...and show other things, but we’ve already messed up once. How are we going to handle working that closely with a human and keeping up appearances?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“So basically, we’ll hire based on… vibes?”

“Please don’t start using modern slang. You’ll actually reveal your age.”

Wowza! This store should really replace the middle left, second down, in the far upper corner, light segment. It’s been flickering ever so slightly as you work on finding your inner zen at this exact moment in time and space. 

“Ok, so from the sounds of it… literally any human will do as long as they are willing to hold up some sort of charade?”

“Yeah. That’s about right.”

“Where are we even going to find someone like that? None of us can use this age’s technology easily, and I really don’t think newspaper ads are the way to go.”

“Well, do you have any better suggestions for the job listing? I think it’s better than doing nothing right now. It’s not like you can expect a manager to appear out of thin air or something?”

“Hey guys.”

“AHHH!”

All five jump and flinch in on themselves as you lean your head around the aisle’s end cap display. All sport various, perfectly handsome, guilty looks, like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Twisting your back with a crack! you round the bend and stand a few meters away.

“I guess, first, for the record, yes. I totally noticed. BUT—!” You stress, holding your hands up as the light around them darkens, and you're treated to 5 pairs of smoldering eyes pinning you in place. “W- W- Whu- Was. Oh my god— AHEM!— Sorry… Was that a job offer that I just overheard?”

5 pairs of glowing eyes look amongst each other in bewilderment before they all nod their heads synchronistically. 

“Great!” You say with a near manic smile, a twitching right eye, and a cute clap. “How much are you willing to pay me and when can we start?”

“Uhm.. the sooner the better.” replies the dark haired man awkwardly. Slowly, they all straighten out from their hunched, crooked postures, and resume their model-like posing in the back of the convenience store. “As for pay… uhhh… how does…”

“$14?” offers the blue haired one.

“$14? How does $14 sound?” the leader of the troupe says with much hesitation and a perfectly perfect smile.

“$14.” You glower. “$14-a-what?”

“A day?” suggests the buff guy.

“A DAY?!” You shout a little too loud. A feverish hand clasps over your mouth and suddenly, you’ve swept back into the inner ring of their cluster. You can’t tell if they’re actually hissing at you or shushing aggressively. 

“What’s wrong with $14 a day? Isn’t that good with today’s inflation?”

You easily shrug the hand from your face and clasp the muscular shoulder of the gentleman in front of you. The only thing you can hear is your own breathing and the staticky jingle of some ad through the store’s overhead speakers. 

“Brother.” You warn with a full toothed smile, sinking your nails into rock hard flesh. “A dozen eggs are like $10. Five pounds of rice is like $12. I want a livable wage, not a barest minimum wage.”

“Damn! That’s so expensive.” You hear softly exclaimed behind you.

“We— We, uh. We honestly don’t have that much money right now.” The black haired man admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How about this?” You begin, relaxing and removing your hand only to have it snatched by the stranger with the mop of silver hair. You huff to yourself and reluctantly let them inspect your smart watch, cringing only slightly when they aggressively sniff the wristband. “You help charm folk. I introduce you to the wonders of credit card fraud and spear phishing scams. We find a really swanky place for our base, and you pay me… hm… 14? Yeah. 14 percent of your earnings as you gain popularity and make it big.”

“...and in return, you’ll become our manager and help us become world famous idols?” He asks.

“Yup. Something like that. I guess I can help with your totally normal human stuff and not at all nefarious plans as well… as long as it’s within reasonable working hours, or I’m compensated with a sweet treat. Sound like game plan?” You throw them a double thumbs up for good measure.

“I guess. Uhm, welcome aboard..?” He sticks his hand out and tilts his head in search of your name. You laugh and try to shake hands with the opposite one, having your dominant taken up by Mr. Sniffers over here.

“You know what they say is better than a devil you don’t know?” You grin, offering your full name before giggling. “A devil you do. Nice to meet you, and you are?”

“Jinu.” He says with a pearly white, perfectly blinding smile.

“I’m Abby.” solemnly declares the handsome hunk.

“Romance~” says the pink haired one, stealing your hand from Jinu’s and kissing it lightly like a chivalrous knight. You recoil your arm back into your chest and try to discretely wipe the boiling hot saliva from the back of your hand.

“...Baby.” grumbles the blue haired boy. The chip bag in his hand is nearly empty, and you watch him adorably pout down into the remaining crumbs. 

“And that’s Mystery.” announces Abby with a jerk of his thumb and a hot hand on your shoulder. 

Before you can put your foot in your mouth some more, you feel a blistering tongue lave up your palm and all the way to the crook of your elbow. You twitch and shudder from the odd feeling, eyes widening at the realization of what he just did.

“Did?! Did you just?! Did you just lick me?!” You squeak out, body curling in on itself as if to protect your soft stomach. 

Romance tsks and shakes his head while Jinu tries to stamper out a professional apology. Both go ignored as another realization hits you with a dramatic gag.

“Bleugh! Grosssssss dude!” You whine, slipping from Mystery’s grasp and furiously wiping the hot, menthol-like feeling from your skin. “I took public transport to get here. Who knows where my hands have been or what they’ve touched!”

“That’s the problem here?” One of them whispers to another. 

Arm and hands finally free of weirdly warm, totally normal, human saliva, you cross them and think for a moment. 

“Ok so you guys want to be idols. Do you have a name in mind?” You question with a tap, tap, tapping of a foot, sandals hitting the humid, waxed tile with a damp plap.

“Yes.” Jinu perks up, relieved to steer back into a conversation he’s mentally prepared for. “The Saja Boys.”

“Saja Boys?” You hum to yourself, twisting open the drink that’s been in your basket and taking a swig. You look between all the colorful hair surrounding you before your exhausted eyes fall back to the group’s leader. “Hey, can I get a cool, fake band name too, or do I have to stay boring like Jinu?”

“Did you have something in mind?” Baby asks over Jinu’s soft, ‘hey!’.

“Yeah. I wanna be known as The Manager.”

“The Manager? Really? That feels too literal.”

“Like your names aren't? Also you have to say it with a capital ‘T’ and ‘M’, like ‘The Manager’.”

“Wh- You can’t capitalize sound when you talk. What’s even the point?”

“Hey man, if ya know ya know.” You grin smugly with a shrug, pivoting on your heel and heading towards the door. “Now, it’s just past midnight. The day can’t get any younger. Let’s go transform you bunch into some spiffing popstars. First thing’s first. We’re going to catch you up on modern pop and idol culture.” You blatantly walk out without having purchased any goods, holding your stolen drink high in the air. The plastic reflects the twinkling lights of the electrified city, and your eyes glimmer with life. “To an internet cafe!”

[peascribbles]

𝑬𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔: 𝑨 𝑷𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒉𝒍𝒆𝒕

A few snapshots of the shenanigans you get up to with your dragon. - addendums to abundance and choice dragon!sylus x gn!reader, tooth-rotting domestic fluff, drabble format, sfw; 800wc

I. Provide a reassuring, secure dwelling.

Most of the peculiarities that accompanied living with a dragon were tolerable with the passage of time. There was one exception, when you woke up early for the nth time because every single muscle in your back was screaming at you.

You mentioned you couldn't sleep on piles of gold forever, and he'd muttered about picky mortals under his breath.

Hours later, you spotted him atop a treasure mound pulling out various delicate fabrics, delicately held in his claws. You were presented with a makeshift nest he put together for you, made of assorted drapes and velvet finery.

A strange ritual took place in the transitional period that followed: out of sheer stubbornness, he insisted on using the gold piles as his bed, flippantly stating he would sleep there, apart from you. After he thought you'd fallen asleep he would migrate to the nest without fail, his tail coiling around your leg to keep you pressed to him. The nights would unfold this way for a good while, until he finally surrendered to the temptation of the silken fabrics, swathed in the promise of your welcoming, warm embrace.

II. Offer a variety of food.

You bring up his exclusive diet of meat when you realise that's all he's eaten since you met him.

"Sweetie, I'm part dragon, if you haven't noticed." He says through a mouthful of raw antelope, his lips dyed scarlet with its blood.

"Yes, but even you need a healthy, balanced diet. Back then, I befriended a stray lizard in the Sanctuary by bribing it with fruits and vegetables," you reply straight away, having anticipated his response.

He arches a brow and opens his mouth to interject, but you continue, "not to mention, food can be a source of happiness too. There are so many flavours and textures you're missing out on. Allow me to show you."

Though he remains sceptical, he obliges you in gathering the ingredients for a salad with some simple dressing the next day. You'll never forget the look on his face after he took a bite.

III. Engage in novel forms of play.

"How about a chase or two around the den? I could use a stretch."

Any chance to exercise his human legs comes as a novelty – after all, flying is his main form of cardio. You manage to evade him for a few minutes, but he gets you when you tire, pinning you to the ground with a triumphant gleam in his eyes; not unlike the expression of a predator that's caught its quarry.

These games of tag turn into a regular amusement, and you're glad for it. At least there was another option besides hide and seek now.

Sometimes he initiates them during your late afternoon excursions to the valley bordering his city, and you aren't always the one being pursued. He enjoys it the other way around too, stealing playful glances over his shoulder as you run hot on his heels through the grassy slopes, the wind mussing up his hair, laughing as the waning light drenches his eyes in the splendid shades of a thousand blazing sunsets.

IV. Decorate the enclosure.

You'd been waiting for his curiosity about humans to surface again, and leaped into action the second Sylus brought it up, his tone almost shy.

"Show me more of this… art."

You first taught him how to combine water with finely ground clay to create pigments—he'd generously carved out wide stone bowls for you to hold them in, hollowing them out like they were made of paper.

A few adjustments had to be made along the way to account for your difference in species. While your fingers sufficed as artistic tools, the same couldn't be said of his rigid claws. He couldn't apply the mixture with any shape or form other than thin and crooked lines. To accommodate him, you went and plucked a handful of hairs from the wild horses that roamed his lands, and bound them to a stick with some rope to create a brush that he could use instead.

His cave served as a vast canvas from then on. You never told him what to make; just extended patient encouragements to stave off the occasional flashes of self-doubt that threatened his budding creativity.

Days became weeks, then months, as the walls were covered with his paintings, alongside yours. He gravitated to drawing the panoply of animals that called his territory home—aurochs, ibex, eagles, and bison, to name some—with intense earnestness, his brow furrowed in great focus. One time, you saw him tucked in a concealed nook of the lair, sketching a dragon and human cuddled together.

It took every ounce of willpower you had to wait until that evening to tackle him down and smother him in kisses. In between each press of your lips, you mumbled, "I— love you— so— damn— much, you silly man."

