#Getting really really really really scared

[rawan-soso]

PLEASE READ THIS

My baby sister Soso is not doing well. Until recently she was such a calm and brave child, but now every little thing scares her to death. She barely plays anymore, she cries for food we don’t have and I can’t do anything to change that because of the insane inflation in our area in Gaza.

Donations have dangerously slowed down!!

I know everyone is struggling in this world and I’m not upset with those who can’t donate but I wish people would at least share my posts to increase our chances of survival. My family of 10 relies entirely on this campaign! We need crazy amounts of money for rent, for food, for medicine, for even an unstable internet connection. $100 a day isn’t enough to secure food for all of us, even though it’s a huge amount to give to a stranger. I truly wish what we’ve already recieved was enough 😭

I’m getting really scared now. If people stop helping us, we die. I don’t like it, I’m very embarrassed about it, but it’s the truth. Please don’t let us die. Please at least share this post if you see it.

✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #347 )✅

PLEASE DONATE HERE

(This was posted by a friend on Rawan’s behalf due to the telecommunication blackout going on in Gaza)

[sluttyminghao]

♡ title: signed, sealed, ruined ♡ pairing: CEO!seungcheol x afab!reader ♡ genre: smut ♡ word count: 4.1k ♡ smut warnings: dom!CEO Seungcheol, elevator sex, brat taming, semi-public, dirty talk, possessive behavior, hand over mouth, fingering, skirt play, light choking, overstimulation, risk of getting caught, power imbalance, hair pulling, spit, whispered sexual threats, praise + degradation mix, restraints, talk of breeding, spanking ♡ 2/13 in the Thirteen Temptations Series ♡ a/n: thank you to @supi-wupi and @flowerwonu for beta-ing for me and giving great feedback! i hope you guys enjoy the next installment of the thirteen temptations series!

Your friends had warned you about him before you took the well-paying job in the new law firm downtown.

“Don’t get involved with the boss.” “He’s intense.” “You’ll either get promoted… or ruined.”

But you weren’t scared of their words, or even the picture they’d sent you that portrayed a young and handsome CEO. You were too good at what you did, especially after all the experience you’d had in several other law practices.

For six busy months, you played the role of star employee and assistant perfectly. Buttoned-up blouses, polite smiles, no extra glances. You sat across from the CEO, Choi Seungcheol, in weekly meetings that almost had you falling asleep, you kept eye contact when he praised your work in that deep, velvety voice that sent shivers down your spine and warmth spreading in your abdomen, and tried so hard to ignore the way he looked at you like he wanted to bend you over the conference table.

But this week? This week was when you felt something shift. He started calling you into his office more often over little things, like reports not having a specific stamp on them, and even started watching your lips with great interest when you spoke. He also started brushing past you in tight hallways, close enough to feel the heat of his muscular body.

And tonight… he’s kept you late, going over monthly reports that could have been easily done the following day. You’re in the boardroom, all alone with him. You’re tired and annoyed. You’re also on edge, partially from the hunger and partially from the hungry stares he’s sending your way.

You hand him the report. “Anything else, sir?”

He doesn’t take it from you. Instead, he stands from his chair and walks around the table, and stops right in front of you. Then:

“You wore perfume today.”

Your breath catches, not expecting him to say what he just did. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not the one you usually wear.” His voice is low. “This one is sweeter, more… distracting.”

You stiffen, your heart racing against your ribcage, as you try to keep your shoulders squared, hoping to make yourself appear bigger than you feel. “Did you really keep me here this late just to talk about my perfume?”

He leans down with a smirk; he’s close enough to smell you again. Close enough to make your thighs clench.

“No,” he says. “I kept you here because I’m tired of pretending I don’t think about fucking you in my office.”

Silence.

Your heart pounds. You don’t know whether you should walk away now and risk losing your job or say something professional to hopefully keep the peace.

Instead, you whisper, “Then do it.”

And that’s all it takes. You expect him to kiss you but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses his hand to your lower back and walks you out of the board room and into his private office, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

“You know what this is?” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you hungrily.

“I think so.”

“No,” he says simply. “You don’t.”

He steps behind you, slow and confident, his mouth hovering near your ear.

“I’ve wanted to ruin you since the first day you walked in here,” he says, his voice wraps around you like dark silk, and envelopes you coolly. “All this time, I’ve watched you pretend that you’re not affected by me. You’ve been sitting across from me in those tight skirts, crossing your legs like you didn’t want me to see what was underneath.”

He spins your chair, kneels between your legs, and slides a hand up your calf.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. Instead, you whisper. Your voice cracking slightly, “I wore the lace ones, all for you.”

That’s when his facade drops, and he simply cracks. He doesn’t rush anything, not yet. He takes his time to unbutton your blouse like it offends him, his dark eyes locked in on every inch of skin that protrudes as he finally rids you of the useless material. He kisses down your sternum slowly and pushes your bra down, exposing your nipples to the cool air of his office.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Already trembling for me, so cute.”

You gasp as he lifts you onto the desk, pulls your thighs apart, and kisses the inside of your knee. “Gonna show me what I’ve earned?”

When he sees the lace hugging your body in all the right places, the black colour immediately draws his eyes in. He notices the delicate trim on the edges, and also the panties being super soaked. He groans loudly, his forehead pressing into your thigh, almost as if he’s trying to hold back.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says. “And you’re all mine now.”

~~~~~

His tongue on you is completely relentless.

He holds your thighs open and makes you take every slow, dragging stroke. He moans into you, sloppy and hungry like he’s starved. You cum fast, too fast, and he doesn’t stop, oh no, he just keeps licking and sucking, his fingers pumping into you until your legs shake and your moans are ragged.

“You can give me more,” he grunts, lust taking control of his body. “I know you can.”

He stands up and removes his fingers from you, his pants quickly undone by his deft fingers, before he pushes your body back against the polished desk where you’d sat with him earlier to go through the week’s tasks and how to delegate them to staff.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s slow, deep, and in a way like he was finally claiming you, you realise that you’ve never felt like this. You feel full, and you feel owned.

“Look at me,” he pants through harsh thrusts, sweat beading on his forehead. “Tell me who’s fucking you.”

“You are,” you breathe, feeling the coil in your abdomen tightening with each thrust. “Sir.”

He smirks darkly. “Damn right.”

He pounds into you hard enough to shake the desk, growling praise between gritted teeth:

“So tight. So fucking good for me.” “I’ve waited so long to make you mine.” “No one else will ever touch you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

You cum again with his name on your lips, body trembling.

And he follows not long after, pulling out with just enough time to spill his load over your thighs, groaning your name like a confession.

He helps you sit up, his large hands smoothing your hair, kissing your jaw like he didn’t just wreck you.

“You okay?”

You nod, still breathless. “You?”

He smiles. This time, when he smiles at you, it’s real and soft. “I’ve been waiting for that since your second interview.”

He helps you dress again, his hands lingering too long on your body, especially over your chest and waist. And just as you open the door to leave, he grabs your wrist firmly and murmurs:

“You’re not just my assistant anymore. You’re mine.”

