#touch dimmer

[chic-china]

💡️💡️💡️LED COB Light Strip Touch Dimmer Flexible Diode Tape 5V USB. ...

[bringonthevices]

Madeline + Helen in Death Becomes Her - 7.9.2025

🎥 onehandonmycamera (link to purchase)

[craftinginsanity]

someone show this to grian

link to tiktok

[larkwinged]

venti would buy me fidget toys. he notices i always have to be doing smth bc of my adhd and would buy me a bunch

[nothingweirdhere]

chronically overstimulated autistic x chronically understimulated autistic

[buckyseternaldoll]

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[cinakira]

Cinakira Hidden Touch Dimmer Switches Applications Video Collections Touch Sensor Dimmer Switch For LED

[terraswallows]

The Curse of Loving Like a Trans Lesbian.

I think the most beautiful and cruel part of being a trans girl—especially one overflowing with emotion—is just how affectionately, how deeply, we love.

There's no “casual” setting for us. No dimmer switch. We fall in love hard, like we end up staying up too late just to hear her breathe on the other end of the line.

Especially when it’s with her, you know the one—it feels like everything hits deeper. Every touch, every giggle, every sleepy cuddle while sharing a blanket that's too small.

We get attached so fast—not because we're weak, but because we feel everything. Because we see each other, hold space for one another in ways the world often never has.

And when the visit ends… when the door closes, or the screen goes dark, or the warmth beside you is suddenly gone—?

It feels like a heartache. Like your entire world has quietly unraveled and no one else even noticed.

You walk around suddenly feeling extremely touch-starved, or wearing her clothes because they still smell like her. We are suddenly aching for the weight of her arms, her voice, her little silly rituals she does that only you know about.

You can try to play it cool, but you know deep down, your whole soul is just screaming:

“Please come back. Please hold me again. I need to feel your touch.”

But the truth is… this is part of the magic too.

Because when two trans girls fall in love—

we really do fall in love.

It’s not just romance to us, it’s something more.

Because being a trans girl in love? Can be heartbreaking at times, sure.

But, it’s so worth it.

[callsign-fox]

Distract Me - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Warning: 18+ / Foreplay / Sex

Y'all definitely wanted this, so here you go! More to come because I can't seem to stop.

Thank you for all the love! xo

Y/N entered Bob’s room without knocking, the soft creak of the door the only sound to announce her. She didn’t need to ask—she knew he’d be here, stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers only he could see. And there he was, headphones in, still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She lingered in the doorway, heart heavy. He’d used his powers today—again. And again, it had been for her.

She hated it. Hated what it did to him. Every time he tapped into it, the Void stirred, threatening to take him from her. It left him drained, quieter, the light behind his eyes a little dimmer each time. She was always the first to say no when the others asked. The one who stood between him and danger if it meant keeping him from turning.

But he did it anyway. Not for glory.

For them.

For her.

She closed the door softly and crossed the room. He didn’t look at her, but his fingers twitched—he knew. She slipped off her boots and socks, letting them fall quietly to the floor, then climbed into bed beside him. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick with unspoken things—gratitude, frustration, fear.

She reached out, and her fingers brushed his—warm, steady, familiar.

He turned to look at her, his eyes glowing with that unnatural, golden-white light. It was still there—burning, dangerous—but dimming, as if her presence was pulling it back, grounding him.

“How are you doing?” she asked gently.

Bob took a slow breath, but the lines in his face didn’t soften. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him. Her heart ached at how far away he seemed, even lying right beside her. But she didn’t look away.

“I’m here if you need me. If there is anything I can do…”

He hesitated before answering, voice low. “Distract me. Somehow.”

She nodded, a quiet decision settling in her bones. They hadn’t been intimate—not yet. What they had was slow and tender, full of stolen glances and careful touches, like neither of them wanted to risk breaking something fragile. But tonight, that caution felt distant. He needed her, and she needed him to come back.

She climbed over him, straddling his hips with deliberate care. The hem of her skirt brushed his thighs as she leaned in, taking his hands in hers.

Bob didn’t resist, just watched her closely. 

Wordlessly, she guided them to her bare skin, placing them on her thighs—warm, soft, grounding. Her fingers didn’t let go, urging his touch higher, coaxing him gently back to her, to now.

“Is this okay?” She asked softly. 

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, slow and sure, like any words might break the moment.

She kept her eyes on his as she moved his hands higher, slipping them beneath the edge of her skirt. Her breath caught as his fingers brushed over the thin fabric between them. She could feel him beneath her, already hard, already aware. Still, she guided him, rolling her hips just slightly, showing him exactly where she needed him most.

His touch was tentative at first, as if he was still afraid he might hurt her—or worse, lose control. But she didn’t let go, guiding him with gentle pressure, rocking her hips in time with the slow, steady movement of his fingers over the thin fabric.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, her head tilting back just slightly. It wasn’t just the pleasure—it was him, still here, still hers. She could feel his heartbeat through his fingertips, see the golden glow in his eyes flicker, weakening, retreating.

They stayed like that for a moment, the room wrapped in silence but thick with tension—his hand moving in slow, careful circles, her thighs tightening around him. He watched her with awe and something deeper, something broken and tender all at once. It made her breath hitch, made her chest ache in the best and worst way.

But then something shifted in him—some tether snapped. Maybe it was the way she moaned his name so quietly, or the way her body arched into his touch like she trusted him completely.

He exhaled sharply, then moved.

In one smooth motion, he flipped them, pressing her down against the mattress, his body settling over hers. She gasped, breath stolen by the sudden change—but her hands gripped his shoulders, grounding herself in him.

He hovered just above her, eyes wide and human again—clear blue, no trace of gold. Just Bob.

He stared at her like she was a lifeline. “You brought me back,” he murmured, voice rough. “You always do.”

He hovered over her, breath ragged, eyes searching hers as if still trying to believe this was real—that she wanted this, wanted him. She reached up and cradled his face, thumbs brushing across the sharp edge of his cheekbone. He leaned into her touch.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, soft and sure. “Stay with me.��

Something in him broke then—not in fear, but surrender. He dipped his head and kissed her, slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the way she tasted, the way she breathed into him like he was something worth saving.