[abbotjack]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part one · the wedding)

you weren’t supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

content/warnings: alcohol, mentions of past infidelity (not by reader or Jack), emotional repression, unresolved sexual tension, proximity, flashbacks (not as explicit), lying by omission, angst, guilt, wedding setting, Pittsburgh.

word count : 2,674

a/n : no smut in this part—just aching tension, bad decisions almost made, and the beginning of everything unraveling. If you guys like this perhaps I will write part two sooner than later. 18+ ONLY, not beta read.

You hadn’t planned on coming back to Pittsburgh.

Not really.

Not to stay, anyway.

You’d told yourself it was a city you’d passed through—something borrowed when you were eighteen. Temporary, in that way so many things feel permanent until they’re not. You left with no grand finale. No promises. No reason to return. Just a couple of half-used notebooks, a box of textbooks you never sold, and a past you’d done your best to forget.

But then came Match Day.

And the envelope said,

Allegheny General. Emergency Medicine. Pittsburgh.

Your fingers had clenched the paper just a little too tightly. Someone beside you had screamed. Someone else had cried. And you— You just stared.

Because it didn’t feel like fate. It felt like a dare.

You’d worked for it. You knew this program was good. You applied like it was a long shot, a name you could cross off the list without consequence.

And now, you were a PGY-1 with three weeks to relearn how to breathe in a city you swore you’d never see again.

So you moved back early.

You told people it was to settle in. To be prepared. Responsible. Practical. You needed time to unpack, sign the forms, memorize your badge number, figure out the best spot to get coffee before a night shift.

But that wasn’t really it.

The wedding was this weekend.

And if you were going to return, you might as well rip off the bandage.

You told yourself it would be fine. Just another obligation. You’d show up, smile when it was expected, drink something sparkling from a glass too thin, find your table, and disappear before the second round of speeches.

In and out. Unnoticed.

That was the plan.

But plans don’t account for ghosts. They don’t make room for versions of yourself you thought you outgrew—versions that still remember the way someone used to look at you like they weren’t supposed to.

The version that heard his name mentioned—of course he’d be there, of course he’d be involved—and forgot how to breathe.

You thought she was gone.

But she showed up anyway.

Because some things don’t stay buried. Especially not what happened with Jack.

People know pieces. Just enough to make them look twice when you walk into a room.

They know his brother cheated on you. That you ended things. But no one knows what happened after.

They don’t know it was Jack who showed up that night—quiet, steady. That he found you on the porch, sat beside you without a word, handed you a beer and stayed there, saying nothing until the tears stopped burning your throat.

They don’t know how it shifted.

How grief softened into something slower, heavier. How silence turned into stolen glances, how those glances started to hold.

How that night you leaned in—close enough to kiss him, close enough not to—and he let you. He wanted to.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

It happened again. And again. And then again after that.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything you had words for. It was too raw for that. Too hot. Too consuming. It was his hands under your shirt before you could ask him to stop. His mouth on your neck. Your body arching into his like it had been waiting for this—for him—long before either of you were willing to admit it.

He’d show up late, knock quietly, stand in the doorway like he didn’t want to come in.

And you’d let him in anyway.

Sometimes you wouldn’t even speak. Just hands and breath and hunger. His voice rough in your ear. Yours gasping into his shoulder. You were always on borrowed time, always telling yourselves this doesn’t mean anything.

But you kept coming back.

And then, one morning—he didn’t.

No knock. No warning. Just a note slid under your door, folded once. His handwriting, familiar and clipped.

This can’t happen again.

He left for another deployment that week.

You haven’t seen him since.

No one knows the truth. But they know enough.

Enough to feel the shift in the air when his name brushes too close to yours. Enough to catch the tension in your silence. Enough to know something happened between you.

And that whatever it was—it didn’t end clean.

Now, years later, you’re back in proximity with the same family. The same name lingers behind you—woven into laughter, casual conversation, the soft clink of champagne flutes.

And your body still remembers what it felt like to come undone in his hands.

You try to shake the thought. Bury it.

Because now you’re here. At your ex's wedding. Moving through it like it’s just another event on your calendar.

You arrive early—not dramatically, just early enough to avoid the spectacle of walking in late. Early enough to slip through the edges while the music is still soft and no one’s had enough to get loud.

The venue is every Pinterest bride’s dream: string lights, linen runners, eucalyptus draped over archways and tucked into centerpieces like someone spent hours pretending it was effortless.

You keep your expression even. Your heels steady. Your breath controlled.

And then the faces start to register.

A few from college. Some from the family. Familiar enough to sting. One of his cousins waves you over, smiling too warmly, like she’s rewritten history into something forgivable.

You smile back. Offer polite answers. Tell her you moved back for work. Let them fill in the rest.

No one says his name.

Not yet.

But it lingers. In glances, in pauses, in the way people talk about him and wait—just a beat too long—for your reaction.

You keep moving. Find your table. Table Nine.

Close enough to the dance floor to be inconvenient. Far enough from the family tables to make a point.

Your name is written in cursive, tucked beside a sprig of dried lavender. The seat beside yours is still empty.

You don’t even bother to check who it’s for. You’re not planning to stay long enough for it to matter.

You take a slow sip of champagne and pretend it doesn’t taste like memory.

But then—without warning—you’re back there.

Eighteen years old. Barefoot on a back porch in the thick of late July. A cold beer sweating in your hand, your legs stretched across your boyfriend’s lap. Laughter in your throat, someone’s playlist crackling through a speaker tucked behind a lawn chair.

And across the yard—leaning against the railing, one shoulder dipped into the shadows—was him.

Jack Abbot.

The older brother.

You hadn’t meant to notice him. Not like that.

But the moment your eyes caught on his—just for a second, just long enough—you felt it.

Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Something sharp and low and completely out of place.

It didn’t matter that you were wrapped up in someone else’s arms. That you were smiling like everything was fine. That his brother had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your attention still drifted.

To Jack.

He was quiet, unreadable, beer in hand, watching the yard with that steady gaze of his. Not staring. Not even looking directly at you.

But somehow, it felt like he saw everything.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a moment.

But your skin said otherwise.

You could feel him—without him ever touching you. The tension in your shoulders. The awareness crawling across your collarbone. The heat that rose to your face when his eyes met yours for just a beat too long.

You looked away first.

And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But it stayed with you. Tucked in the back of your mind. Not a fantasy. Not even a thought. Just a question. A flicker.

A what if.

You never said it aloud. Never let yourself imagine it all the way through.

Because it would’ve been wrong.

He was your boyfriend’s brother. And you were still pretending to believe that mattered.

But your body knew it. Even then.

Even before everything fell apart.

And now—now you’re standing in a black dress, back in a city you swore you were done with, and every nerve in your body remembers what it felt like the first time you looked at Jack Abbot and wanted.

What you don’t know is that he saw you the moment you stepped out of the car—and he hasn’t stopped looking since.

He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t looking for you. Just stepped out front to grab a bottle or a box or something else forgettable from his truck.

Then he looked up.

And everything stopped.

You didn’t notice him. Not then. You were focused on the tent ahead, face neutral, shoulders back, like you were walking into a battlefield and refusing to flinch.

But Jack did notice.

He saw the curve of your neck, the glint of something gold at your collarbone. The way your dress clung like it had been chosen for someone you swore you weren’t thinking about.

He saw you—and for a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he stepped back behind the truck, dragging in a breath like he needed to remember what year it was.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But he did.

Because he remembered, too.

And yet, you don’t see him at all—not when you walk inside, not during the greetings, not while you make your quiet rounds with a smile you’ve rehearsed too many times.

He’s nowhere. And then—he is.

You’re halfway through your second glass when you hear him.

That voice. Low. Unhurried. Still laced with the kind of weight that makes people listen. Like he doesn’t waste words unless they matter. Like honesty was hardwired into his bloodstream.

He's older. Broader. Calmer in that unsettling way men get when they've learned to live with their damage. There’s a curl to his hair now, grayer at the edges. His stance is the same—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning everything and nothing.

He’s talking to the officiant. Laughing at something you can’t hear. That same laugh that used to gut you on nights you shouldn’t have cared.

You should look away.

But then he glances over—and this time, it’s deliberate.

His eyes catch yours.

And for one long, breathless moment, neither of you move.

No nod. No smile. No acknowledgment at all.

Just something weightless and sharp, flickering between you like a match never quite struck.

He looks away first.

And your lungs finally expand.

But the ache in your stomach—the one that’s been dormant for years—It returns.

Low. Persistent.

Familiar.

It’s the same ache that started the first time you looked at him and didn’t look away.

The one that never really left.

Not entirely.

You don’t remember excusing yourself.

Just the slow pressure building in your ribs—the kind that makes your necklace feel too tight, your dress too fitted, your very skin too obvious. One toast too many. One laugh from the wrong person. One glimpse of him across the tent and your balance tipped.

So you left.

Out past the bar. Past the music and string lights and curated perfection. Past someone’s grandmother crying over the first dance.

Out to the edge of the venue, where the manicured lawn gives way to stone steps and low hedges and a garden no one’s bothering to look at this late in the evening.

You wait for your pulse to even out. It doesn't.

You tell yourself you just needed air. That you’re not hiding.

But the second you hear footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate, you know—

You weren’t fooling anyone. Especially not him.

Jack doesn’t say anything right away.

You feel him before you hear him. The heat of him. The way the space folds in tighter, heavier, just from his presence.

“You still have a habit of disappearing.”

You stare ahead, voice even. “You still have a habit of following me.”

A pause.

Then: “Only when I’m not ready for you to go.”

You inhale.

Slow. Measured. Dangerous.

When you finally turn to face him, he’s closer than he should be. Hands in his pockets. Tie gone. Shirt open at the collar like he’s trying not to look like a man unraveling.

But he is.

You know it.

“You came back,” he says.

You lift your chin. “So did you.”

“Not the same.”

“No,” you agree. “Not the same.”

He studies you like he doesn’t want to miss anything. The curve of your jaw. The way your lipstick’s fading at the corners. The way you’re still holding yourself like someone waiting for the next impact.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Tell them what?”

“That you’re back.”

“I’m here for work.”

He smiles, humorless. “That’s all?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

You watch the flicker cross his face. Just a flash of something—hurt, maybe. Or knowing.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

You shake your head, voice quieter now. “When have I ever?”

Jack exhales. Looks down for a second like he’s choosing his next words carefully.

Then he steps forward.

Just enough that you can smell him—clean, warm, a hint of whatever soap he’s always used that lingers even after he's gone.

“You ever think about that summer?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

But your silence is enough.