~~~~~~~

Your thighs are still trembling.

You thought you were done after the first orgasm, but you’d truly underestimated just how much control Choi Seungcheol had been holding back. He stands in front of you now, his shirt open, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might break his teeth, his toned, muscular chest rising with each breath. His eyes have taken on a dark and ravenous edge; they don’t leave yours even as he brushes his thumb through the slick between your legs and pushes it between his lips.

“I can’t get enough of this, you taste so fucking sweet,” he growls, sucking slow.

Your breath catches, and your pulse quickens. He grins at you again, dark and hungry. “And you think I’m finished with you? Oh no, I’m not anywhere near done with you.”

He lifts you again effortlessly, placing you back on the desk, your heels hanging off the edge. Then he sinks to his knees, his broad shoulders immediately locking your thighs open, his hands gripping your waist tightly.

“You don’t get to walk out of this office until I’ve made a mess of you.”

His tongue is filthy. He doesn’t tease anymore; he utterly devours you. He eats you like a manthat has been starved for weeks, like this is what he’s been dreaming about in late-night meetings and cold boardrooms.

You arch your back as high as it will allow, panting, and your legs kicking against his shoulders, but he simply holds you down harder and flashes a warning glance up at you from between your thighs.

"Stay still," he mutters, eyes up through his lashes. “Or I’ll tie you to the fucking desk.”

You cum again, this time with his name broken and desperate on your lips, and he doesn’t stop at all. He simply laps it all up, his mouth slick and greedy, begging for more.

“Cheol- I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he groans harshly, pulling himself back briefly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I’m not done showing you who you belong to.”

He stands, eyes blazing with greed and lust, and slaps your ass hard enough to leave a red print in the flesh as he turns you over, muttering phrases under his breath as he continues to cover your skin with handprints.

“You think I didn’t notice you parading around the office in this tiny skirt?” Smack. “You think I didn’t see how your eyes drop to my hands in every meeting?” Smack. “You wore this lace shit under your dress-” he yanks your ruined panties halfway down your thighs- “and expected me to behave?”

He lines himself up, grinds himself teasingly against your soaked entrance until you’re whining and trembling, and then leans down to whisper in your ear:

“Say thank you.”

You do. And he gives it to you. It’s hard, deep, and devastating on your insides as he pounds into you. He grips your throat, just tight enough to make your vision blur and your breathing changes as he fucks you through it, his hips snapping into yours with obscene force.

You can feel every inch of him rattling in your teeth. You can hear the desk creak under the pressure and force he’s using to fuck his thick cock into you. You can also vaguely feel his sweat drip onto your back as you claw at the desk, hoping that you can stay grounded in some way.

And through it all, his voice is low, feral, and best of all, possessive.

“You’re mine, all fucking mine.” “I’ll ruin every man who’s ever looked at you.” “You’ll cum when I say, and not before.”

Your body obeys him, even with the slightest touches, and you don’t even fight it. He pulls you up by the hair and makes you look into the dark reflective glass wall.

“Look,” he growls. “Watch yourself take me.”

And when he pulls out after a few moments of watching yourself in the glass, you barely even register what’s happening before he turns you around, drops to his knees yet again, and licks you completely clean.

Your thighs shake, and your hands scramble for purchase on any surface they can reach. He doesn’t stop until you're sobbing. When he does finally let you breathe, he lets you collapse back into his leather chair whilst still trembling; he fixes your skirt and adjusts your shirt,  and wipes your smeared lip gloss off your cheek, before he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“You’re never working under anyone else again,” he murmurs. “You understand me?”

You nod, dazed. But then he leans down, eyes still full of fire and also something else, more honest; a promise.

“No, I want you to look at me,” he demands. “Say it.”

“…I belong to you.”

That smile. That smirk. That fucking spark of danger behind his eyes that tells you he’s nowhere near done with you.