His hands moved to her waist, sliding beneath her shirt, warm and calloused as they explored bare skin. She arched into him, welcoming the heat of his touch, the way he handled her like she was something precious. When he finally lifted her shirt over her head, it was with careful hands, taking a moment to admire her like she was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.

She helped him out of his shirt too, fingertips trailing along his chest, feeling every muscle twitch under her touch. He was warm and solid beneath her palms, familiar in a way that made her heart ache. 

He took his time, fingers brushing along the insides of her thighs, making her breath catch. When she was bare beneath him, he just stared for a long moment, eyes dark with awe and restraint.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

She reached for him, undoing his belt with shaking fingers, and he let her. Let her take her time. Let her feel him, like she’d been waiting to do this forever. When they were finally skin to skin, nothing between them, he paused—forehead resting against hers, breathing hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

She nodded, pulling him closer. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He entered her slowly, gently, every movement unspoken but full of meaning—trust, want, something deeper they didn’t have to say out loud. He kept his eyes on her, watching the way her breath caught, the way her fingers gripped his arm like she was holding onto something real.

Their bodies moved together easily, instinctively, like they’d been made to fit this way. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet rhythm of two people who had been waiting for this without realizing it.

Y/N’s nails scraped lightly down his back as he kissed along her jaw, his breath warm against her skin. 

“Bob.” She whispered his name again, softer now, as if the sound alone steadied her.

Time didn’t feel like it mattered anymore. The world outside faded into the background, quiet and unimportant. It was just them—skin, breath, a shared warmth that pulled them closer with every slow roll of their hips.

It was just them. 

And when they both came undone, his face buried in her neck, murmuring her name like a prayer—his eyes were still blue.

They lay tangled together, their breaths slowly returning to rhythm, skin damp and flushed from everything they’d just shared. Bob had one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close like he wasn’t ready to let go, not even for a second. Her fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along his chest, while her lips brushed softly over his. 

Then, a knock came. 

Both of them froze as a quiet voice came from the other side of the door.

“Bobby… you doing okay?” It was Walker.

Y/N blinked, then looked at Bob, whose eyes had flown open. He let out a barely audible groan, burying his face in her shoulder while she bit back a laugh.

Then, without raising her voice, she called back toward the door— “he’s perfect.”

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

@debs171110 - because you asked nicely :)

[bueckersworld]

girl you loud

───୨ৎ.. synopsis after a night of drinks and tension with your best friend paige, you end up in her bed, giving in to months of unspoken desire. the next morning, you realize you cheated on your boyfriend—but the truth is, he never made you feel anything close to what paige did.

───୨ৎ.. content warnings smut - mdni, jealousbsf!paige, strap-on sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), pet names (ma, baby), cheating, alcohol usage, strap referred to as paige’s dick, lowercase intended.

───୨ৎ.. a/n i need her so bad. clawing at my sheets

word count: 3.8k info. masterlist. taglist.

───୨ৎ───

you weren’t supposed to be out tonight.

you had already said no twice when paige texted you earlier. come on, baby. just one drink. you told her you were tired, told her your boyfriend would be mad if he found out—he gets weird when you go out without him. controlling in ways you didn’t always catch until later. possessive, but never passionate.

but paige always knows how to push the right buttons. or maybe just yours.

so here you are, in a short little black dress you haven’t worn in a year, one she once said made her forget how to act. her words, not yours. her eyes say the same thing now when she sees you walk into the dimly lit bar, sliding into the seat beside her like it’s always belonged to you.

“bout time,” she murmurs, eyes raking over your legs, the curve of your hips, the gloss on your lips. “been waitin’ on you all night.”

you try to play it cool, brushing her off with a little scoff. “you said one drink.”

“then i guess we better make it count.”

one drink becomes two. then three. then she’s ordering you a shot with that cocky smirk you know too well. it’s the same one she gets when she scores a bucket, the same one she wears when she knows she’s already won.

you hate how good she looks tonight. in a black button-up rolled at the sleeves, gold chain peeking beneath the collar, blonde hair pulled back just enough to show off the sharp line of her jaw. she looks like trouble. like she knows it.

somewhere between drinks, the music gets louder, the lights dimmer. her thigh brushes yours under the table, deliberate and slow. you shift, pretending not to notice. pretending not to melt.

but she does it again.

“you’re doin’ that thing,” you murmur, lips pressed against the rim of your glass.

“what thing?”

“touching me like it doesn’t mean anything.”

paige tilts her head, face unreadable. “maybe it doesn’t.”

you give her a look.

she leans in, warm breath ghosting your cheek. “or maybe it means everything.”

your laugh comes out sharp. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

she doesn’t deny it. “you have a boyfriend,” she says instead, almost like she’s trying to remind herself. then she shrugs. “but he doesn’t make you loud.”

you pause, frowning. “what?”

“you heard me.” her voice is low now, smooth and dangerous. “i hear how quiet you are when you talk about him. when you talk to him. like you’re always holding back.”

you hate that she’s right. you hate that she knows.

and then she says it—soft, slow, and devastating:

“let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

you look at her for a long time. “paige…”

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just crack your whole world open with one sentence. “just saying. if he can’t make you loud, someone else should.”

you don’t remember saying yes.

or maybe you didn’t. maybe your silence was enough. maybe the way your body leaned into hers as you slid out of the booth, let her take your hand and guide you through the haze of lights and liquor, was answer enough.

the uber ride back to her apartment is quiet, tension thick enough to choke on. you watch the way her hand grips her thigh, how her jaw clenches every time your knee bumps hers. she doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. but you know she’s thinking about it.

you are, too.

you both know what’s coming.

paige was on you the second you stepped into her apartment.

her hands gripped your hips tight, her mouth crashing into yours as she kicked the door shut behind you.

your arms wrapped around her neck, clinging to her as she hoisted you up with ease. your legs locked around her waist as she stumbled a little, but still carried you down the hallway to her room like she’d been waiting her whole life to.

she tossed you onto the bed, and a soft giggle slipped from your lips before it turned into a gasp.

paige climbed over you, pressing hot kisses along your neck, sucking gentle and then harder, just enough to leave marks. she didn’t care if your boyfriend saw. in her mind, you were hers now—and she was going to make sure everyone knew it.

her hands pushed your dress up around your hips, fingers confidently hooking into your underwear and tugging them down in one motion. they hit the floor without a care.

you shivered as cool air kissed your skin, your walls clenching around nothing as her fingers grazed the inside of your thighs.

she leaned in, unzipping the back of your dress and helping you sit up just enough so she could slip it over your head, leaving you bare in front of her.

you pulled her shirt off in return, tossing it aside without looking.

“gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” she murmured, thumb finding your clit like it was muscle memory.

she started slow—just teasing soft circles that made your breath hitch and your legs twitch.

your whimpers were quiet at first, but paige heard them all. she smirked, dropping to her knees between your thighs, replacing her thumb with a long, deliberate lick up your folds.

you gasped at the contact, your hips jerking as her tongue moved in lazy, drawn-out strokes. she moaned into you, fingers spreading you open while circling your entrance.

“please…” you whimpered, barely able to form the word.

and who was she to deny you?

she slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling them just right. she found the spot your boyfriend never even reached, let alone knew existed.

your whine turned into a breathless moan as her mouth wrapped around your clit, her tongue flicking in time with her fingers.

“look at you,” she murmured, voice rough against your skin. “so loud for me already.”

you glanced down, your hand tangled in her hair. her lips and chin were coated in you.

she pumped her fingers faster, curling them each time she pulled back. her tongue flicked over you relentlessly, your hips twitching with every movement.

you were so close.

“m’gonna come—paige!” you cried out, your hips lifting off the bed as she held you down.

“come for me, baby,” she breathed. “scream my name.”

and you did.

the orgasm ripped through you, thighs trembling, voice breaking as you moaned her name like a prayer.

she kept going, slow and gentle as you came down, only pulling away once your body stopped shaking.

she withdrew her fingers and sucked them clean with a smirk.

“better than him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

your cheeks flushed. you didn’t even need to respond.

she leaned in and kissed you, tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself.

her breath was warm against your cheek as she whispered, “i’m not done with you yet… need to feel you come around my dick.”

your eyes widened as she stood and walked to her closet. you heard a few clicks and snaps, and then she returned—an eight-inch strap harnessed low on her hips, her eyes dark with want.

your legs spread without thinking.

“don’t look so surprised, mama,” she teased. “told you i’d make it worth your while.”

she climbed back on the bed, grabbing your hips, your legs wrapping around her waist instinctively.

you watched as she spit into her hand and dragged it over the length of the strap, slicking it up.

she guided the tip through your folds, letting it glide through your wetness before slowly easing in.

you gasped, hands flying to her arms, nails digging into her skin as she bottomed out. the stretch burned, but god, it felt so good.

she gave you a moment to adjust, then began to move—slow and deep, dragging every inch on the way out, pressing it all back in.

“fuck,” you whispered, clenching around her.

“yeah, baby,” she murmured, “just like that. takin’ me so good.”

her thumb found your clit again, rubbing gentle circles as she rocked into you.

“more,” you whimpered. “please… i can take it.”

she smirked. “knew you could.”

her pace picked up, thighs slapping against yours, the wet sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room.

“oh my god, yes—right there, don’t stop,” you gasped, head falling back.

paige groaned softly as the base of the strap rubbed against her clit. she leaned down, her chest brushing yours, her lips pressing to your jawline.

“gonna come again?” she asked, voice deep in your ear. “go on. come all over my dick. let me feel it.”

you cried out, her name falling from your lips again and again.

your body tensed, back arching as you unraveled, your orgasm crashing through you. your fingers gripped the sheets, your head thrown back.

paige held you through it, her strokes slowing until your body stilled beneath her.

she carefully pulled out, unsnapping the harness and letting it drop to the floor.

“shhh… i’ve got you,” she whispered, pulling you into her chest.

she grabbed her shirt from the bed, slipped it over your head, and laid beside you, her arms firm around your waist.

you melted into her.

“you okay?” she murmured, brushing her nose against your hair.

you nodded, still catching your breath.

“was it good?” she asked, smirking.

“better than him,” you mumbled, smiling into her neck.

she kissed the top of your head and held you tighter, your body finally going still in her arms.

and just like that, you fell asleep—warm, full, and finally, finally loud.

you wake up tangled in her sheets.

your dress is on the floor. her shirt is still halfway off your body. the room smells like sweat, skin, and whatever perfume you wore last night.

paige is next to you—bare-chested, flushed, breathing soft. her arm draped across your waist like she’s been holding onto you in her sleep. like she didn’t want to let go even in her dreams.

and for a moment, you forget everything.

but then it hits you.

you cheated.

on your boyfriend.

you cheated.

you sit up slowly, heart pounding—not in guilt, but in adrenaline. like your body still remembers what it felt like to fall apart for someone who actually noticed when you did.

you pull the sheet around you, biting your lip, trying to make sense of how you should feel.

but the worst part is—

you don’t even feel bad.

you don’t feel anything.

except satisfied. and maybe a little free.

paige stirs beside you. “you okay?”

you glance down at her. her voice is rough with sleep, but her eyes are already studying you. always watching.

“i cheated on him,” you whisper.

she nods, slow. “i know.”

you wait for the guilt to crash down. but all you feel is the memory of her hands on your hips, the sound of your own voice breaking open in her mouth, and the unbearable truth that’s been building inside you for months now:

“he never made me feel like that.”

paige reaches up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” she repeats, gentler this time. “you deserve better.”

you nod, voice barely above a breath. “was i that loud?”

she smirks, then. “girl, you screamed.”

you roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself—and then sigh, slumping against her chest as she pulls you back into her arms.

you should feel terrible.

but instead, you just feel home.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @slt4kavanagh @kl0verk @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @asapeveryday @avvwritesstufff @rand0mmmgg @buybloom

[pucksandpower]

I’ve Always Chosen You

Lando Norris x wife!Reader

Summary: in which your husband gets drunk, forgets that you’re married, and cries his heart out about it … at your own wedding

The music pounds against the walls of the reception hall, vibrating through the floor. Voices chatter in the distance, loud and messy in the aftermath of too many champagne toasts.