He sees it.

“All that time we spent pretending we didn’t want it,” he says, voice low. “And all the ways we failed.”

“You left,” you say.

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to leave like that.”

“I know.”

The air is thick now. Too thick.

You shift your weight, but your feet don’t move.

And then—

He leans in. Not to kiss you. Not even to touch.

Just to be there.

“I think about it every time I come home,” he murmurs. “Every time I walk past your street. Every time I go into work.”

Something stirs behind your ribs.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once.

You see it.

And it wrecks you. It shouldn’t feel like anything. He’s not off-limits anymore. Not technically.

But your body still responds like it’s a secret.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” you say.

He lifts a brow. “You are.”

“I needed air.”

He watches you. “Funny. Thought you needed distance.”

You cross your arms. “And yet here you are.”

“I wasn’t planning to be.”

“Neither was I.”

That sits between you for a moment, heavy and unfinished.

You reach for your phone without thinking, just something to do with your hands.

It buzzes the second you unlock it.

“Welcome to Allegheny General. Your orientation begins Monday at 6:00 AM.”

You flinch.

Jack sees it. Of course he does.

“What?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug, trying to pass it off.

“Work stuff.”

“What kind of work?”

You shoot him a look. “Since when do you care?”

“I’m just—surprised. You never said what you were doing back in Pittsburgh.”

You pause. The words come slow.

“I matched. Emergency medicine. It’s… a residency.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not exactly.

But something settles behind his eyes. Something heavy. Knowing.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

“I work there,” he says.

The world tilts.

“What—”

“Attending. ER.”

You go still.

Dead still.

And he sees it hit you.

The blood draining from your face. The calculation behind your eyes. The memory of every line you just crossed tonight.

You start to speak. You don’t.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Dangerous.

And then he leans in—not touching, not even brushing—but close enough for you to feel the heat of him against your skin.

“See you Monday, rookie.”

[starkeyscumdoll]

𐙚 rafe with a spitting kink

bsf!rafe x bsf!reader

content warning: porn-without-plot, spitting kink, praise kink

Sure, sex with Rafe was on another level of dirty, but nothing got him more into it than when he’d spit on you in such a vulnerable state. Perhaps it was from that random fact he saw on TikTok as he was doomscrolling through your account again that DNA stays on someone for seven years, or the thrill of knowing that something so vulgar could be so precious in his eyes, but nothing could stop Rafe from making sure you had his spit in some way, shape or form. 

In your mouth: He’d grab onto both sides of your face, squishing your cheeks to force you to open your mouth before letting a wad of his spit land directly on the middle of your tongue. Seeing the string that connected him to you already has him envisioning how you’d look when he unloads ropes of his cum in your mouth, coating everywhere from the roof of your mouth to the back of your throat. Rafe was no stranger when it came to spitting in your mouth, given you were his go-to partner at pool parties when he’d take a huge swig of Aperol Spritz then lean in and pour it into your mouth like it was communion. But the moment he saw you willingly swallow his spit with a small cock-drunken smile, he was done for. 

“You’re so fucking nasty, babygirl. Swallowing m’spit like that? Who woulda thought my best friend was a whore?”

On your body: Rafe would abso-fucking-lutely coat your tits with his spit. It’d definitely be while he’s slowing thrusting into your pussy, letting your cervix feel the tip of his cock as you let out some of the most angelic moans he’s ever heard in his life. Just as he’d rocking himself back and forth in you, he’d notice the way your tits moved as well, and no way on God’s green earth would anyone be able to stop his urge to spit on your tits like you were a canvas he was painting in filth. The way you were all fucked out for him had his dick twitching inside of you as he thought of how you looked so beautiful for him in your current state. It wasn’t just a one-spit-per-tit deal, no, he’d make sure you’re glistening in his saliva, then proceed to smack them as he’d speed up the pace of him drilling into your tight little hole, moaning about how your pussy was made just for him. 

On your pussy: His favourite safe haven itself, the man genuinely didn’t know how he lived or breathed air without your pussy before he met you. Staring face to face with it, he can’t help but think of how it’d be to mix your arousal with his spit, how it’d be a way to leave his mark and inadvertently claim you, so he did just that. Rafe would take his middle finger and drag it along your slit, slowly collecting your juices before gently rubbing your clit while applying the slightest amount of pressure. The action itself had you mewling and arching your back, begging him to do more. 

“Nuh, uh. You’re gonna have to wait and take it how I give it, baby.” He’d circle around the nub the slightest bit more until he spits onto your clit and begins massaging it onto your clit. 

“Such a pretty pussy, and it’s all mine, ain’t it baby girl?” You hum in response, nodding your head while trying to press yourself further into his hands to get more traction. Rafe speeds up his motions, rubbing faster until your thighs are shaking and your breath is catching in your throat. He watches you unravel beneath him like it's his life's mission.

“Good girl, I ‘new you’d be able to wait f’me,” He coos, smugly smirking as he curls his fingers just right within you - because he knew only he could make you cum as hard on his fingers.

At the end of the day, Rafe and you were just really close friends who just happened to enjoy doing obscene things to each other, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you the slightest bit happy when you’d taste the faintest bit of whiskey as you swallowed his spit, or the immense amount of pride as he calls you his good girl only, or even the mutual understanding that you're his. 

His to touch. His to ruin. His to keep. 

a/n: y'all when I tell you it's been a good minute since I've written anything, let alone smut. I saw a p!link of this on twitter and couldn't stop thinking about the concept, especially while I was at work whoops

please do feel free to send me feedback! (or prompts hehe)

[bees-library3]

Stay

Summary: After a routine hostage extraction goes wrong, you are shot while covering for Bucky, and the consequences are devastating.

Warnings/Tags: violence, gunshot wound, blood loss, trauma, HEAVY angst, canon level of violence, there is no happy ending, death, established relationship, female reader (she/her), no use of y/n

Word count: 1.5k words

A/N: I deeply apologize for the heartache that I'm about to put y'all through. If you follow me on the account that I have for The Walking Dead (@twd-bee3) and this looks familiar, it's because it was originally posted as a Daryl Dixon piece, and I just rewrote it to fit Bucky. I've been doing that lately so that I have things to post while I write new Marvel-themed works. Anyway, sorry for the fact that there's no happy ending. Love y'all <3.

The sound of gunfire splintered the air, and everything blurred around the two of you. This was supposed to be a simple hostage rescue, but you had run into complications. It was only you and Bucky, so things were getting dark fast. You guys had almost reached a secure room when there was another loud crack, and with you being in front of Bucky, you were hit by the stray.

You felt a sharp pain in your right side and cried out. Looking down, you saw the crimson blooming across your tank top and froze. “Oh shit.”

Hearing your pained gasp, Bucky spun you around so that he could look you over. He glanced down and saw the blood soaking your shirt. A cold sense of dread washed over him, and his eyes went wide.

“Fuck. No, no, no.”

“I don't know what to do, James.”

You were taking labored breaths, and you were already starting to stumble. The shock was setting in fast, and Bucky was even more desperate to get you to safety. The last of the men was bound to find you two if you stayed where you were. Acting on pure instinct, he lifted you into his arms and started running again. He was careful not to drop you and clutched your body close to his chest.

“Stay with me, baby. You're okay. We're almost there.”

His words were rushed, and his voice was strained. It felt like it took hours, but you finally reached the target room, and he made sure that the perimeter was clear of threats. Bucky laid you on a couch and frantically tore your tank top to get a clearer view of the gunshot. It was deep. Really fucking deep. There was no exit wound, but he tried to maintain some semblance of hope.

The blood was pouring from your abdomen, and he felt sick to his stomach at the sight of it. This was his girl, and she was bleeding out in a foreign room. Bucky used his hands to apply firm pressure, but the bleeding was relentless. Tears streamed down his face as he tried desperately to keep you with him.

“I got you, sweetheart. Just- just stay awake for me. You can do that, right?”

“I'm really trying, but I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired, Bucky.”

“Don't say that. You're okay. I've got you.”

Bucky kept his palms pressed against your stomach and watched as the blood seeped past his fingers like water. He needed to stop the bleeding before he could even think about attempting to stitch you up. Knowing that he needed to do more, he took off his shirt and applied more force against the wound.

You were only growing paler, and your eyes kept fluttering shut. You were trying to be strong and keep them open, but it was increasingly becoming more difficult. The sight of his baby going out on him made his chest feel heavy. He couldn't give up, though.

“Hey, sweetheart. I need you to stay with me. Please. Talk or something.”

Forcing your eyes open again, you nodded and let out a shaky exhale. “Okay. Can you tell me something good?”

“Something good?” It took him a moment, but he was able to think of something, and he smiled weakly. “Remember that trip we're supposed to take?”

“Yeah. You're gonna take me to the beach and we're gonna put our feet-” your words were cut off with a sharp gasp, but you pushed through and kept speaking softly. “Our feet in the water. Sam's coming with us.”

Bucky's heart ached hearing how hard it was for you to speak, but he was proud of you for trying. You were making an effort to stay with him - that was all that he could ask for.

“Yeah, baby. We're all going to the beach. You aren't getting in the water, though. You never learned to swim.”

His words were teasing, but his tone was forced. He was grasping at straws to keep you awake. Bucky looked back down at the wound to see that the bleeding hadn't stopped. Your breath kept hitching, and the pit in his stomach grew. The shirt was soaked in your blood, and his forearms were caked in it - there was no fixing this. He didn't want to stop, but it was clear that his efforts were in vain.

Making eye contact with his girl again, exhaustion was written all over your face. The most that Bucky could do now was make you comfortable. Taking a shaky breath, he removed his hands from the fabric and gently stroked your cheek. The tears continued to flow.

Seeing your usually stoic boyfriend cry and the heartbreak in his gaze, you reached up to gently swipe some tears from his face. Your movements were weak, but it was obvious that you were doing your best to comfort him. You gave him a small smile and spoke again, your voice strained.

“Shhh, it's okay, my love.”

“No, don't try to comfort me. Not when you're dying in my fucking arms.”

His voice was rough and his tone was harsh, but it was obvious that he was devastated. Bucky couldn't stop crying, and his chest felt tight. Too tight. He knew that he needed to be strong for you, but he struggled to pull it together. He couldn't even speak through the sobs, so he resorted to gently stroking your cheek. Needing to be closer to you, he sat on the couch beside you and pulled you into his lap. He had never felt pain like this, and he could feel something breaking deep inside of him. This was a man who had lost so much, yet nothing compared to the way that his heart was breaking.