“Good girl.”

~~~~~

He picks you up in a car that still smells like leather and expensive cologne. You sit beside him in the back, your legs crossed and fingers clenched, still reeling from what he did to you in his office only a few hours ago.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, his large hand settling firmly on your thigh.

You swallow. “I’m processing.”

He smirks. “Good. You’ll need a clear head.”

Because when you walk into his penthouse, you realise something: This is not the space of a calm and collected businessman. It’s sleek, yes. But it’s also dimly lit, furniture all dark velvet, there’s a low jazz tune playing from somewhere you can't quite distinguish, and obsidian glass covering almost all of the place. But something that did grab your attention, there’s a mirrored wall in his bedroom, and a luxurious bar cart stacked with whiskey and other fine liquors. And on the bed, covered with a dark duvet and equally dark satin sheets: a white box with a bright red bow, a stark comparison to the dark room.

You look at him questioningly, and he only nods toward it.

“Open it.”

Inside, a sheer set of black lace lingerie. A pair that, upon inspection, would barely cover anything, as well as a silk ribbon adorning the middle of the bra, accentuating the rest of the lingerie perfectly. Your name is embroidered in the hem, an exquisite touch that only a rich businessman would think of.

“I don’t share,” he says, voice like heat. “And I take my time.”

When you come out wearing it, a few moments later, his eyes darken instantly.

“Turn around.”

You do.

“Now, look in the mirror.”

He stands behind you, his body almost enveloping your own, and wraps a hand around your throat, and speaks into your ear softly.

“This is how I want to see you,” he growls. “Every time you leave my bed. I want you to be messy and marked. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

Then he bends you forward onto the edge of the bed and slides the beautifully embroidered panties down your thighs with agonising slowness.

“Let me see what’s mine.”

You don't get undressed, he peels you open in pieces. Black lace pulled aside. Heels still on, he insisted on your keeping them on. A long piece of black silk is wrapped carefully around your wrists and tied to the headboard securely.

He teases you with his thick fingers first, he’s slow and cruel, circling your clit teasingly until you're whining and thrashing from pure desperation, before finally slipping his fingers inside until you're clenching around them while it feels like the air has disappeared from your lungs.

“Every time I touch you,” he murmurs, “I want you to say thank you.”

And you do. He goes down on you like it’s a fucking ritual, its slow and reverent, even possibly deviant. He sucks your clit every so often just to hear you gasp. He presses two fingers deep into you and curls them until you cry out his name like a prayer.

“You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” he whispers. “Y-Yes-” “Then give it to me. Be a good girl.”

You do. But he doesn’t stop, he can’t stop until he knows you’re a trembling mess who can’t even remember her own name. He undoes the ties on your wrist, rubbing them lightly in an act of adoration that has your heart skipping. He then proceeds to flip you over quickly and takes you face down, his hands holding onto your hair like a lifeline. “You’re so fucking tight after all that?” he groans. “God, I’ll never get enough.”

He unties your wrists and quickly carries you to the mirror, and fucks you standing up, your hand on the glass to stay upright. You can hardly even get yourself to focus, given the power of your previous orgasms, but Seungcheol’s hand wraps around your hair tighter and gives a slight tug, the sting alone helping you refocus.

“I want you to watch yourself take me. Watch how pretty you look falling apart on my fat cock.”

Moments later, he’s laying you back, seemingly slow and gentle for once, and lets you ride him, guiding your hips to hit just the right spot inside of you that has stars dotting your vision and your body lurching forward from pleasure, his fingertips sinking deep into the skin of your thighs as he watches you fall apart for the third time.

“Look at that. My girl’s fucked stupid already.”

You try to catch your breath. Then he murmurs:

“One more.”

He carries you princess style, your limp and trembling form shaking in his arms, into the en suite bathroom. The tub’s already running, you weren't even registering how that would be possible.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, placing you in the warm water. “Took everything like you were made for it.”

He gets in behind you, expensive soap in one hand, the other running down your thigh as you soak in silence.  But then he leans in close and whispers:

“Next time, I’m not pulling out.”

You freeze, his words pulling you out of your fucked out trance momentarily.

“…Cheol.”

“I’ll ruin you properly,” he says, tone low and daring, plush lips against your neck. “I’ll brand you from the inside out.”

Then, softer:

“Only if you want it.”

And you do. God, you do.

~~~~~~

You shouldn’t have done it. Not in front of his staff. Not in that skirt that always has heads turning and everyone staring when you wear it. You also definitely should not have done it when you smiled sweetly at the new intern who handed you a coffee. He was just doing his job after all, and you wanted to thank him.

But you did. Now, because of your actions, Seungcheol’s office door is locked behind you.

Click.

“D’you think I’m cute when I’m pissed off?” he murmurs, his suit jacket coming off in one clean motion, being tossed onto the pleather couch behind you.

You swallow.

“No, sir.”

“Liar.”

He unbuttons his cuffs slowly, knowing it drives you insane, whilst watching you over the rim of his glasses like he’s already decided how many ways he’s going to make you cum. Then: “Panties off. I want you up on the desk.”

You slide them down your legs and throw them haphazardly across the room. Somehow, he catches them mid-air and stuffs them quickly into his blazer pocket.

“For later,” he mutters, smirk growing on his already cocky features.

The moment your ass touches the edge of the cool mahogancy desk, he spins your chair behind him, sits down, and pulls you over his lap.

“Count.”

You barely register the first spank until your breath hitches.

Smack.

“One…”

Smack. “Two—”

“You thought I’d let you flirt with someone else?” Smack. “You’ve got my cum still dripping out of you and you want attention?”

Your legs shake with every spank he gives you, and your thighs and cunt are completely soaked. He grabs you by the jaw and forces you to look at the mirror wall, not even realising how dishevelled your appearance had become in just the few moments you and Seungcheol had been in there.

“Tell me what you see.”

You whisper, voice breaking: “Your slut.”

His grin is filthy and dangerous; it simultaneously scares you and turns you on.

“Good girl.”

He flips you again and presses your chest flat against the cool mahogany, goosebumps erupting over your skin from the sudden contact with the desk. Then, with absolutely no warning from him, he slides his fingers in, slow and deep, curling just right.

You gasp, arching your back high as he starts a brutal pace. He shoves you back down onto the table with a firm hand between your shoulder blades.

“You don’t get to look pretty and bratty and then not get fucked within an inch of your life.”

Then he unzips his slacks, his cock already straining against his boxers, pre cum staining the fabric. When he finally maneuvers himself behind you, he drives himself into you so hard that the desk actually moves with each precise and rough thrust. He pulls out just before you cum again, drops to his knees in a split second and spits on your clit before sucking you through it.

You scream. He grabs your hand, sucks your own fingers into his mouth and says:

“Taste yourself. That’s what disobedience gets you.”

When you're shaking, your lips swollen, and your thighs trembling, he dresses you back up himself. He wipes the utter mess that’s situated between your legs like you’re delicate. He smooths your skirt down and fixes your hair as best as he can with his fingers.

Then, he checks that your panties are still tucked away in his blazer, smirks, and then tucks your panties into his breast pocket and says:

“Get back to your desk. You’ll behave until I decide you’ve earned them back.”