The after-party has begun, and it feels like the room is made of laughter and bubbles and the slight hum of joy that still hangs in the air. But you’re standing at the edge of it all, eyes sweeping the crowded space. Your smile falters, just slightly, because there’s one thing out of place.

Lando is gone.

“Where is he?” You ask for what feels like the hundredth time. This time, you’re standing next to Max, who shrugs and hands you his drink.

“I saw him last by the bar,” Max says, but his grin is wide, unaffected. He doesn’t get it. Nobody does.

“He’s drunk,” you say, more to yourself than to anyone. It’s not unusual for Lando to drink too much at a party, but tonight is different. It’s supposed to be different.

Max chuckles, clinking his glass against his own. “Well, it is his wedding.”

Your wedding. Your wedding.

Your chest tightens, and you can’t explain why you feel a sudden rush of panic.

“I’m gonna find him.” You don’t wait for Max’s reply before you slip through the crowd, searching every corner of the reception hall for any sign of him. His jacket is still draped over the back of his chair at your table, his drink — now abandoned — sweating on the tablecloth. You glance toward the dance floor, where some of his friends are still doing ridiculous moves, but he’s not there either.

Your pulse picks up speed.

The hallway outside the venue is quieter, dimmer, and you start checking doors. One leads to the bathroom, another to a storage room, but no Lando. You feel stupid. This is ridiculous. You should be at your own after-party, celebrating with your friends, laughing, not hunting down your newlywed husband like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.

But you can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

Another door, this one creaking slightly as it opens. You push it wider, revealing a darkened supply closet, the smell of cleaning products faint but distinct. The softest shuffle of feet, and then a muffled sob, barely audible over the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

“Lando?”

You push the door open all the way, and there he is-sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, his face hidden in his arms. His entire body shakes with the kind of sobs that come from somewhere deep, uncontrollable. You’ve seen Lando in every state — happy, angry, everything in between — but this? This is something else.

“Oh my God.” You drop to your knees beside him, panic rising in your chest. “Lando, hey, what-what happened? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head without looking up. “No.”

You reach for him, putting a hand on his arm, but he flinches at your touch. “Hey, talk to me. What’s wrong? What happened?”

He finally lifts his head, eyes red, his cheeks streaked with tears. His lips tremble as he tries to speak, but his voice breaks when he says, “You got married.”

It’s the one sentence that shouldn’t hurt, because it’s true. You did get married. To him. You blink, confused, heart still pounding.

“Yeah … I did.”

His head drops again, and his sobs return, louder this time, like he’s tearing apart at the seams. “I-I’ve been in love with you since-since-forever,” he chokes out between ragged breaths. “And-and now you’re-you’re married. You went and married some-some douchebag, and-and I’m stuck here-”

“Lando,” you say, a little too sharply, but he’s not listening.

“I-I was going to tell you,” he mumbles, barely coherent now. “I-I wanted to tell you so many times, but-but you were always-so perfect, and-and I couldn’t, and now-now you’re married and I’m so-so stupid.”

“Lando.” You try to steady your voice, because he’s not making any sense. “I married you. You, Lando.”

His brow furrows, but the tears don’t stop. “What?”

“I’m married to you,” you say again, softer this time. “Lando, we got married today. You’re my husband.”

He stares at you, blinking rapidly, but the confusion stays etched in his face. “No. No, you-you married someone else. You-”

“Lando.” You grab his face, forcing him to look at you, your thumbs brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “Listen to me. You’re the one I married today. We just had a whole reception. We danced. You gave a speech that made my mom cry. You kissed me, like, twenty times in front of all our friends.”

He’s still shaking his head, even as his breath hitches and his sobs quiet a little. “No. No, I-I would remember that.”

“You’re drunk, Lando. You’re wasted,” you say, your heart squeezing because you’ve never seen him like this, never seen him this broken. “You don’t remember because you’ve had, like, ten drinks, but trust me. You’re my husband. We got married today.”

His eyes dart back and forth between yours, searching for something-anything-that makes sense. But then his face crumples again. “No,” he whispers, “no, no, no, you don’t-don’t say that. Don’t mess with me like that.”

You let out a shaky breath, kneeling closer, pulling his face gently into your hands. “Lando. I’m not messing with you. I married you because I love you. You. There’s no one else. I don’t know why you’re-why you’re so upset, but I swear to God, you’re the only one.”

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and for a moment, you think maybe-maybe he’s starting to understand. But then his lip trembles again, and his breath catches.

“I-I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I-I don’t know what to do with that. I thought-thought it was too late.”

You shake your head, biting back tears of your own. “It’s not too late. It’s never been too late. I’m right here. I chose you. I’ve always chosen you.”

His whole body shudders as another sob escapes his throat, but this time it’s quieter, like the fight’s leaving him. His hand comes up, trembling, to rest against yours where you’re still holding his face. His skin is warm and damp under your touch, and he closes his eyes, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “I-I don’t know why I-”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whisper, feeling the burn of tears in your own eyes now. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours, and for a second, the world stills. The chaos of the after-party, the music, the laughter-it all fades away, leaving just the two of you in this dark, quiet space.

“Promise?” He asks, voice so small it makes your heart ache.

“I promise,” you whisper back. “Forever.”

He nods, but he doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his exhaustion now, the alcohol and emotions and everything else taking their toll on him. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you closer until your body is pressed against his, and for the first time all night, his breathing begins to steady. He’s still holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart, and in that moment, you realize that maybe you are.

You sit there with him, in the dark, in the silence, just breathing together. And for now, that’s enough.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Beyond the Grave

Danny Fenton gets the surprise of his life when the Justice League accepts a mission in Amity Park.

No, they were there for ghost issues. lt turns out that if people aren't exposed to shock waves of Ectoplasm radiation, they don't get fun side effects like seeing the dead. That's why the town people had called his parents loons up until the portal was open.