The sight of Bucky breaking down almost hurt more than the gunshot itself. His holding you was a small comfort, but you were still quickly fading. Your breathing continued to slow, and your eyes kept closing. You forced them back open and attempted to keep talking. Wiping his cheek again, you let your hand rest on the side of his face.

“I love you so fucking much, you know that right? Loving you is the only thing that I've gotten right.”

That only served to make him sob harder, and Bucky felt like a part of him was dying with you. He took ragged breaths and spoke through the tears. “I love you, sweetheart. More than anything. I'm so sorry that I'm not able to fix this.”

“You can't fix everything, James. This- this was bound to happen. I'm just glad that you're here with me.”

“Are you in any pain, baby?”

You felt a bit cold, but you couldn't feel the wound anymore. That only meant one thing - you were almost there. You shook your head and gently stroked his unshaven jaw. It was harder for you to speak, and your answers had been reduced to just a few words at a time. “No pain.”

Your answer confirmed what he already knew: he was losing his baby. By some miracle, Bucky was able to compose himself, and his tears slowed. He managed to keep the tremor in his voice to a minimum. He didn't want you worrying about him in your final moments.

“That's good. I don't want you to hurt. You want me to keep talking?”

Your eyelids flittered again, and you gave him a small nod. You were too drained to speak at this point, and your breathing was almost imperceptible. Your pupils were dilated, and it was hard for you to concentrate. You were listening to him, though.

“Remember when we came back from dinner the other night and Alpine had scratched up the side of our couch? She was purring and everything. Thought she'd done somethin' good. You nearly pissed your pants laughing so hard, and that only encouraged her more.”

Your lips curved in a small smile, but your gaze had started to lose focus. It was only a matter of minutes now, and the idea of that made Bucky feel hollow. He kept talking and absentmindedly stroked your cheek, though.

“Oh, remember the time when she brought that injured little bird into the house and you were hysterical? You thought that I was so mean for laughing. I felt like a total asshole, but you're cute when you get like that. You've got the biggest heart.”

Bucky kept rambling until he felt your chest still, and he glanced down to see that your lips were parted slightly. The eyes that he always got lost in were still open, but they lacked their usual light. You were gone.

“I love you, sweet girl.”

Openly sobbing now, Bucky whispered softly and used his fingertips to gently close your eyes. He was at a complete loss for where to go from here. As he contemplated how to get you back home, he leaned his face down and gently kissed your lips. They were already slightly cooler than usual, and their pretty pink color had faded.

The two of you could probably get away with staying in this room for a few hours. It was late at night, and the space was secure enough. Besides, Bucky wasn't overly concerned about what would happen to him if he were found by those men. You were no longer here to fuss over his safety. The reminder made him sob harder, and his whole body was wracked with the force of it. He slowly rocked your limp form like a child and whispered unkept promises to you throughout the night.

[scoonsalicious]

Like A Fairy Tale

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dating Bucky Barnes had been like living a fairy tale, but as he distances himself from you and your relationship, you come to the realization that maybe fairy tales aren't meant to come true.

Warnings: Language to make Steve blush, mentions of alcohol use, implied sex, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 3.4k This is my very first posted fic, and I am very nervous but I hope you like it! If I've missed any warnings, please tell me so I can add them. Much love and thanks to my bestie @jmeelee for indulging my obsession and dropping everything to read this when I sent it to her <3 Please pardon any spelling/grammar errors.

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3 I write for 18+, so minors DNI. _____________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, being Bucky Barnes’ girl had felt like living in a fairy tale. He was everything your younger self had ever dared to dream of in a Prince Charming– attentive, affectionate, kind, and oh, how he made you laugh! You were the envy of all of your friends, the very definition of #couplegoals, and you thanked your lucky stars every night that the two of you had found one another, despite all the odds.

But fairy tales aren’t real. 

You weren’t sure exactly when it started, but somewhere in the third year of your relationship, after you’d moved into a handsome brownstone in Brooklyn together, after you’d adopted a fluffy white kitten, Bucky started pulling away from you. The steps that took him from you were small at first– he was taking on more and more missions, opting to stay gone for longer periods of time. Days would go by, and they’d turn into weeks, then a month or two at a time would go by where you wouldn’t see him. 

At first, it hadn’t been terrible– Bucky had always made sure to contact you each and every day. A video call whenever he could, a phone call or text when he couldn’t, but slowly, so slowly you barely noticed, the calls stopped coming all together. Sure, he’d answer when you called him… when he could, which wasn’t always possible on a mission, and you hated acting needy and taking him away from his work, so eventually, you stopped reaching out, too. 

When he was home, you were like ships passing in the night. You always offered to take time off of work so you could spend some time with him before he was set to head out again, but he never wanted you to jeopardize your career on his account. Your reunions would always be passionate, but short-lived, a few hot and heavy nights before he took off once more to save the world. 

You tried not to let it bother you. You really, really did. His job was so important. People’s lives relied on him. Where did you get off getting upset over that? So, you kept it to yourself. Until you couldn’t. Not any more.

“Y/N,” your best friend, Lainy, cornered you at her annual New Year’s Eve party, “where’s Barnes? He’s been leaving you to go solo for months now. I don’t think I’ve seen you with him since Mark’s St. Patrick’s Day Party.”

Ouch. “He’s working, Lainy,” you told her, not wanting to admit that March had been the last time the two of you had gone out together, let alone spent more than three days in a row in each other’s company. 

“Yeah, he was ‘working’ over the Memorial Day trip, and the 4th of July BBQ, and Jack and Alice’s wedding, and your aunt’s funeral.” You cringed internally as she applied air quotes to ‘working.’ “And he was ‘working’ on your birthday, and Christmas. Babe, he’s been leaving you alone for almost an entire year. What’s going on? Are you sure there isn’t someone else?”

The worst part was, you knew there wasn’t, or at least, no one individual. When he’d first started distancing himself, of course another woman was the first thing that came to your mind, and you weren’t proud of yourself, but you’d gone through his phone to search for evidence of an affair… multiple times, and repeatedly came up with nothing. And bless Bucky’s heart, but he didn’t have the technological know-how to hide an infidelity from you. Granted, that didn’t negate the possibility that he was randomly hooking up with people while he was away. You’d have to be stupid to not consider the possibility.

You could have asked Steve. You didn’t think Captain America had it in him to lie to you about something like that, but you didn’t want him reporting on your suspicions back to Bucky, nor did you think you could stand to see the look of pity in his eye if he had to tell you that yes, Bucky was cheating on you while you anxiously awaited his return every night. So, you kept the suspicions to yourself. 

Your conversation with Lainy had left you deflated. Here it was New Year’s Eve, and you were alone, the man you loved god knew where– just not with you. How many more holidays and milestones and everyday nights were you going to spend by yourself, waiting for a man who never seemed to want to be home with you anymore? This wasn’t the kind of life you wanted, the kind of life you deserved. 

You made your way to the kitchen to refill your glass of wine. You’d probably already had too many, but you needed to drown the despair that was slowly filling you up. As you poured an exceptionally generous glass, a man entered the kitchen. You recognized him– Harris, a cousin of Lainy’s who had flirted with you relentlessly for years before you had started seeing Bucky. 

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up upon seeing you, “it’s been awhile.” He enveloped you in a friendly hug. “How’ve you been?”

You smiled and exchanged pleasantries, catching up on the overall brushstrokes of your life. 

“I’m sorry about your breakup,” he offered gently, after you’d exhausted the usual small talk.

“My breakup?” you asked, brow piqued.

“Last few events I’ve seen you at, you’ve been alone. I assumed you and Barnes…” he left the thought floating, the implication hanging in the air: Barnes has left you alone, I assumed you broke up.

You huffed out a laugh. God. Was your relationship actually over and you were the only one dumb enough to not see it? 

“If you aren’t seeing anyone,” Harris continued, “I would really love to take you out. You’ve gotta know I’ve been into you for ages, and I figure if I don’t shoot my shot now, who knows when I’ll have another chance.”

You cocked your head and looked at him, taking in his earnest demeanor. Here was a man who genuinely wanted to spend time with you. Why were you waiting on someone who no longer wanted to be around?

“Um, I might have to get back to you on that, Harris,” you told him before excusing yourself. You needed air. 

You found yourself on Lainy’s balcony, the air deceptively mild for the end of December in Manhattan. Alone with your thoughts, you pulled out your phone and dialed Bucky’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

“Someone asked me out on a date tonight,” you said into the recording, your voice choked with tears you didn’t want to shed. “And I think I might say yes, because, honestly Buck, what are we even doing anymore? You’re never here, and I’m always alone. I tried. I tried so fucking hard to not let it get to me, because your work’s important. I know that. I do, and I’m not begrudging you for your job. But… but I can’t keep on like this. I can’t even remember the last time we spent more than three days together. Isn’t that crazy? Three days. Everyone thinks you’re cheating on me. Did you know that? You’re away so much that everyone I know is convinced you’re fucking someone else. Maybe you are, or maybe you already left me, but I’ve been too stupid to notice; if that’s the case, you could have just told me.” 

You kept your composure as you left the message. You weren’t angry at him; you never could be. You were just tired. So tired, and so lonely. 

“All I know is that it’s another night where I’m all by myself, wishing you were here, wanting to talk to you, to feel you, and you’re just… not. You’re off doing something, or someone, more important than me, and I used to be okay with that, but I can’t be anymore. I deserve more than waiting on you, Buck. I deserve to be someone’s priority. I really wish I could have been yours, the way you were mine. 

“So, let’s just call it, okay? Your heart’s obviously not in it anymore, and mine is too tired of being hurt and alone. We’ll have to figure out what to do about the house. I’m keeping Alpine, though. You haven’t been here for her, either, and it wouldn’t be fair of you to take her if you’re never going to be around.”

Inside, you could hear the rest of the party as they counted down to midnight. When they reached zero, the night erupted in fireworks, and you could hear cheers and cars honking their horns throughout the city below you.

“Huh,” you said into your phone, “it’s midnight. Happy New Year, Buck. I hope it ends up being a good one for you, and I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you decide you didn’t want to spend this last one with me.”

You hung up the phone and the tears finally fell as you slid down the balcony railing until you were crouched on the floor. You weren’t sure how long you sat there crying, but eventually Lainy found you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and ushering you into her spare room. She helped you change out of your cocktail dress and into a spare pair of pajamas, and helped you wash your face before tucking you into bed. She left you with a glass of water and a kiss on the forehead, promising that tomorrow would be better, that the next best chapter of your life was about to begin, but as you drifted into a fitful sleep, you couldn’t find the will to believe her.

You woke the next morning with a throbbing headache, the alcohol and the tears doing nothing but dehydrating you into agony. You grabbed your phone to check the time, but the battery had died in the night. From the slant of the sun coming in from the guest room window, it looked to be late morning or early afternoon. 