And when you walk out, dazed and ruined, the entire floor sees the flush on your face—and the smirk on his. CEO Choi Seungcheol always gets what he wants.

~~~~~

You shouldn’t have smirked at him in front of the boardroom. You shouldn’t have crossed your legs during the meeting, that too-short skirt riding up, knowing exactly where his eyes would land.

But you did. Now, you’re in the elevator, only you and him. The silence pressed like heat, building up to an inevitable explosion. You can feel him behind you, and it’s almost like the air thickens. His voice drops.

“Think I wouldn’t notice you acting up?”

Before you can respond, he hits the emergency stop. The lights immediately dim, almost mood lighting, as the elevator screeches to a halt between the floors of the building.

Click.

Suddenly, his hand is on your throat, your back is roughly pressed to the mirrored wall, and your eyes are wide as he leans in, his chiselled jaw tight with restraint.

“You’ve got sixty seconds to explain yourself,” he growls. His thigh is already between yours. “Or I make good on everything I said in that meeting.”

Instead of answering, you grind your hips against his thigh. It was almost like a challenge, and his eyes flared with something you couldn’t quite place.

Wrong move.

He spins you around and yanks your skirt up. You’d chosen to go with no panties, just on the off chance Seungcheol wanted to have his way with you again. His growl, feral and low, vibrates against your spine.

“You filthy fucking tease.”

You feel his rough fingers tracing between your thighs. He spits on them and rubs it in. Then shoves two fingers inside you so hard you moan, forehead pressed to the mirror.

“Be quiet,” he hisses. “You want the cameras to catch this?”

You nod.

“Brat.”

He pulls his fingers out just as quickly as he’d shoved them in, and proceeds to shove them into your mouth. “Suck.”

You do obediently, moaning around them, your eyes fluttering shut. Your slick coats his fingers, and he grins wickedly, the kind of grin that says he’s losing control on purpose. Then he crouches slightly behind you, one hand gripping your hair, the other pushing back inside of you, your body reacting immediately.

"God, you’re dripping for me. Standing here like you don’t need to be bent in half.”

He pulls you back onto his fingers again, fucking you open with rough precision, and now your moans are louder.

“Tell me how bad you want to come.”

You pant, “So bad, sir.”

“Then ask for it.”

You stammer, “Please, please let me cum on your fingers, please!”

His hand wraps around your throat again, pressing just enough to make your knees shake.

“You get one. Make it count.”

And when you do, you’re grinding and sobbing his name like a mantra, his eyes locked on your reflection, but he doesn’t stop and doesn't intend to.

“I said one, but I changed my mind.”

He lets go of your neck gently, lips brushing your temple, breath hot.

“Next time,” he mutters, zipping his pants, “I won’t use my fingers.”

He restarts the elevator, but not before he fixes your skirt and straightens your blouse, before moving on to smoothing out your hair like nothing happened. The doors open.

You stumble out, legs barely holding. From behind, he murmurs, calm and composed:

“My office. Five minutes. Don’t you dare clean up.”

[gangle-cult]

GANGLE IN: TADC TRAILER [EPISODE 5]

[uzumaki-is-empty-head]

This is how I cope

[cameronsbabydoll]

can you write a quick blur about if military rage ever caught one of his kids trying to break into the safe you mentioned, that has weapons inside pls? i’m obsessing over this au xx

✧˖°. ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა ✧˖°.

you hear the click before the silence.

it’s quiet. too quiet. the kind of quiet that means someone’s doing something they shouldn’t be.

when you round the corner, rafe’s already there — standing like a statue in the hallway, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw locked. and your son’s kneeling in front of the safe. the safe. the one in the closet, tucked away behind boxes and locked tighter than fort knox.

“get up,” rafe says. voice like thunder. low and dangerous.

your son freezes. turns around slow, guilt painting his whole face.

“i—i wasn’t gonna touch anything, i swear—”

“what the hell were you thinkin’, boy?” rafe snaps, stepping forward. not yelling. worse. quiet and sharp. “this ain’t a toy chest. you wanna play army man? i’ll buy you a damn nerf gun.”

you place a hand on his arm, gentle. grounding.

but he’s locked in now — not just angry. scared. because he’s seen what weapons can do in the wrong hands, and the thought of his kid finding out the hard way makes his blood run cold.

“go to your room,” he mutters finally. “we’ll talk later.”

your son bolts, tears in his eyes.

and when it’s just you and rafe, he sinks down on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.

“i should’ve put it somewhere else. higher up. fingerprint lock. somethin’.”

“he’s okay,” you whisper, kneeling beside him. “you caught him. that’s what matters.”

he nods, slow.

but later that night, you hear him on the phone, ordering a full biometric lock and a reinforced cabinet. and the next day, he sits your son down — really sits him down — and teaches him what’s inside, why it’s dangerous, and how trust is earned, not broken.

✧˖°. ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა ✧˖°.

[zarla-s]

[DELTARUNE CHAPTER 3+4 SPOILERS]

Thinking about why I like Tenna, he's fun, but he doesn't grab me like Spamton does, in spite of them both being OTT flashy weirdos who are sad and attention-starved. On the surface they act pretty similar, to the point where I thought of Tenna as Diet Spamton, but the more I think about it they actually have a lot of really big differences between them. They're almost opposites, actually. What I think it comes down to is their greater themes. Tenna, King, and Queen are all about abandonment/neglect. Spamton, in comparison, is all about failure.

Spamton is a persona non grata in Cyber City, no one ever talks about him and the Addisons refuse to if you try and confront them about it. He has a strange and quirky battle, but if you forget to follow up on him later, he's a footnote in the whole chapter. He's a tiny guy in a big world.

Tenna is the absolute ruler of TV Land and the entire reality of it bends to his whims. He's huge, bigger than life, everything revolves around him at all times. Everything has his face, everyone does what he wants under restrictive contracts even if they don't want to. Tenna IS TV World.

You meet Spamton at his lowest point. He's living in the garbage, no one will talk to him, he has no control or power over anything without manipulating them into giving it to him (usually unsuccessfully). A lot of his dialogue implies he's beaten by other people regularly. He's angry and frustrated and desperate, and he knows he needs a patsy to get out because he can't get out himself.

Tenna in comparison is living the high life. Almost everything is showy and glamorous (except the Z room, which is associated with Spamton). He IS the Big Shot Spamton used to be and wants to be again. He can, like Jevil, do anything.

Spamton wants to be BIG, partly for the attention and power but mostly because he wants to get OUT. He wants to LEAVE the Dark World and become real, not just an object in the shadows trapped by how Lightners perceive him. He wants to escape the fantasy world into reality, ascending into what he thinks is Heaven. He's the only boss that seems to want this, rather than validation from Lightners.