There hadn't been enough death energy to make them visible, let alone corporeal enough to touch the human world. Even Danny had thought his parents were chasing an unrealistic dream until that fateful day when Sam convinced him to walk through the portal.

What the Justice League was there to do was stop this company that had been kidnapping meta children all over the country. They had hidden them a little outside Amity Park, where people rarely drove by. Danny had only gone through those back roads twice, and he's lived in Amity Park all his life.

No one had the slightest idea that a secret lab was operating underground, forcing experimentation on children. Danny felt horrible he had missed this, as the self-proclaimed hero of the area, but his expertise was in ghosts. They were pretty straightforward and loud in their evil plots.

Something like this required resources, training, and detective skills that Danny didn't have. What made him feel a little bit better about all this was that Danny had found the children before the Justice League.

He just won't tell them that because it made his own kidnapping rather embarrassing. Somehow, the scientists- if that can even be called that- had detected Danny's hidden powers. While he was busy crawling out of a dumpster- Dash had thrown him in there- a van had pulled up and thrown a collar onto his neck.

Danny was so stunned by the action that he could not stop a taser to the neck in time. His entire body had cramped up, but not before he had sent a burst of energy to the broken security camera, tuning it on and broadcasting the video to Tucker's laptop.

He got a bit better at controlling technology using ectoplasm, especially after the many fights with Technus, and his friend had set up a laptop in a close circuit that could tap into Danny's frequency.

The kidnappers probably thought that they were in the clear when making grabs at meta children since most came from areas that didn't have surveillance. Tucker had gotten home to a three-hour-long video from Danny, clicking it open and spitting out the ramen he was eating when the first few minutes of it was Danny getting educated.

He panicked and called Jazz to ask if his friend had gotten home. When she denied seeing her brother, Tucker contacted Sam and informed her what was happening.

The pair had immediately mobilized, tearing through the city on the hunt for the van. Jazz had joined them after letting her parents know Danny was missing. They had gone straight to the police station to report that their son was gone.

Tucker had sent them the video, claiming it was from a Panic App. The pair had been in the beta stages, which was why no one had such a helpful app, but it was enough for the Fentons to make their case. The police had placed an Amber Alert and had practically locked down the city.

In a small town like Amity Park, getting the people to band together to help each other was relatively easy. Even Flash, the last person to have seen Danny, had called his football friends to get in a car and help them find the youngest Fenton.

Sadly, by then, the scientists had taken Danny well out of the city, even with multiple people calling to place tips on the black van. Four days passed, and with each passing hour, the likelihood of Danny returning home alive grew dimmer.

No one thinks they have ever seen Jazz Fenton cry that much before. Jack and Maddie were on a rampage, tearing through the city for hints of their son. They had even ignored a ghost attacking the mall, too busy stopping every black Sprinter van they could find for clues of their son.

The video was somehow leaked to the public - Tucker and Sam had allowed it to slip into public domains with a scrambled VPN, hoping to get someone to report anything- and this video had made its way to a certain billionaire in Gotham.

Batman had been working the case for months, looking for a pair of twins that had vanished from Daminan's class. They had gotten the boys back, now able to see in the dark as their meta genes had been forcefully unlocked, and realized they were rescued before they were able to get to the primary base.

The only clue the Bats had was a symbol of a two-headed snack on the collars found around the twin's necks. The same collar that had been forced upon Danny Fenton when he was taken in the video.

Bruce had called his co-workers the second he noticed the mark. They had geared up and gone to Amity Park to investigate. Clark, Diana, Billy, and Bruce had arrived at Amity Park in their civilian personas. They came separately to avoid suspicion, hoping to use Billy as bait.

The Justice League was still coming to terms with Captain Marvel being a fourteen-year-old kid, but none could call into question the good work Billy did.

The three had different stories about why they were in the middle of nowhere in Amity Park.

Bruce had been in town to set up a new outreach for the Wayne Foundation. Clark, a news reporter investigating the missing child case of Danny and Diana, had chosen to tour the most haunted cities in the United States for her museum curator.

Like a charm, Billy had gotten the attention of the kidnappers, and only three days after arriving in Amity as a homeless kid, he had been taken. The moment Billy pressed the button on his bracelet, the three were notified that he had been kidnapped.

Clark kept an ear of the van, listening to the bracelet's beeping that no human could pick up. Just in case, the Leauge had embedded a tracker into Billy's left arm, and Bruce had followed it to the secret Lab.

A message to the Watch Tower had backup zapping down in seconds. They waited until nightfall before springing a rescue mission. Flash, Black Canary, Red Tornado, and Vigilanete had been sent in to find and bring the children home while Bruce, Clack, and Diana worked on taking out the guards.

Danny had woken in a test tube with multiple needles and wires digging into his skin, facing a group of superheroes that stared back at him in horror. The last thing he remembered had been the passing cells of meta children before he was taken to a room with a glass tube.

After being shoved into it, Danny was put to sleep with a gas. He had not been conscious for the entire time he was taken. That means he was not awake when the scientists had accidentally caused his heart to flatline.

They had thrown his body into an unmarked grave, intending to bury him with the three other nameless victims. Danny had not been awake when his survival instincts had triggered his shift to Phantom and floated out of the grave.

Like a balloon with helium, Danny had drifted far from the grave, flouting in the wind unconscious due to the gas.

He had awakened for only a few seconds, floating above the road that led to Amity, confused about how he got there. Sadly, the very same van that had just finished burying him had driven down the street, spotting him in the air and choosing to capture the famous Phantom.

They had stolen some Fenton Tech on a stakeout while waiting to take the Fenton Boy and were happy to see it had knocked out the ghost. The men had taken Phantom back to the lab, setting him up in a tube so their scientist could pull out his green blood for tests.

The Justice League had broken in that night. After the raid, Bruce hacked the computers, looking for clues about the missing children. His heart fell to his feet when he read the reports.

The children had died in the experiments. Danny Fenton was on the list of failed experiments, his time of death marked in the conclusion section of a report like he wasn't a young boy who had just finished his first year of high school.

Bruce had only been able to pull himself together long enough to find information about Phantom being held in a deeper part of the lab. Clark, Barry, and Bruce had gone to the lower levels, intending to set the ghost free.