You changed back into your dress, thanking Lainy for her help and making a small joke about doing the walk of shame in your clothes from the night before. You avoided her questions about what had happened, promising to go over it at length at the weekend after you’d had some time to process. You weren’t in the best headspace to get into at the moment.

Fortunately, your best friend knew you well enough not to pry, and you said your goodbyes, plans for brunch on Sunday having been made. You weren’t eager to get back home, to be surrounded by reminders of Bucky, when all you wanted was the man, himself. But he was your ex-boyfriend now, you supposed. You were going to have to come to terms with that sooner than later. Besides, Alpine needed to be fed, and you weren’t going to abandon her.

Your keys clicked in the lock as you opened your front door. “Al, baby,” you called, kicking off your heels and closing the door behind you, “Mommy’s home. You hungry, sweetie?”

You began making your way back toward the kitchen when a loud crash from upstairs got your attention. You rolled your eyes; what had the cat knocked over now? 

But then there was the roar of a body barreling down the upstairs hall and toward the stairs, leaving you frozen where you stood. You cast a glance to where you’d left your phone in your purse by the door. Too far away to reach in time to call for help as the intruder came pounding down the stairs. 

A massive figure rounded the corner, nearly knocking you over.

“Bucky?” You blinked, sure your eyes were playing tricks on you, but no– there he stood, and he looked like shit. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. He’d obviously been wearing the same clothing for at least a day, if not more.

“Y/N,” he breathed, throwing his arms around you and wrapping you in an almost bone-crushing embrace. “Sweetheart, I was so worried.”

“What are you doing here, Buck?” you asked him, pulling away from him. God, you wanted to let him hold you, but you just couldn’t. Not anymore.

Bucky cupped your face in his hands, blue eyes desperately searching yours. “I got your message. Doll, it fucking broke my heart. I came straight home, but you weren’t here, and I was terrified that you were gone; that you’d left me for good.”

You scoffed. “I’m not the one who leaves, Bucky.”

He flinched at your words. “I know, Baby. I know, and ’m so sorry. I had no idea. I shoulda known what leavin’ you so much was doin’ to you, ‘cause it was doin’ it to me, too. When I heard you say that people– that you– thought I was cheating on you, that I had neglected you so much you thought I found someone else, that I could ever love anyone else, ever want anyone else– I’ve never hated myself more, doll. I can’t stand that you even had those thoughts in your head for one second, because it’s always been you. There’s never been anyone else. You’re it.”

“Then why have you been gone?” you asked him in a whisper. “If there’s no one else, and I’m it, why don’t you ever want to be with me? Why do you keep leaving?” 

Bucky ran both his hands along his face. “God, it feels so stupid now,” he said with a sigh. “But I was trying to save–”

“Trying to save the world, yeah, I know,” you interrupted him, annoyed. “Trust me, I’m well aware that I can’t compete with that. But I needed to know you thought we were worth saving, too, and you never did.”

Bucky started laughing then, and you scoffed. “Wow, you don’t have to rub it in, Bucky.”

“No, no– Sweetheart, no!” he shook his head. “That’s not it, at all. Hold on.” He went to the foyer and grabbed his go-bag; you had missed it when you walked in. Coming back to the kitchen, he put it on the table, opening it up and extracting a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

It was a real estate listing for a farmhouse Upstate, with acreage on the Hudson. You and Bucky had talked about what kind of house you would buy if the situation had ever presented itself, and it was almost as if you’d dreamed it up.

You looked from the paper back to Bucky. “I don’t understand,” you told him.

“It needs pretty extensive renovations,” he told you. “I wanted to take on enough overtime to have the money for them and make a good dent on the mortgage, but it needed more work than I originally thought. And, I have to come clean– I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with you about where I’ve been spending all my time.” He looked up at you through his lashes, head bent down in shame.

“But… but, you said there wasn’t anyone else,” you stammered, heart ready to beat out of your chest. 

“Oh god! No, and I mean that! There isn’t, I swear! God, I’ve fucked this up so bad!” Bucky tugged at his hair in frustration. “I’ve been going on extra missions, but sometimes, Sam, Steve, and I go Upstate to do some work on the house, to cut down the costs so I could still make my timeline.”

“You already bought it?” you asked, your voice flat. You were in shock. “You want to move out? Away from me?”

Bucky moaned in distress and drew you to him again. “No! God, I’m doing this all wrong. I want us to move there, together. To make it the perfect house. The perfect home for me, my wife and our stupid fur baby.”

You stilled at his words. “I’m sorry, your what?”

Bucky smiled at you sheepishly as he reached back into his go-bag. “I’ll have you know that I had an entire plan. Was gonna have the house ready by Valentine’s Day. Take you up there as a surprise, ask you properly, but I fucked that up, so…” He brought his hand back out, holding a small burgundy velvet box. He opened it to reveal a vintage engagement ring, a sapphire instead of a diamond. Your favorite stone.

Bucky got down on one knee. “Y/N,” he began as his voice choked up a bit with emotion, “I know I fucked up for the last eight months. I would completely understand if you can’t forgive me, but I need you to know that I love you. I have only ever loved you, and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making up for the fact that, even for a moment, I let you think that you weren’t the most important thing in my life, my number one priority. Will you marry me?”

“Buck…” you began, not sure how to phrase what you were about to say. “What about your job? I can’t keep coming in second to the rest of the world, and I get that it’s selfish of me, but–”

“I quit,” he said simply.

“What?” Your eyes were wide with shock at his statement. 

“The second I heard your voicemail, where you said you wanted to call it because I was never there, I told Steve I was done, that I needed to start putting you first. It wasn’t even a question. I’m officially retired.”

Your mouth hung open. You had hoped he would cut down on his missions, but for him to have quit completely… You gently tugged him to his feet, taking the ring box and running a finger across it.

“It’s lovely,” you told him softly. “Absolutely perfect; exactly what I would have picked for myself.” Bucky beamed at you, pleased. “But I can’t accept it.” His face fell as you gently placed the ring back in his hands. 

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes growing glassy. “I… um, I understand. I fucked up, hurt you. I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I still want to be with you, you idiot,” you admonished him. “But you did hurt me, and we’ve been apart for a long time. We need time to find our way back to each other again, okay? Ask me again on Valentine’s Day, just like you originally planned. Don’t do it now just because you fucked up.” You leaned up on your tip toes and kissed him. “And if it helps make you feel better, I’m probably going to say ‘yes,’ anyway.”

Bucky grinned at you. “Really?” he asked. When you nodded, he picked you up and spun you in  a circle before pressing his lips to yours as if he hadn’t touched you in months. “I promise you, Sweetheart, I’ll do anything I can to make this up to you, I swear it.”

“Anything?” you asked with a smile. “I think I know where you can start.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked you. “And where’s that?”

“Take me to bed, Bucky Barnes,” you said, kissing him again.

Without a word, Bucky swung you over his shoulder and ran with you up the stairs, your squeals and giggles echoing behind him.

Much, much later, when you lay sated together tangled in limbs and sheets with Alpine snuggled next to your heads, Bucky played with your fingers as you rested your head on his bare chest.

“So, Doll,” he said, kissing the pads of each of your fingers, “you gonna tell me who had the nerve to ask my girl out on a date?” 

You laughed. “Lainy’s cousin, Harris. I suppose I’ll have to text him now and tell him I’m not interested.”

“Hell no, you’re not interested,” Bucky chuffed. “Gonna have to remind that punk you’ve already got a boyfriend. The position has been filled.”

“That’s the thing, though,” you said, planting a kiss on his nose. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, do I?”

Bucky’s face fell. “But I thought you said–”

“I’ve got myself a fiance.”

Bucky tightened his grip around you, drawing you even closer to his warmth. “Yeah, okay. I gotta admit I like the sound of that a lot better.”

Your entire relationship with Bucky Barnes might not have played out like a fairy tale, but in that moment, you were more sure than ever that you two would get your happily ever after.

[jubileebloom]

As much as I appreciate the people defending Ford in the wake of TBOB's release, and discussing the importance of avoiding victim-blaming and being aware of a person's environment, there's something specific that rubs me the wrong way about some of the things I've read.

The thing about abuse is that takes agency away from its victims. This is actually something that broadly applies to different forms of trauma, as I've just been going over in one of my classes on Adolescent Development. My professor for that class specializes in trauma-informing and training, so she has an entire unit on trauma as part of the syllabus, and one of the things she emphasized was that giving people agency and control over their own choices is critical to helping them recover from a traumatic event.

When it comes to Bill's possession of Ford, the lack of control is even more literal. Ford literally has his body puppeted by a demon, and his mind altered as well. Others have taken agency from him to a lesser extent—Stan limiting his choices in education, Fiddleford potentially using the memory gun on him, as another analysis post I can't find did a really good job of breaking down—but it's not as all-encompassing as Bill's abuse, and Stan and Fidds both make better choices later in the series. Bill refuses to.

But I'm getting off topic. My point is, Ford's loss of agency is one of the most crucial pieces of his character arc. It's why he lashes out so strongly when he returns home, against his will, to find that his identity has been stolen. It probably factors into his need to be the "hero", to be the one to defeat Bill. And even though he ultimately isn't that "hero", and he does let the Mystery Shack continue to operate, he does ultimately get more of a choice in the matter. He chooses to go along with the plan. He chooses to go with Stan on their long-overdue adventure.

But there's something else he does too. He apologizes.

Why is that so important? Because in regaining his sense of agency, he also undertakes the accountability that goes with it. He isn't solely to blame for everything that happened to him, or even necessarily every choice he made, but he did make bad choices.

And that's the thing that bothers me about some Ford analyses and defenses. Some people go too far and say that Ford isn't to blame for anything that he's done. Not only is that untrue, but it is once again stripping him of his agency. He is an adult capable of making his own decisions, and ergo capable of making bad decisions. And we need to accept that, without infantilizing him or blaming everyone else around him.

One of the things that compels me so much about Gravity Falls is that is generally does strike this balance pretty well, of personal agency vs. external circumstances. (There's also an excellent analysis post out there somewhere about Dipper and Mabel's agency, how the show doesn't force them to fix the problems of their predecessors or burden them exclusively with saving the world, but does still let them have agency and power in the fight and in Stan's recovery.) There are so, so many things that happen to the main cast that are mostly outside of their control, and also bad decisions that a lot of them have made that cannot be excused, at least not fully, by their circumstances.

And the beautiful thing about that agency is that these characters are also able to use it to become better people, to regain control over their lives, to take back power after it was taken from them. But you have to let them, and that includes letting them be people who messed up, owned up, and worked to make it better.