Tenna wants a past that's gone, where he felt like he glued a family together and everyone was happy watching him and being with him. He wants attention and validation and love from Lightners again, promises that he's still relevant and useful as an escape from reality. Tenna wants to stay in an eternal fantasy world and expand and enable it.

Spamton feels trapped by the voice on the phone and reaches out to Kris by saying he can't force them to do anything, that he can tell Kris is desperate for freedom just like he is. He asks Kris to do him favors to get him the body that he thinks will let him become real. He gives himself into their hands as the LoadedDisk because he can't do it himself (normally). Spamton treats and talks to Kris like a potential partner/customer to scam.

Tenna actually seems scared of Kris, saying that he did everything that they told him to. Kris was the one giving the orders, not Tenna. Tenna's desperate to bring Kris back to a time when their family was intact and they were happy and he was valuable and needed, and he tries to force Kris into more games to try and keep them there. Tenna treats Kris fearfully, like his boss or a sponsor he needs to please or he'll suffer the consequences.

Spamton started as a failure and needed outside support from the voice to become a success, which eventually exerted total control over his life, driving him right back into the dumpster. When he was about to share the secret of that "success" with Tenna, the voice scared him into running away, abandoning him.

Tenna was always successful. It seems like rather than a parabola of failure-success-failure, he's just in a steady decline. Tenna has complete control over his Dark World but it doesn't matter, he can't actually change reality in the Light World. Tenna is in the process of failing when we meet him - Spamton has already failed.

Spamton is obsessed with money. The absolute core of his being is scamming people and making money, it defines his existence. He will do literally anything for it.

Money doesn't even work in TV Land. Instead you get points that Tenna doles out (completely at his discretion) that are worthless outside of TV Land. Tenna gives away prizes and points as incentives to stay and pay attention to him. He wants attention more than anything else.

Spamton is a member of a group of Darkners, the Addisons, who all look very similar to each other with some small variations. He spent a lot of time with them as loverscoworkers. Another instance of being a little guy in a big group.

Tenna is one of a kind. There's no other being in TV Land anything like him. Nothing even comes close. He's completely unique.

Spamton doesn't want validation from Lightners. What he wants is the power to get out of the Dark World and become real. He has his own entirely self-focused goals that don't involve Lightners or the Dark World at all.

Tenna will do anything for validation from Lightners, they define his entire existence. Without them he feels purposeless. He's desperate to give Kris the world they want and for Kris to tell him he's doing a good job, essentially. In this, Tenna is very much like Queen and King. He begs you repeatedly to say you love him and to never leave him.

This is just funny to me but Spamton mentions Tenna rarely but Tenna talks about Spamton constantly lol. Spamton just lives rent-free in Tenna's head.

When you beat Spamton, Kris has a breakdown about it, presumably because they see a lot of similarities between their situations (unwilling puppets trapped by forces controlling them, usually coming from a phone) and how Spamton in the end couldn't escape his strings.

Kris on the other hand doesn't seem that upset about what happens to Tenna, even if he dies. Maybe Kris just didn't have a chance to, given the Knight jumps you almost immediately, but that kind of connection that Spamton and Kris have just isn't there with Kris and Tenna.

Spamton can understand the voice on the phone. Tenna, Blue Addison, and the Player cannot.

Tenna (and his death) are foretold in the prophecy. Spamton, so far, is not.

Television was a massive success and defined multiple generations, and, while diminished, still plays a massive part of the media landscape. Spam email has always been a nuisance no one likes and has a very low, if any, success rate, even though it's inescapable. Television platforms ads, Spamton IS an ad.

Spamton has connections to a variety of other Darkners, like Queen, Swatch, Jevil, and the Addisons. Tenna, being the complete center of his Dark World, really only has a connection to Spamton. (They do share a connection with Mike but that's a weird case.)

Tenna is very isolated in his world, with only his lackeys around him that he treats rather badly. Spamton in comparison is surrounded by other people constantly but all of them deliberately ignore him, isolating him in a different way.

Thematically, this matches their respective mediums. TV is a self-contained passive entertainment source that's primarily solitary, although it can be shared if others are nearby. The things you see on TV are tightly controlled and structured. The internet in comparison is a massive eternally expanding collaboration of people constantly interacting with each other - by its nature it's inescapably social and uncontrollable.

Spamton was always doomed to fail. In the end all his dreams are shattered and all he can do is give himself to you as an item to try and help you achieve yours. He can come out of the glasses on occasion but his life on his own as far as we know it is over. This tragedy (and presumably the sick irony of gaining control over Spamton as an item when all he wanted was freedom) is what leads to Kris's breakdown.

Tenna nearly dies but recovers (usually) and starts a new life with Mettaton, who appreciates and promises to care for him. When we leave him, Tenna is off to a brand new fresh start to a happier life. It's a hopeful and heartwarming conclusion to his arc.

There are a lot of things they have in common too of course. They both do like slapping their faces on everything, including their own branded products, haha. They also both want to be successful, in their own ways. They seemed to really like each other at one point and had a good time together! And despite the vast discrepancy in power between them, they're both very alone in their worlds. They both have abandonment issues, although Tenna's manifests as desperation and clinginess while Spamton's manifests as anger and bitterness. They are both in denial about it though lol.

The key thing that broke them up was the person on the phone scaring Spamton into abandoning Tenna right before he was going to tell him the secret of his "success". It seems rather deliberate on the voice's part... I wonder why they did that? I wonder if Tenna knowing the "secret" would have changed the prophecy...

[all-with-angel]

—Doomed by the narrative

❥ Why JJK men wouldn't last in a relationship

❥ Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna

❥ SATORU GOJO

He'd always thought that your relationship was a means to an end. it's not like he doesn't love you, gods no. It's just he had also never thought you two would last as long as you thought it would.

He could never see himself growing old with you. At least, thats what he’d like to say.

In truth, sometimes he’d sit quietly, let himself daydream about a future. The day he’d get wrinkles and he’d kiss yours, cook a smaller breakfast— light and easy, less sugar than when he was younger, before drinking coffee together in the backyard. But he never let himself think about it too much, lest he fool himself into believing it could happen.