What they found was Phantom in his most basic form. A young ghost with his jumpsuit cut open, showing the same markings the other rescued children bore.

Lichtenberg scars around the neck, torso, and arms.

Phantom had been a new ghost. Bruce and Clark had verified that in their investigations. They had never thought to question what had created him, only that he had appeared a few months ago wearing a hazmat jumpsuit and seemingly unable to leave Amity Park.

The same jumpsuit the other meta children were forced to wear to contain their experiments.

Phantom had been a meta child that had been killed by these people. He was recaptured and placed in a strange ghost coma, leaving the Justice League baffled about how to help him.

Besides blinking, his eyes opened for only a few seconds when he was rescued; he had remained unconscious after muttering, "There are more. Fifty-seven kids....help them, please."

The League had taken him back to their headquarters while working through the labs and digging up the bodies of the other victims. The people involved with this heinous crime had all taken their lives, having snuck a cyanide tablet into their teeth.

None of them faced justice properly, not for the deaths they caused or the angst that Phantom had been dragged into. The ghost had been unable to move on, sticking around even after everything they had done to him.

He had likely been attempting to get help for the remaining prisoners because every place he had attacked had been involved with this lab.

The Justice League would later reveal this information to the horrified townspeople.

Valerie Gray would be throwing up in the bathroom after watching the news. Her father's previous employers had been half on staff with the people who had killed Phantom.

They made a list of potential children to test for the meta gene. She had been on there, and had Phantom not gotten her dad fired when he did, she would have been kidnapped. He saved her life, and she had shot at him in return.

Dash Baxter would be found drinking and sobbing in the school parking lot. He had been drowning in guilt for dragging Fenton behind the mall, where he had thrown him in the dumpster. He had nothing to do with the kidnapping, but he blamed himself nonetheless.

Those people had been attempting to take Fenton for weeks, and he created the perfect opening. Now Danny Fenton was dead by the same people who made his hero. Dash vowed never to bully anyone again, even as Kawn took him home and helped nurse him through his hangover.

Sam Madison and Tucker Foley moved about like zombies. They kept sending messages to someone who would never answer, searching the sky for Phantom's glow, or had their phones on just in case they found Danny. With each uncovered grave, the pair grew hopeful as Danny had not been among the recovered bodies.

People were slightly heartbroken for them. They would wait on a best friend that was never coming home.

Not to mention the Fenton's reaction to Danny's fate. The funeral had been one of the hardest ones any of them had ever attended. The cries of the three remaining Fentons had echoed in their nightmares.

Worse, they had closed their portal. The Fentons had sealed everything to do with ghosts away, no longer able to stand the research now that they knew Phantom had been attempting to prevent Danny's death.

Maybe if they had stopped to try and communicate with him, they might have been able to save their son.

Jack and Maddie were still certified geniuses and were able to fall back on working for Wayne Enterprises as engineers. They moved away, with Jazz looking lifeless without her brother.

People in Amity Park passed by the old Fenton Works sign, never to see it glow again. They also realized that Phantom had vanished, many assuming that now he was at rest due to his murder being solved.

They were unaware he was floating above them in the Watch Tower's medical wing, locked away in slumber.

John Constantine had noticed his ectoplasm levels had not moved since his rescue. For some reason, Phantom's body was not producing it properly like other ghosts- most likely due to experiments they had forced him through.

This caused a coma, with every Justice League Dark member scratching their heads. In every way, Phantom seemed fine, but his core did not react correctly.

It was almost as if it had never been adequately formed, as if Phantom was still alive somehow.

After months of trying to figure out how to stabilize the ghost's core, John contacted a ghost doctor from the Infinite Realms. It took calling in a few favors to get the information, let alone the actual communication with the ghost doctor, but he could do it.

He was a magic expert, not a medic. This was the only chance Phantom had to ever wake.

Thankfully, Frostbite seemed to know exactly what to do when his large eyes landed on the floating figure in the medical incubator the League had placed him in.

He had assured them he could help Phantom but needed to take him back to his hospital to properly treat the ghost. After the Yeti agreed to an Oath Vow stating he would not allow any harm to fall upon Phantom while under his care.

Another agreement of having John present for Phantom's treatment had solidified Justice League into letting the being move Phantom into the Far Frozen.

A year after Danny Fenton's death, Phantom's eyes snapped open to the relieved Frostbite and the beaming trench coat man.

He had never been so confused when the first thing his doctor said was, "Great One, I am sorry to say the humans believed Daniel Fenton has passed while you were in a coma."

Well.

How was he going to bring himself back to life?

[shoresdevelopment]

Light Dimmers https://shores.dev/light-dimmers/?utm_source=tumblr&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=ReviveOldPost

[mattsundaes]

♡ DATE EVERYTHING! — EDDIE ♡

“you know, i think it’s cute.”

something about the way eddie says cute strokes its way down the notches of your spine like a match.

he’s not looking at you, careful eyes focused on the wires he’s in the middle of splitting (and isn’t that funny, the way your insides twist in a feverish dance that matches the motion of his fingers). but you can still feel it, anyway—the heady, thick weight of his attention.

(something you’ve become embarrassingly addicted to, would seem.)

(what paltry morsels of it he deigns to give you, that is.)

you take the bait—“what’s cute?”

eddie looks at you then, and his eyes almost seem to glow in the dim lighting of the club. the corner of his mouth quirks upward into something that could almost be considered a smile.

(something that’s enough to have you pathetically shifting your thighs together anyway, tongue sliding along the back of your teeth.)

the lights go even dimmer then, the evening’s next performer nearly ready to take the stage. darkness settles like a blanket on your shoulders, but it does nothing to disperse the potent sensation of eddie’s gaze.

“the way you think turning the lights off in your bedroom makes a difference.”

your breath catches in your throat, and his voice is closer now, a low murmur against the shell of your ear.