In fact, I think the reason that Ford is so quick to own up to his mistakes when it comes to Bill is because that's one of the ways he's taking back his power. He's incredibly stubborn when it comes to holding other grudges, but with Bill, he readily admits to Stan and Dipper separately that he's made some "terrible mistakes", to use his words. And he isn't to blame for falling for Bill's manipulation—Bill was the one actively manipulating—but no, he should not have summoned him to begin with. That doesn't make him deserving of anything Bill did to him, but by admitting to the mistakes he did make and working on a way to defeat Bill, it's letting him take back some amount of control in the whole situation. He can't make Bill change his ways, but he can own up to and correct the things he did wrong.

He does overcorrect a bit; I do think he blames himself too much for "falling for Bill's flattery." But generally, I like how he also doesn't try to blame Bill for every single thing that went wrong with the whole portal deal, like he (initially) did with some other situations, especially everything with Stan.

Anway. Let Ford make mistakes. Let him be wrong sometimes. Let him have his agency.

[anonymous-sparklecarer]

Closing remarks

A lot of working on this doc has taken its toll on both the victims who have corroborated reliving their experiences, and the writers who've had to constantly be exposed to most heinous things while putting it together. Collectively, for now, as far as we are concerned our contributions are over, and our job to get the information out there is complete. Going forward the situation is to be monitored, and any addendums or notices are to be made where they are needed. It is highly likely this won't be the end and as more information comes about this account will post updates. The following post is a collection of final thoughts (for now), and requests from both the document team and victims.

This will also be the final post that I, the head writer of the document, will be making on this account. From here on out, any correspondence will not be from me. For my own health I must bow out at this time as unfortunately it has began to decline. I will be detaching completely from any and all access to things related to the accounts or the document.

Regarding the Definitive Kittycorn Information document addendums and additions

The document can still be found below here:

As well as the archive for it here:

Should the original document link or archive go down for any reason, a replacement of the same information will be made available elsewhere.

If people would wish to cover the documents or the topics of either the controversy around Kittycorn, or the Sparklecare webcomic itself either in a journalistic sense, or in a video essay retrospective of some kind, they are completely free to do so. It has also been encouraged by victims for word to spread by any means possible. It is requested though, that names censored in the document remain censored if covered elsewhere in another format, even if uncensored within citation sources.

Going forward this account may not be checked regularly, so for any updates that are required we offer no guarantee we will get to you in a timely manner, or at all in the foreseeable future, though you are free to send an ask or DM with an inquiry. If you feel it is important or urgent, it is requested you use the 'request edit access' feature on the google document to send a message. Access will be of course denied, but the information will reach the email linked to the document's account. If you require the people behind the document to be reached for any other purposes such as clarification or interview, this method can also to be used for communication.

Regarding Kittycorn

At this time it is unlikely that Kittycorn will take accountability, address anything at all, or apologize in any capacity. It is also unlikely that she will remain off of social media for a prolonged period of time considering her track record where she has attempted to come back to be a public presence again. In the case that she does attempt to come back, people should be made aware of her past actions. The past should not be forgotten even if a new leaf is turned. This also applies to any of her predatory associates. No one wants Kittycorn harmed, harassed or dead - they want her to own up to her wrongdoings and to no longer be a public presence in online spaces at this time so she can get/do better as a person. Ultimately, it is up to the people she has hurt.

The same applies to her predatory associates.

Regarding Sparklecare and other Kittycorn projects

Many victims (both of Kittycorn herself, and those victimized by her associates) have expressed the sentiment that Sprklecare (both the preboot and reboot) and any other of Kittycorn's works should not have a fandom in the typical sense. While her works can be talked about retrospectively, victims have collectively requested that conversation around it is handled with sensitivity and tact considering the comic's very production has been intertwined with people's real trauma (such as those abused while in the ZCP, and those who were abused by ZCP members). Essentially: No fanart, no fanfiction, no headcanons, To people who are considering making revivals, rewrites, or continuations of Sparklecare, it is requested that the name 'Sparklecare' itself is not used even if everything else is the exact same. This is so attention/support is not drawn back to Kittycorn, nor her work. Sparklecare and its fanbase are dead, and they should remain dead.

The people in the remains of this fandom admittedly do care about their own comfort and experiences to a point where it has overshadowed moments of compassion for any of the people directly affected by Kittycorn. Eagerness has been shown by some to tear down victims should they speak out of turn on this matter. We acknowledge that of course many people who enjoyed Sparklecare have it as a core part of their identity either through hyperfixation or through system fictives so it may be difficult to detach. No one is a bad person for resonating with Sparklecare, it was designed to reach a certain demographic after all, but it is encouraged that people who do enjoy it as a story or piece of art do so privately or in closed community servers. It would be better for everyone, and the peace of mind for victims. if this were the case. Please do not intentionally misinterpret this.

Regarding usage of characters from Sparklecare

Certain victims who were part of the ZCP have also requested their characters are not used by people who want to create Sparklecare or Sparklecare adjacent works (such as the aforementioned revivals, rewrites, and continuations). These characters are:

Dr Harts (Brake No Harts)

Rem Elle Dies

Jean Errie

Jeanne Errie - Jean's mother

Kathy Leet

Jesse T Doll

Nurse Care - Hospital actor in volume 3

Maddie Jest Dies

Susey Peggle

Chloe Philly

Tony Boxx

Geoffrey Oh Duh

Walter 'Wolly' Coller

Grimmy Sum Blud

Jake Peggle

Please respect the wishes of the creators on this matter.

Regarding the archival of Kittycorn's work

Everything that was in the KCSAE (Kittycorn Stories Archive Effort) still remains. Originally one of the admins had planned to release everything on a neocities website but all progress was lost when the SD card carrying all the data could no longer be accessed. While it does not contain everything @modpollyblog has compiled a masterlist of an archive of Kittycorn's work with what is online at the moment.

The KCSAE was created by @advisoradvisory and any inquiries regarding it and access to the information in it should be sent her way.

All of Kittycorn's art within the Freakycare server was also saved by a defector of the server. At this time it is unknown when or if they plan to release it. It is also likely that if they were to do so, it would be through another party and not themselves directly for their own safety. However, I have been given permission by the defector to share one thing that Kittycorn has shared to the Freakycare server. Mood as she would have appeared in Freakycare, as well as her two children with Doom - Fade and Bean. Trigger warning for the implication of incest.

The rest is up to the defector who I have given joint ownership of the google account for them to post as they please should they choose to. They told me me nothing pornographic will ever be put in it, but suggestive art may be. Goes without saying this google drive archive from stuff in the Freakycare server would be 18+ with a content warning for incest. While it is incomplete currently, check back periodically for updates.

Due to the fickle nature of google docs as an archiving host, once the archive is complete, it is encouraged for people to archive the archive and upload its elsewhere such as archive.org.

Regarding Kittycorn's familial abuser denying Kittycorn's trauma

As I who have been running this account will not be around to be able to vet the replies for the foreseeable future, the replies may be turned off in the future. Unfortunately this is as I will not be around to remove incidents where Kittycorn's familial abusers or his associates attempt to deny her real trauma facing abuse. Once again we would like to clarify many writers of this document have faced real life abuse similar to what Kittycorn has described, and we refuse to doubt any victims in this regard.

If Kittycorn's familial abuser returns or persist it is requested they are deplatformed. This means should accounts crop up making victim blaming or denying claims they are:

Not to be drawn any attention to

Not to be directly contacted

Not to be pointed towards in any capacity

Not to be named at all (whether it is the usernames or their real life names)

Not to be replied to

Not to be reblogged from

Not to be answered any asks sent

If people are aware of the accounts and warn other people, send DMs or asks to the person being warned and request the asks are to be answered privately or not at all.

Regarding Mekkyz

The document on him can still be found below here:

As well as the archive for it here:

While he has claimed he will be offline for the foreseeable future, he was caught not only lying, but also continuing to pursuit people to fetish mine even after he was initially confronted. Anyone wishing to provide testimony of their experiences with Mekkyz, and accompanying screenshots are encouraged to do so. As far as we are concerned he is still an online predator at large.

Thank You

We would like to thank the victims who have come forward, the writers who gave their time to make the victims' voices heard, all those who contributed testimony and evidence, the defectors who assisted in providing information, the support of the remains of the Sparklecare community and friends, those on the outside looking in who have helped to spread awareness, and those who have read the document. I personally would also like to thank people who have corresponded me through this account, showing me a lot of kindness and respect. I am glad that I could help victims' voices be heard and have their experiences relayed. Ultimately it's why I decided to help work on the revamped definitive document on Kittycorn and her associates in the first place, because it was the right thing to do when so many people had been hurt. Additionally, when reached out about Mekkyz I think it was also important to hold people within our own community accountable. You shouldn't protect predatory individuals just because they're on the same 'side' - that's what a lot of the Freakycare people have done and continue to do. Since the then a lot more people have come forward. I've had several people thank me for my work and it is appreciated but ultimately, the greatest thanks I can get is knowing that people are kept safe online through the spread of information.

I hope the next person who runs this account can carry that torch.

[faghubby]

family spanking

"What where you thinking embarrassing me last night" Susan my fiancé scolded me. I stood in the living room surrounded by her Mother, Father, two sisters, and her brother in law. My head was pounding. My soon to he brother in law. Had just gave a play by play account of what had happened at my bachelor party.

"What do you think I should do. Call off the wedding" Susan continued.

"No Susan I love you" I pleaded.

"How am I going to stand in front of all our friends and family next week and marry you, I couldn't face them" Susan patted her eyes with a tissue.

"Susan, I'll do anything" I fell to my knees.

"Take him over your knee" my mother in law Gina told her.

"That's not helping" I shot back at Gina.

"No it is an excellent idea" Susan said standing up.

"Get up! Drop your pants" Susan commanded. I stood to look her in the eye.

"This is the only option drop your pants right here in front of everyone so you see how humiliated I am" Susan told me. I looked around the room I had no allies here. I loved Susan and if a spanking is what it took. I dropped my pants.

"Underwear too" her little sister Katie giggled. Susan yanked my boxers down. Then sat down patting her lap. I laid across her lap. My future father in law handed her a wooden paddle.

"The same one I used on the girls when they where little" he told me.

"Sue you never told me he was lacking" her older sister Cindy laughed. Just then the paddle stuck my ass. I jumped.

"Get back here" Susan scolded. Grabbing my ear. I laid back across her lap. As soon as I did another smack this time I stayed in place.