There was always this quiet undercurrent, something just beneath the glittering surface of his charm, his teasing smiles, the way he wrapped himself around you like a koala. But Satoru Gojo was the strongest. And the strongest was nothing if not alone.

Maybe you knew that, in some suppressed part of your mind.

He knew it, better than anyone.

Satoru Gojo had a habit of deflecting whenever you’d ask about the future. Something disguised as a joke, something to tease you. But never to answer the question. You’d ask about what plans he had for the two of you, and he’d reply, “Awww~ Thinking that far ahead already? You must love me soo much! Hmmm?~” Right before covering your face in kisses and tickling you, leading you to screech and try to run away— Making you forget what you had asked him in the first place.

He never stopped moving. With the way he flitted from mission to mission, country to country, night after restless night without him beside you. You’d wake up and he was already getting dressed, giving you a quick kiss before going out. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about you. If anything, it was the opposite.

He cared so much, so deeply, it scared him. And Gojo wasn’t used to being scared. Power came easy. Strength was a fact. But loving someone? Choosing someone and staying? That was a whole different battlefield.

He tried of course. But it was just once. One time he let himself be comfortable, one time he let his guard down again. That one time made him realize that he’d have to be vulnerable with you–-- And he couldn’t afford that. Not when your life was on the line too.

Satoru Gojo was born with too much power, too many expectations, too many ghosts clinging to his heels. He was a man meant to die young or live long enough to lose everything. And he knew it. He carried it in his bones, in the way he touched you with hands that never lingered quite long enough. He spoke in half-promises. He held you like you were real and fragile and already gone. Like he had already lost you.

To him, you were always temporary. You were a life raft in a sea of blood. Fleeting, necessary, but never permanent. His reason for keeping you around was selfish. For him. To keep him company. Something fun to distract from his inevitable end. He was a weapon, through and through.

Satory Gojo could never be human with you. 

In the end, he really wasn’t.

❥ KENTO NANAMI

He settled for you. It's not like he doesn't love you, don't get me wrong, it's just that he doesn't love you in the way you love him— You were easy to love, handed to him on a silver platter. You practically threw yourself at him when he was just being nice. Polite. 

He pitied you, really. You could've had better standards. Maybe given him a chase for your love. Make him earn it.

Maybe that's why he chose to settle for you, because you were easy. Because it was quick.

Nanami had always felt like his life was sand falling through his fingers, he felt like he needed to actually live it. And quick. He knew his years on this world as a sorcerer wouldn't be long, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take this chance.

A year after the two of you met, he married you.

Marrying you seemed like the obvious choice to him, he wanted to settle down and have a family anyway. He'd support you through your problems, but not because he loved you, not because he deeply cared for you, but because it was his responsibility. That's what you are to him. Someone to protect, someone to take care of. Not someone to love so deeply that it would have him on his knees.

A year into your marriage with Nanami Kento, the cracks started to show. The perfect paradise that he had set up to keep you with him for longer, shattered.

He overworked himself, for you and our future children, he’d mutter before leaving for work. Nanami would be stressed, coming home late and collapsing into bed. You'd offer to give him some relief, some loving after a month or so of a stagnant bedroom, and he brushed you off like another chore. Later, he gave you flowers and an apology. But he never brought up the subject again. Neither did you.

He prioritized work and it became even worse when he had switched careers— One that he didn’t even tell you about. Nanami was secretive about it. And every night where you’d ask him, his answers would be more vague and different than the last.

You accused him of cheating, tears flowing down your face while he stood stoic in the doorway. Then he sighed. Tired. As if this was a chore.

He comforted you, reassured you that his loyalty lies with you. And yet it all sounded rehearsed, fake. A customer service level performance to soothe you into being calmer. This happened again and again and again and again.

At some point, you couldnt take the secrets anymore. The tired and still feeling of the cold band on your finger feeling like an actual chain rather than the grapevines and flowering start of the relationship.

In the end, you divorced him. Nanami tried to take it to marriage therapy, but after getting shut down once, he simply accepted the fact that you could not love a man that never loved you in the first place.

A few months later, you get a letter from his lawyer saying that he had given everything under his name to you. 

❥ TOJI FUSHIGURO

It wasn’t that Toji didn’t care. He just didn’t care enough to change.

It worked for a while. The fire, the thrill. The sex was good- great, even. Violent in its affection, like he didn’t know how to be soft but wanted to try.

The first time you brought it up, it was quiet– mindless. A gentle, “Hey, could you not leave your weapons all over the place?” as you picked up a blade half-hidden under the couch cushions. Toji had smirked and shrugged, like it was endearing. “Part of the décor, baby,” he said with that cocky grin, pressing a kiss to your temple like it would smooth over the issue.

You laughed, then. You actually laughed. But that laugh started getting harder to find.

It wasn’t just the weapons. It was the blood. The bruises. The fact that he’d vanish for three days without so much as a text or a warning, come home with some half-assed excuse and the stench of blood still clinging to him like a second skin. You knew what he was. Who he was. You weren’t naïve. You didn’t walk into this thinking Toji Fushiguro was some nine-to-five kind of guy with a clean conscience.

Still, you thought— hoped, really, that being with you might pull some of that recklessness back. That love, whatever version he had for you, might temper the edge just a little. But Toji wasn’t the type to be tempered. He was a blade through and through. Cold steel, sharp and uncompromising.

“I just worry,” you told him one night, tired, not even mad anymore— just drained. He’d come home limping, one hand pressed against a wound that looked deeper than he let on, and he was already halfway to raiding the fridge like it was any other night.

“I didn’t die, did I?” he clicked his tongue, cracking open a beer. “What’re you nagging for?” Sharp. Irritated. Like your concern was some bug buzzing in his ear.

Toji hated being told things. That was the real issue. Because he didn’t see it as concern. He saw it as control. And he'd be damned if he let himself be controlled. Every reminder to rest. Every note to clean up after himself. Every request to maybe not take jobs that had a 70% chance of disembowelment. 

He took it all the same way— a leash being thrown around his neck. One all too familiar.