“the way you think i can’t hear you moaning my name while you touch yourself.”

a spotlight shines brightly in the middle of the stage as someone steps up to the microphone.

and when you turn your head, eddie is nowhere to be found.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being the non-mc significant other of lead guitarist! Sylus. part3

Imagine walking back into the pub where everything first started falling apart. The lights are dimmer tonight or maybe your eyes are still too tired to see them the same.

Imagine you did not come with the intent to argue. You come because your chest is too heavy and your heart is too loud. You come because something in you whispers that maybe there's still something worth hearing.

Imagine the pub owner sees you first. Her lips twitch with something between surprise and relief. "He's in the back." She said before you even ask. "Haven't touched a single drink. Haven't said a word.”

Imagine you nod and make your way past old wooden tables and soft murmurs of strangers who don't know how your world just cracked open a few nights ago.

Imagine your heart skipping as you see him. Sylus. Hood up, hands locked in front of him, staring at something small in his palm like it's the only thing keeping him together. You don't need to see it to know it's the pick. Your pick.

"Sylus." You say. His head snaps up. You expect surprise, but what you see is something worse, remorse. Deep, carved into his bones. Regret. "You..." His voice cracks. "You came back."

"I needed time." You tell him honestly, watching his jaw clench and release like he's bracing for impact. "I think I overreacted." "No." He says immediately, standing too fast. The table wobbles between you. "You didn't. You didn't overreact. I fucked up."

Imagine the way silence falls between you, tense but not hostile. Not anymore. "I didn't know you were there." He says, softer now. "I wouldn't have played it if I knew. Hell, I shouldn't have played it at all. That song..." He runs a hand through his silver hair. "That song was a ghost I thought I could bury by giving it one last breath. But instead... I ended up making you bleed."

Imagine you didn't speak. Not yet. He seems to need to say it all. "I looked at her because..." He looked ashamed, looking away from you. "I needed to see for myself that it was done. That whatever I thought I still carried was nothing but dust. And it was. It is. But by the time I realized that, I had already hurt the only person I ever wanted to sing for again."

Imagine he took a step closer and hold out something to you. Your pick. The one you gave him with his initials on it. The one that stayed behind when you left.

"You gave this to me like it meant something." He said. "And I threw it away with a song that wasn't ours. I betrayed your trust, and I don't deserve it back. But if you let me..." There was a pause. "If you still want me... I will never sing another note that doesn't have your name in it."

Imagine you take the pick from his hand slowly. His eyes search your face like he's memorizing it for the last time. "You sang like she still mattered." You say. "You looked at her like you forgot I existed."

"I didn't." He says. "Not for a second. I just got pulled back into a version of me I don’t ever want to be again. One that hides, one that lies, one that doesn't deserve the kind of love you gave me."

Imagine you look down at the pick in your hand. It's warm from his touch. He never stopped holding it.

"I'm not perfect." Sylus started, voice rough. "But I love you. More than anything. More than every song I’ve ever written, more than the stage, more than the past. I love you. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving it if you let me."

Imagine the ache in your chest still lingering, but the edges beginning to soften. Maybe he didn’t choose the past. Maybe he just got caught in it. And maybe love isn't about never messing up. Maybe it's about choosing to stay even after the music stops. You look up at him. "Sit" You say quietly. And he does.

Imagine the two of you talking long after the bar begins to empty. No big declarations. No dramatic kisses. Just words. Honest, painful, healing words. You don't promise anything tonight. You don't have to. But for the first time since that song, Sylus looks at you like he found his rhythm again.

Imagine for the first time since you walked out, you believe it might be possible to stay. And maybe as selfish as it may sound. He was going to sing only just for you again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: f*cking b*tch I knew I was forgetting something.

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

synopsis. law is boring. you need a break.

pairing. supernatural﹢ stanford!sam winchester x gf!reader ﹢ smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1.9K

warnings. public oral sex (m!receiving + f!receiving), fingering, praising, begging, overstimulation.

The campus library is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that tastes like dust and fluorescent lighting, and your fingers are cramping from how long you’ve been highlighting. Your back is aching. Your brain is buzzing. And Sam? He’s not even blinking. Just sitting across from you, leaned over his textbook like it's some ancient scripture.

You try to focus. You really do.

But Sam has that look on his face—the one where his jaw is clenched just slightly and there’s this little crease between his brows. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and every once in a while, he runs his thumb across his bottom lip while reading. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up. Forearms on full display. His knuckles stained with ink. And you’re about to lose your damn mind.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs and swallowing hard. Your pen taps against your notebook. Sam glances up at the sound, and when your eyes meet, you give him a soft smile. His mouth lifts at the corners, warm and knowing.

He knows.

God, of course he knows.

You scoot your chair a little closer under the pretense of showing him something in your textbook. He leans in, and the air shifts—slow and heavy, suddenly rich with something else. Your thighs press tighter together when you feel the heat of his body near yours, the way his eyes flick to your lips before dragging back up.

Your hand finds his under the table. Just a little brush of fingertips at first. Then your palm sliding against his, your fingers threading through. He squeezes your hand, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, amused.

You nod. “Just… distracted.”

He smiles, like he’s trying not to. Like he’s proud of himself for pulling you under like this without even trying. He leans in a little more. “I could help you focus.”

You bite your lip. Your heart’s already in your throat, hammering against your ribs. You know that look in his eyes. Mischievous. Hungry. Warm and dark and entirely Sam.

You exhale shakily. “Or maybe I could help you relax.”

His brows rise, and he tilts his head just slightly, watching you like you're a challenge. Like he's already imagining what you might do.

“Library’s not exactly private,” he murmurs.

You smile sweetly, voice soft and teasing. “Not the way I do it.”

That’s all it takes.

Within seconds, you're packing your stuff in a haphazard rush, shoving books and pens into your bag, giggling softly when Sam follows suit, looking way too flushed for a guy who was just reviewing constitutional law. He guides you with a hand on your lower back, the two of you weaving through the maze of bookshelves until you’re somewhere deep and forgotten—where the air is colder, the lights are dimmer, and no one ever really comes.

You turn to face him, heart racing. He’s already watching you like he wants to devour you whole.

You drop to your knees before you can second guess it.

Sam’s breath catches.

You look up at him as you reach for his belt. “Wanna be good for you.”