"Sue you got yourself a very obedient little husband there" Cindy laughed as a third and forth blow rained down.

"Now you went and got drunk, kissed a half naked girl" Susan said smacking my ass again. "And flaunted it in front of our friends" another two smacks. Tears formed in my eyes.

"Look at him, you can't marry him now" Katie told Susan. "He is barely a man."

"It's okay we can find a use for him, besides she can always find lovers to please her" Gina added. Susan squeezed her legs together my cock hard between them she smacked me again.

"Wow look how red" I heard Cindy exclaim everyone seemed to leave me and Susan alone after that. I heard them going outside.

"Come on let's get you cleaned up" Susan said letting me up.

"Susan I am very sorry, I didn't mean" I told her with tears in my eyes. She grabbed my dick which was rock hard and led me into the bathroom.

"You liked that" she told me as she gently applied lotion to my ass. She stroked me once applying lotion to my dick as well. She gently pushed me so I was bent over the sink. Her hands rubbing my sore ass. Her fingers slid into my crack.

"Do you like this?" She asked me. My cock was harder then it had ever been.

"Yes" I hissed.

"I think we have to rethink the type of marriage we will have" she told me as she did she pushed a finger into my asshole. I jumped up. She just pushed me back down.

"We will talk more about this tonight" she told me. Her finger still in my ass. "Right now you are going to go apologize to my family. Individually" she informed me.

"Now go get dressed" Susan old me. I left her alone in the bathroom I got dressed and waited for her. She was in there for quite a while. She came out flushed and led me around to everyone making me beg forgiveness not only for last night but for also having to witness my punishment today. We stayed for a family cookout.

"You will not consume alcohol unless I hand it to you" Susan told me. At first I grabbed a coke.

"Paul, that caffeine will make you all gittery" Susan told me. Gina handed me a lemonade. Although no one treated me any different or said a word about earlier. Inever left Susan's side. Only when I was asked to get something or cleared the table. It was still kinda early when Susan decided we should get going. We only live 10 minutes away.

Susan made small talk about her dad's nee BBQ sauce. When we got home.

"Why don't you go get ready for bed" she said plainly.

"What?" I said thinking I heard her wrong.

"Get your sore little butt upstairs and get ready for bed" she told me.

"Will you be joining me?" I said trying to be cute.

"Get your ass upstairs and put in the pajamas I bought for you, you know the ones you don't like to wear. Brush your teeth and don't worry about what I am doing" she ordered me. "Only when you are ready for bed come back down here so we can talk"

I lowered my eyes and did as she had told me to. I never wore pajamas just always slept in my boxers. But I went upstairs and did as she said. I found the pajamas she had bought for me months ago. That I had never even tried on. I came downstairs. Susan was scrolling on her phone a glass of wine. In her hand.

"Good come sit, dressed like a little boy all ready for bed" Susan said softly. "You got excited today, when I spanked you" she said softly she had me rest my head in her lap. As she stroked my hair. "You liked me controlling you" she told me. I couldn't deny that I had gotten excited by it.

"We should talk about what we will do after we are married" she continued. I just laid there quietly as she explained what she thought we should do.

"You obviously need disapline to keep you from getting in trouble" she told me. "You have told me how you have never been any good saving money" she stoked my hair as she continued.

"Do you agree?" Susan asked.

"Yes, I can't argue you are right" I wimpered. Her hand ran down my back. "Bare your bottom, show me how much you want this type of life" Susan told me. I stood and dropped my pajama pants and boxers. And laid across her lap for the second time today.

"I am going to spank you to show you want this, you may get regular spankings to remind you of what you want. That does not mean I won't spank you if you mis behave" she explained her hand rubbing my ass as she did. I was rock hard she spread her legs holding my dock between her thighs.

"You get so excited" she told me her hands now roaming over my legs and ass. I had not even realized I had started to move. Humping her thighs. "It's okay I don't mind sweety go ahead make love to my legs" I stopped embarrassed that I had been doing it. Susan ran a leather strap across my ass.

"Tell me what you want" Susan teased as she bought the strap down hard.

"I want you" I quivered. Another smack

"To do what?" She asked.

"To take charge. To control me" I wimpered. Another smack

"I would be happy to lead you" she told me another smack hen another. "But it will be in everything. You will never pester me for sex. If I am to be in control. I will be the one in charge in the bedroom as well. Another smack 10 in total. My ass was on fire when she stopped. I remained in the same position as she started to apply some lotion to my ass. Her finger pushed into my ass faster this time.

"Sue I" I moaned.

"Prehaps I have also found a reward for when you do something special" she told me. She removed her finger.

"I am also excited" she told me. I got up and pulled my pants back up. Susan stood and placed my hands on her hips. I slowly pulled her shorts down taking her panties with them. I dropped to my knees and she sat down spread her legs. "You know what I like" she told me. I buried my head and licked and sucked her clit. Tasting all her juices.

"You may often have to go without even when you pleasure me" 'Susan told me. I just nodded not stopping from my task. "You will learn not to even want to cum unless I allow it" she continued.

"Who knows you may even ask me to take a lover, like my mom suggested." She told me as she came on my tounge. My cock was so hard straining against my pants. My ass was on fire. As I laid in bed and watched Susan get ready for bed. She seemed to take her time and bend over as she did. As I watched I knew our marriage would be different. And I couldn't wait to see what else might come. Susan climbed into bed and snuggled up to me.

"You do know, you will not take things into your own hand" she told me kissing my cheek. "If you are unable to control yourself maybe chastity will be required" she told me.

"Susan, would you really take a lover?" I asked softly.

"We will see, would you like me too?" She smiled I didn't answer but my dick was throbbing in my pajamas.

[phopollo]

Could we also get back stories for Electra and the components and their families?

Love your art❣️❣️❣️

Hoo boy, okay, time to avoid putting off this answer akdbskdje

None of them have like.... "simple" backstories, but talking about the electrics and their backstories in the cartooniverse is definitely the most complicated, because they all tie back to Electra and/or Purse and Krupp. So! I'll start with them!

Another big long post, im so sorry akfnskd

Purse & Krupp

Even though I'm talking about them together, Purse & Krupp didn't know each other or even about each other's existences before being hired to work together. Purse had participated in some shadier money management activities, most of which was under the table work. Trying to get out of that, he applied for a job with a large and well known company and production line, seeking a personal money manager/accountant, legal advisor, and PR rep. Not all the same job for the same person, for the new face of the company. But Purse, feeling cheeky, applied for all three job positions. And then proceeded to land all three of them. Krupp, meanwhile, wasn't anything or anyone special or of note. As an armaments truck, he'd worked part time with public security and part time shuttling things said public security needed back and forth. He was simply looking for a raise, and seeing that this big large company was looking for personal security for the new face of the company, applied, not expecting to get the job. Purse and Krupp met perhaps a week before they met Electra and were given an opportunity to bsck out, as they were still in production when they were hired. Neither Purse or Krupp really processed what their new boss not even being fully built yet meant outside of "Oh, they might be a little naive." (Welcome to fatherhood you two!)

Electra

Electra was factory built specifically for and by the mentioned company that Purse and Krupp were hired by. They had been powered on for perhaps three hours before immediately being shoved in to Purse and Krupp's arms, and then in to their new job. Their entire purpose was to be a pretty face and be convincing for people to want to do business with their company. They didn't work on a line, and they didn't race. Occasionally, they did something more akin to shows, but... never anything that gave them that thrill they'd been seeking. After about 2 years, they made a convincing enough argument to their company to be allowed to participate in a single race-- a decision that the company would later regret, because they'd continue to make arguements to keep entering in races, which they'd always win. Another two years later (so roughly 4 years old total), Electra decided to break off from their parent company to go out on their own in a solo career for racing, having felt so drawn to and called by it. They took Purse and Krupp with them when they did, leaving their company to have to scramble for a new face and employees all over again. Here's some bonus babylectra & their gay dads loyal employees content (both while company owned and on their own)

Wrench

I say this so affectionately, Wrench was a freaky little girl. She was surrogate built for her demolition truck parents, and grew up literally right next to a scrap yard, where she would very happily go play as a kid. She really really liked to take things apart and try to figure out how they worked. Her parents, being demolition trucks who's jobs were also to take things apart, were supportive if not a little concerned by how methodical she was by it, but hey, they guess she's taking an interest in the fsmily business? But one day, while doing her thing and taking scraps apart, she broke her finger and needed to be taken to see a repair truck. And that totally blew her mind. Being able to put things back together?? Oh she NEEDED to be able to do that. She HAD to know how things worked AND be able to make them work. So! Wrench started doing her research to become a repair truck immediately (much to her parents concerned support), despite being far too young to actually begin training. By the time she actually got to her repair training, she was extremely knowledgeable (and morbid-) about diesel and steam engines, as there was so much information out in the world about them. But she was fascinated by the lack of information she could find on electric engines-- so new, constantly changing.... there weren't any experts in her or any of her neighboring yards. So of course, she decided that thats what she wanted to specialize in for repairs, despite not many electric engines passing through her station. (The scrap yard became her best friend during this time.) It was difficult after she became a fully certified repair truck though, due to that lack of electrics passing through her yard and not having the heart to apply for a transfer. She wasn't taken seriously, and frequently wasn't fetched for the few electrics that did need repairs, as the other repair trucks frequently just went ahead and fixed whatever little problem it was-- screw needing tightening, plating reaplications, etc etc. One day, she was called out to one of her neighboring stations though, as there had been a crash on the tracks involving an electric engine-- Electra. When she arrived, rather than just fixing whatever problem was caused by the crash, she also identified and fixed long standing problems they didn't even know they'd had, most of which caused by non electric specialized repair trucks assuming they could fix something minor. She was offered a job as their personal repair truck before she even finished her work that day. Here's a little baby Wrench just starting her repair training & Wrench the day she was hired. She became the first component they'd actually chosen for themself.