He started snapping more after that. Leaving earlier. Coming back later. You’d find yourself alone more often than not, curled up on the couch, the only proof of his existence a trail of blood-streaked bandages in the bathroom and the faint scent of gunpowder in the air.

You asked him once, annoyed, but you realized too late that you were afraid of the answer–- if he even wanted to be in a relationship.

He gave you a look like you'd asked if grass wanted to be green. “I like fucking you. That not enough?”

You loved him. You really did.

But love wasn’t supposed to feel like sitting on a time bomb, praying it wouldn’t go off while you slept. Wasn’t supposed to drain you as you tried to help him, all the while that help was barely doing anything.

“You want someone domestic,” he said, voice low as he lit a cigarette on the balcony, not even looking at you. “Go find some salaryman, yeah? Someone who’ll do chores with you on Sundays.”

“I want you,” you said.He finally looked at you, eyes flat. “No. You want me different.”

❥ SUKUNA RYOUMEN

He does not know how to love. And while he is fully capable to learn, to choose to love you–- He won’t.  Learning how to love would take him years, if not your entire lifespan to do. Even then, it will be the farthest thing from perfect. Obviously, you never expected Sukuna to love you the way you loved him.

Not with softness. Not with kind whispered words. Before you even loved him, you knew he was different.

You tried, anyway. Gods, you tried.

You were patient with his sharp edges, learned how to navigate his moods like one learns the tides— when to speak, when to listen, when to walk away and let him burn himself out. But you’d still flinch when he’d get mad, yell and reach to break something. The wall, the table— never you, though. 

Not yet, some semblance of self preservation whispered to you.

Still, Sukuna was an untamable storm anyway. You’d act ‘wrong’ and suddenly its your fault that his mood turned sour. You had to walk on eggshells around him, that, or you’d have to quite literally scream your heart out. Fights could last days, weeks. 

Your life with him would be a ticking time bomb, an angry, dangerous man always lingering in your home. And you’d be stupidly naive to think that he’d never raise a hand against you.

Sukuna doesn’t do love. He knows how to tear hearts out of chests, not listen to them beat.

Sukuna was not built to cradle anything he could crush. And you, you would be so easy to destroy. Too easy.  A flick of his wrist, a punch, anything he’d put a sliver of effort into and you would die. He’d thought about it. 

How to kill you. 

The few times he thought about it, something uncomfortable always ate at his chest. But every single time, curiosity also nipped at him. Would you crumble just how he thought you would? Would your bones really crack that easily? 

Would your blood stain him too? Eventually?

The answer is yes. It does.

Masterlist

Ive had this in the draft cave for A MONTH. A MONTH I tell you.

[buckysleftbicep]

all the little moments 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: so, so much fluff

summary: bucky tries to remember the moment he fell for you—but it wasn’t just one. it was every laugh, every late night, every quiet second beside you. and he finally realises, he’s been falling all along.

word count: 4.7k

author's note: hi my loves! i absolutely loved writing this! thank you @buckyismysafehaven for your request 💓 i hope i got it right! thank you guys for reading!! love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

The bedroom is quiet.

Not silent, the low hum of the ceiling fan stirs the air, the soft buzz of the city seeps through the walls, but quiet in the way that wraps around you. It was gentle, familiar and safe.

Outside, the moon is high and full, casting its silver glow through the parted curtains. It spills across the sheets in soft waves of light, catching in your hair, brushing the curve of your cheek. Painting you in silver.

And Bucky—he’s lying there beside you, unmoving, watching you breathe.

He should be asleep.

The day had been long. A mission brief that dragged on, the kind of sparring session that left his muscles aching, a too-quick dinner with the team where he had barely touched his food. He should be out cold.

And he is—just not in a way that lets him rest.

His arm is draped loosely over your waist, the dip of your back pressing into the warmth of his chest. He can feel the steady pull of your lungs, the rise and fall of your breathing, even and peaceful. A little hitch in every inhale, like your body forgets it’s safe and has to relearn the rhythm. 

He knows that feeling. A little too well. 

You make a quiet sound in your sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur. and it knocks the air from his chest. A fragile, instinctive kind of sound that’s so you it aches. Like your soul is brushing against his without even knowing it.

It never gets easier—loving you.

Not because you’re difficult to love. God, no. 

You’re the easiest thing he’s ever known. That’s what scares him. That’s what keeps him awake tonight, blinking into moonlight and trying to gather the pieces of a feeling that’s far too big to hold.

Because it crept in quietly, and it stayed loud.

Sometimes, like now, he finds himself trying to trace it. Trying to find the precise moment it all shifted, the second everything inside him stopped running, and turned toward you.

There had to be a moment. Right? One blink. One breath. One laugh. One look.

Where something inside him softened, where the walls cracked just wide enough for you to slip through. Where you reached him, not the soldier, not the weapon, not the caution-taped pieces of a man, but him. 

The part no one else could seem to find.

Was it when you touched him like he wasn’t fragile? Like your hands already knew how to hold what everyone else had dropped?

Was it when you argued with him about The Princess Bride at 3 in the morning, eyes bright, voice sharp, utterly unafraid of him?

Was it when he realised he wanted to argue with you forever, just to keep hearing you talk?

He doesn’t know. Not really.

But the question sits heavy in his chest tonight. Settles into the quiet like a second heartbeat.

When did he fall for you?

He looks at you again.

The moonlight makes you glow, not in some poetic metaphor, but really. Soft skin and warm breath and shadows curving at your jawline like you were carved for this moment. 

There’s a crease between your brows, like you’re dreaming of something that doesn’t quite sit right. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb. Wants to take whatever burden you’re carrying and hold it himself.

But he doesn’t move. Just watches.

And maybe that’s what love really is.

Not always doing. Just being. Being the one who notices the little things.

How your lip quirks when you’re about to wake. How you press your face into the pillow when the wind howls. Or how you always keep one arm out of the blanket, even when you’re freezing.

His fingers twitch, aching to touch, memorise and hold you.

He breathes in slow, careful. Like if he’s too loud, he might wake you.

And again—

When did he fall?

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t echo. It’s not a scream or a cry or a revelation. It’s just there. Steady. Present. Just like you.

Maybe it wasn’t one moment at all.

Maybe it was a thousand tiny ones, the quiet seconds, split between laughter and comfort and breathless stares, that slipped past him before he ever realised how deeply they mattered.

Maybe he’s still falling. Even now.