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep them to himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, already thick with need.

You undo his jeans slowly, watching his eyes. His lashes flutter as you pull him out, already semi-hard and heavy in your palm. You stroke him gently, loving the way he starts to throb under your touch, the way his abs tense and his breath hitches.

You lean forward, lips brushing the head of his cock, featherlight.

“Don’t tease,” he groans, voice strained.

But you love teasing him. You love watching him fall apart, watching how quickly the calm, collected student disappears under your touch.

You kiss down his length first, then lick a slow stripe up the underside, watching his hand slam against the nearest bookshelf to steady himself. Then you take him in your mouth—just the tip at first, sucking softly, tongue swirling.

He moans low in his throat. His other hand finds your hair, gentle but possessive, curling around the strands like he needs something to hold onto or he might shatter.

“F-Fuck, baby—”

You hum around him, loving the way his hips twitch. You take more of him, slow and steady, letting your throat relax as you work him deeper. His breaths come sharp and ragged above you, and you can feel the tremble in his legs as you slide your hands up his thighs.

“You’re… fuck, you’re so good at this,” he whispers, voice broken, reverent. “Always know how to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

You glance up, eyes glassy, spit dripping down your chin as you hollow your cheeks and take him even deeper. His knees almost buckle. He grips your hair tighter, not to force you—never that—but just to anchor himself, to keep from flying apart.

You bob your head faster now, using your hand at the base to stroke what you can’t fit, twisting slightly as you suck, letting your tongue press against that sensitive spot just beneath the head. He lets out a choked moan, hips jerking forward before he catches himself.

“Fuck, if you keep looking at me like that—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me come in like two minutes.”

That only makes you more determined.

You hum again, faster now, your rhythm slick and messy, wet sounds filling the quiet as you swallow around him. His head drops back against the bookshelf, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“God, baby—gonna come—where do you want it?”

You pull off him just long enough to whisper, breathless and sticky-lipped, “In my mouth.”

He groans like that alone almost finishes him.

Then you’re back on him, working him desperately now, hands and mouth and tongue all in sync, coaxing him closer and closer until his whole body tenses—his thighs trembling, his grip in your hair bruising.

Then he spills down your throat with a guttural moan, panting your name like a prayer.

You swallow every drop.

He’s still breathing hard when you pull off him with a soft pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes gleaming. You smile up at him—flushed, proud, glowing.

Sam stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Holy shit,” he says, still catching his breath. “That was… fuck. That was the best head of my life.”

His kiss is hungry.

You’ve barely stood up before Sam’s mouth is on yours—desperate and deep, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like he needs to feel every single place your mouth just was. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in so tight you can feel the flutter of his still-racing heartbeat against your chest.

You’re still panting, still flushed, still shaky from the way he came undone for you. But he’s already tilting your chin up, trailing kisses down your jaw, whispering against your skin.

“My turn.”

You blink up at him, breathless. “Here?”

He smirks, all dimples and blown pupils. “Sweetheart, you just sucked my soul out of my dick in the middle of a library. You really think I’m letting you walk out of here without returning the favor?”

You whimper when his hands slip under your skirt, fingers warm and possessive as they stroke along your thighs.

He backs you up until your spine brushes against the shelf behind you, cool metal against your sweater. Your bag hits the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Leg up,” he whispers, nudging your knee with his own. “C’mon, baby. Let me see you.”

You obey—dizzy and trembling, lifting one leg onto the lower shelf behind you. It opens you up perfectly for him, your panties already damp and sticking to you from how turned on you still are.

Sam kneels.

And your breath catches.

He’s looking up at you like you’re sacred. Like he wants to worship every inch of you. His hands glide up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs teasing just beneath the hem of your underwear.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. “You get off on sucking my cock, baby?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “I love it. Love how you taste. Love making you come.”

His growl is low and dangerous. “Fuck.”

He kisses your inner thigh again, then again, working higher and higher until you’re squirming, one hand flying to the shelf behind you for balance, the other tangling in his hair.

When his mouth finally presses over your soaked panties, you gasp.

He moans into you—deep and guttural—his tongue dragging slowly over the fabric before he pulls it aside with his fingers, exposing you.

“You’re dripping,” he whispers, dark eyes locked on yours. “So fucking pretty, baby.”

Then he dives in.

You choke on a gasp, your back arching hard against the shelf as his mouth finds your clit and sucks, hot and slick and so good you nearly collapse. His tongue works you with slow, filthy confidence, alternating between long licks and soft, maddening flicks.

You grab the edge of the bookshelf with both hands now, struggling to stay upright. “S-Sam—fuck—”

He hums, sending vibrations through your core, and your legs tremble.

Then he pushes two fingers inside you—so thick, so deep—curling them just right, finding that spot instantly like he’s memorized your body.

“Oh my God,” you moan, head falling back. “Sam, baby, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

His fingers thrust slow and deep, working you open while his mouth devours you. The sounds are obscene—wet and slick and echoing faintly in the silence of the stacks—but you don’t care. You can’t care.

His pace quickens. His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, and the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin sends shocks straight through your belly.

You’re falling apart.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, barely coherent. “You’re so fucking good at this—gonna come, baby, I—”

His fingers speed up, mouth never leaving your clit.

And then you break.

You cry out softly—biting your lip, desperate to keep the noise in—as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming and so deep. Your thighs quake. Your vision blurs. You clamp down around his fingers, still pulsing long after the peak.

But Sam doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, relentless, tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers stroke inside you, dragging every last ripple of pleasure out of you until you’re sobbing his name.

“S-Sam, oh my God, please—”

He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he just tasted something divine, and kisses the inside of your thigh with a soft, worshipful sigh.

“You always taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined.

You collapse into him the second he stands, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifts you effortlessly off the ground. He kisses you then—really kisses you—slow and messy and aching, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Can’t believe I got this lucky,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You laugh breathlessly, dizzy and blissed out. “We’re in a library, Sam.”

He grins. “Exactly. Best study break of my life.”

You nuzzle into his chest, still catching your breath as he smooths your skirt back down, both of you flushed and giggling like idiots.

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