Volta

Volta grew up in a bit of a smaller, more conservative yard. The old school traditional freight and coach roles and presentations were more prevelant. So of course, when Volta, as a freight car, started expressing and experimenting with self expression that was viewed as traditionally "more coach-like," caring more for his hair and getting interested in makeup and fashion, he wasn't exactly popular with his peers. Considered too coach-like to get on with the freight, and the coaches unable to see past him being freight and get along. It was rough for the little dude, turning him a bit jaded and snarky at a young age, just out of tje need tor a defense mechanism. It never stopped him, but the constant isolation and judgement did beat him down quite a bit as he made it to adulthood. Meeting Electra, Purse, Krupp, and Wrench was pure coincidence. They were simply passing through a station that was part of his work route at the same time that he was. And he was absolutely enamored with them. They were the first rolling stock he'd seen who's expression of self was so similar to his, how could be not stare? Purse was the one to approach Volta. He wanted to know what shade and brand he used for his eye makeup, and if he thought it would work for Electra. Volta, trying desperately to be more interesting and keep these people talking to him, cracked a joke that they'd have to pay him for a consultation. To his shock, Purse agreed and asked him about prices and appointment times. When Electra & co actually showed up for the consultation, he absolutely faked it until he made it and they were happy with the result. He felt so normal for the first time ever talking to them, that when Electra & co went to leave, he extremely impulsively asked for a job. It was mortifying-- the most embarassing desperate moment of his entire life. Especially when Electra said no. But a moment of weakness and desperation, because several months later Electra returned to offer him a job, looking for a stylist and knowing he was interested. Bonus of of course, baby Volta & Volta the day he was hired

Joule

You know the saying "it takes a village?" Replace "village" eith "circus," and say hello to literally Joule. She wae built as an animal car in a circus train, and while even though not everyone was technically her family, that didn't matter because they all behaved like her family. It was generally an extremely positive environment to grow up in. The obvious downsides to being a performer from a young age and having such a large family of course reared their heads, but generally speaking, she wouldn't say she had a bad childhood. She was working and participating in acts before she hit double digits, but... well there wasn't exactly a lack of animal cars, and in her early teen years began to feel like it wouldn't really matter of she were there or not. She isn't really sure what sparked her interest-- perhaps it was just being different from what she was used to-- but she eventually took interest in the art of fire eating. Researching in to that took her down the road of pyrotechnics, and before she knew it, Joule was converting in to a dynamite truck and switching acts. And she loved it. She loved it for a really long time. She still does, actually, but... well. After awhile, it just made her... tired. Being in front of an audience like that was tiring. After shows, she'd always immediately go check and lock and undo everything that if anything went wrong could make everything brust into flames, and by the time she was done, most of the guests who'd stay to chat were already gone or on their way out. Never talking to anyone but her family and doing the same things every day was just... exhausting. Which is why when she returned from her checks after a show one day and found some massihe blue freak and their entourage waiting to talk to her specifically, who hadn't spoken to anyone else, it was extreme pleasantly surprising. More so when they'd ask her challenging questions about her job and hypotheticals about how she'd do something. And even more so when they'd keep coming back. She'd begun to find the most exciting part about performing was trying to spot them in the crowd and speaking with them afterwards, even if the conversations quickly derailed. It hadn't taken long for her to learn that this massive blue freak was a racer-- Electra-- but it took quite awhile for her schedule to line up to go watch them the way they'd kept coming to see her. It was only fair, wasn't it? But when Joule showed up, the atmosphere was so.... familiar, and yet.... different. It was exciting. And the race was exciting. The idea of going that fast was so alluring. She knew she'd want to get more involved in the racing scene. And watching Electra race? They were so cool and hot and powerful, and-- just-- woah. They lived like this? They just went to different places, and they didn't have a set routine when they performed? Extremely enticing. And when Electra saw her in the crowd and waved to her? And then immediately approached her after winning? Insane. It made Joule feel more seen than she had in her entire life. She didn't hesitate in the slightest when they offered her a job. And as per usual, bonus baby Joule & Joule the day she was hired

Killerwatt

Killerwatt's story doesn't actually begin with him-- he doesn't actually show up until late. It actually starts about 2 years before he's built, when Purse and Krupp start to disagree with some of the choices Electra had been making. At first, they kept their mouths shut. It wasn't frequent. They weren't decisions that were big deals. But the more time went on, the bigger deals they were, and eventually, they couldn't keep their mouths shut about it. It started to get bad, with frequent argurments and disagreements, and tension hanging over everyone. Now, with Electra as their own company, their own business, they began to wonder if they really needed Purse and Krupp. They had long since learned to mange their own bank accounts and the legalities of things, and Volta and Joule had honestly taken up most of the social media managing that Purse was supposed to be doing. And fans were respectful-- there hadn't been any threats made other than with fellow racers, of which, Electra could easily handle themself. What was Krupp even doing? But-- sentimentality kept them from firing them. About five months prior to Killerwatt's building, Electra finally decided and told Purse and Krupp that they wouldn't be renewing their contracts. And when asked if they were being replaced, grew extremely concerned that Electra didn't plan to at least replace Krupp. The only reason Electra thought he wasn't doing anything was because he was good enough at his job that the security details never reached them. Purse and Krupp were so undeniably attached to Electra after almost 10 years together, and they were extremely nervous about leaving them with no protection. So the two of them formed a plan. About two weeks before their contracts ended, having waited and timed things as last second as they could so Electra wouldn't notice until after they were gone and it was too late, and while it was still legal due to some fun loopholes Purse found, the two of them pushed through a commission order to a factory. A commission... specifically for a security truck for a Electra. And their plan worked. Electra got the email two weeks after Purse and Krupp left that their security truck would be ready in about a week, and did they want to come choose from the batch themself, or have one randomly selected and sent out to them? (They learned a very hard lesson to check their bank account more frequently that day.) So Electra, after tweaking out over Purse and Krupp spending their money, and on a security truck that they did not want, decided that-- well they wouldn't let this all be a total waste. And it wouldn't be fair for someone to be built to do something and not even have the chance to, they'd offer the smallest timedrame contract they could. So they showed up about two days after the batch had been finished and had time to be told what to expect, as almost all factory built rolling stock get. And... well, none of them really stood out. They were all so well trained in security already that there really wasn't anything that made any of them stand out, and, honestly, Electra was on the verge of just hiring whichever one they thought would clean up best and look good next to the rest of the components. But-- hold on, I actually have a visual for this moment

And I fear then both of their faces were sealed in that moment. Electra had to have this one. He was the only one looking at and following them. And-- well even if he wouldn't be doing much of anything, how could they possibly hire a security truck who wouldn't keep their eyes on them and their safety?? It's now been 3 years, and Electra has since learned his name is Killerwatt, and this was the best hiring decision they could have ever made. Bonus Babywatt doodle, of course, just to show off his pretty curls better

[rika-mmendmethings]

Terms & Conditions Apply | Sylus

Prologue I Chapter 1

Summary: What begins as a financial lifeline quickly transforms into an emotional labyrinth once you agree to become both the surrogate and ova donor for the Qin family. With an entire year remaining under their roof, you begin to unravel the hidden truths behind their seemingly perfect façade. Worse still, you find yourself confronted with things that were never outlined in the terms and conditions.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: none.

Word count: 851

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: Another Sylus series cause I couldn't hold it in till August, which was when I was actually meant to release this. This series can be considered an alternate universe because Sylus has no powers in this, and he and MC are married. But there's no change in the characters or places. Anyway, I've written 2-3 one-shots and I might've nearly gone bald because of it, but hey, at least I didn't fully drown in the void named writer's block. Enough about me, hopefully you enjoy this and decide to tune in for the series. It'll return on June 17 again since I'm avoiding writing series for now. My asks are open if you wish to know more about this. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this ♥

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the gentle voice of the woman before you, her words barely audible beneath the weight of the moment. “Do you agree?” she asks, her smile wide as she leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

You glance back down at the document in your hands, the words swim in and out of focus as you read through it once again: “You, [Name], agree to donate your ova and act as the surrogate mother for the couple seated before you.” The conditions are clear and direct as you run your eyes over the rest of it. For one year, you will live with the couple, under their roof, in a world that is so far removed from your own. Your needs will be met, and your comfort and safety assured. At the end of the term, you will leave with an amount of 100 million as compensation. The child will remain with them. No strings attached.

A non-disclosure agreement sits ominously at the bottom, promising that not a word will be spoken of this agreement once you sign.

It’s absurd. You, a regular civilian, struggling to make ends meet in your nine-to-five grind, suddenly being handed an offer that could change your life overnight. A hundred million just for... donating a few eggs and carrying a child for a wealthy couple?

You’ve seen the movies. You know this isn’t as simple as it sounds. But you’re also not stupid. You’re not going to let your bank account look like it’s been hit by a tornado for the next decade just because of some minor inconveniences like... the inevitable emotional attachment you might develop to the baby or the fact that you’re signing away the next year of your life to a couple you barely know and met through a website.

But hey, 100 million. One hundred million. Your bank account would practically sing opera with that much cash.

You look up at the couple again, a momentary distraction from the formalities of the contract. The woman — Mikayla Clarke Qin, as the document states — has a radiant smile plastered on her face. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, the look of someone who has long awaited this moment. She radiates an energy, a warmth that might’ve made the situation seem less daunting if it weren’t for her companion beside her.

Her husband, Sylus, is seated next to her, his posture relaxed, but his presence commanding. One leg draped over the other, his sanguine eyes meet yours. He regards you with an intensity that unsettles you — a quiet observer who sees far more than what’s on the surface.

Mikayla, on the other hand, seems almost too eager. She leans forward again, her voice soft but insistent. “It’ll be a smooth process, I promise you. You’ll have everything you need, and I’ll personally make sure this is as easy for you as possible.” Her words sound kind, genuine even.

You exhale, deeply, before letting the cool weight of the fountain pen settle into your fingers. The decision is made in your mind now, even if your heart beats a little faster with the anxiety of what you’re about to do. This could change everything. You turn the pen and, with a steady hand, sign the document.

Before you know it, she pulls you into a hug, muttering words of gratitude to you. It’s tight, warm, maybe a bit too intimate for the occasion. You return the hug, albeit with less enthusiasm, your body stiff as a board.

And then, of course, Sylus stands up.

The man is, to put it bluntly, towering. His frame alone would make most people instinctively take a step back, but it’s his presence that truly fills the room. He extends his hand, and you, ever the awkward one in these moments, offer yours in return. His gaze doesn’t leave you, not even for a moment, and you feel as though his eyes are searching, pulling something from within you. The warmth you felt from Mikayla now seems distant, as if her husband’s presence has cast a shadow over the room. You clumsily shake his hand, trying to hide the way your palm’s suddenly sweaty.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth, low, and just... cold. It doesn’t match the warmth of his wife at all. It’s like he’s a different species entirely. You're starting to believe that opposites really do attract.

MC’s voice cuts through the silence again, oblivious to the strange undercurrent swirling between you and her husband. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the hospital and begin the procedure. Just some medical and psychological evaluations in the first stage. Nothing too strenuous,” she assures, her voice cheerful.

You grab your things quickly and head for the door after bidding the couple goodbye, your heart still hammering in your chest. The silence behind you feels deafening. And as you step out into the cool evening air, a single thought pulses in your mind, growing louder with every step:

What have you gotten yourself into?

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