He exhales, a soft breath ghosting past your ear, and shifts closer. His arm tightens slightly around your waist, not possessive. Just something quieter. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. 

You don’t wake. But you shift in your sleep, inching back into him, like your body knows the shape of his even in dreams.

And Bucky closes his eyes, chest full, heart aching in the best way.

Mind already drifting—

To the first time he laughed wholeheartedly. To the night you stayed up talking.

To all the pieces that led to this moment.

It started with the smoke alarm.

Loud, relentless and shrill enough to pierce vibranium.

Bucky was halfway down the hall when he smelled it—burnt sugar, maybe?

Burnt something. The scent clawed at his throat. He picked up his pace, boots heavy against the tile as the shrieking alarm dragged on.

By the time he burst into the kitchen, it looked like the aftermath of a food fight staged in a war zone.

Yelena stood frozen near the stove, oven mitt dangling from her fingers, smoke curling from a tray of what used to be croissants.

John was shouting something about protocol and “fire triangle theory,” which no one was listening to.

Alexei was on his knees in front of the smoke detector, swatting at it with a spatula like it had insulted his mother. Ava was holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a coffee mug in the other like it was a normal Thursday.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bowl of batter still in front of you. Perfectly calm.

And then—

The tray slipped from Yelena’s hands. It hit the stove with a loud clang. A poof of flour shot up like an airbag.

Alexei screamed. Loudly. Dramatically. “MY EYES—”

And amidst all of it—no panic. No drama. Just your voice, clear and dry, like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to land.

“This is why we don’t get invited to normal places.”

Dead silence.

Then chaos—again, but different.

Yelena cracked first. Let out a wheeze so sharp it echoed through the room. John burst into laughter so hard he had to brace himself against the fridge. Alexei wheezed through smoke and tears. Ava didn’t even try to hide it, just laughed into her mug, bright smile on her face.

And Bucky?

He broke.

It started slow—just a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then a laugh. And then another. He bent forward, hand braced against the island, the sound torn straight from his chest like it had been waiting for this moment.

Not the polite kind of laugh he’d give politicians, not the guarded kind.

It was full-body. Shoulder-shaking. Head-tilting-back kind of laugh.

Because it wasn’t just what you said—it was how you said it.

Like you weren’t even trying. Like the disaster unfolding around you didn’t faze you anymore. Like you knew the team too well, and this exact kind of chaos was just another Tuesday.

You didn’t even flinch when they all looked at you, faces red and breathless, wiping tears and coughing from the smoke.

You just raised your brow and added,

“Honestly guys, this is better than last week. No stitches this time.”

Yelena doubled over.

John made a choked sound, grin on his face as he sighed.

Alexei, wiping flour off his face mumbled “she right”

And Bucky—he couldn’t stop laughing. 

He didn’t want to. Not yet.

Because for once, the heaviness in his chest had cracked wide open. And inside it, there was nothing but light. Laughter. And you.

He watched you move through the chaos—grabbing a towel, waving smoke away from the oven, nudging Yelena gently out of her daze.

You weren’t flustered. You weren’t demanding praise.

You were just holding them all together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And god, you were funny. Not in a loud, performative way. You didn’t crack jokes for the sake of attention.

You just saw the absurdity and named it. Softly. Calmly. With perfect timing. And somehow, that made it so much worse—for his composure.

Later, when the kitchen had been aired out, when the croissants had been buried in the trash like fallen comrades, and everyone had migrated to the common room to recover, he sat beside you on the couch.

Not too close. But close enough.

You were reading something, feet tucked beneath you, hair still dusted with flour.

He watched you for a long time before he spoke. Then, quietly:

“You always that calm in a crisis?”

You didn’t look up. “What, like emotionally or logistically?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. Shook his head. “Both.”

You finally glanced over at him, eyes warm, the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

“It’s a talent.”

He was quiet for a second. The team had settled into the kind of silence that comes after shared laughter — breathless and soft, like they’d all needed it and didn’t even know.

Then he said it. Low. Honest.

“I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

You turned to face him fully then. The teasing gone. Smile still there, but quieter now—softer, edged in something that looked a lot like understanding.

You didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Just held his gaze and said:

“Then I’m glad I got to be the one.”

And for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

That warmth. That steadiness. That way you made everyone feel like they belonged — even him.

Especially him.

The memory drifted, softened— —and now, here he was.

The quiet of your shared room, the soft rustle of blankets as he shifted onto his back, careful not to wake you.

You were curled against him, one leg tangled with his, your hand resting gently against his chest like it had always belonged there.

He lied beside you in the dark, the bedroom quiet except for the steady sound of your breathing. Moonlight poured through the half-open curtains, painting silver across your cheek, the slope of your shoulder.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched. And thought about that moment. 

“I think it started then,” he thought, “when you made me feel like I could laugh again," he admitted to himself.

Because it wasn’t just the joke. It was you.

And all it took was one fire, one broken croissant tray, one perfectly timed line, and he’d started to fall.

It came to him out of nowhere.

One moment, Bucky was lying in the dark beside you, still, warm, breathing in the quiet. And the next, his mind wandered.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the curl of your fingers resting gently against his ribs, the safe, rhythmic hush of the night—it pulled him under. 

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the bedroom anymore. He was somewhere else.

A kitchen. A memory.

Not a loud one, just something small and steady. One of those moments that pressed itself into the shape of him when he wasn’t looking.

The music had been low—some oldies playlist shuffled into a classic. Something bright and brassy. The kind of beat you couldn’t ignore if you tried. He couldn’t even remember the song now, just the way it had felt: light and loose and alive.

And you—you were dancing.

Wearing one of his shirts that he had lent you and never got back. Too big, too soft, the sleeves stopped at your elbows and the hem just barely covered your thighs. Bare feet on the kitchen tiles. A wooden spoon in your grip like a microphone as you swayed and spun.

He’d only meant to get water. But the second he stepped into the room, he stilled.

You hadn’t seen him. Not yet. You were lost in the music, mouthing the lyrics like they belonged to you, hips moving with the kind of ease that couldn’t be faked. The stove hissed quietly behind you, some sauce or soup still bubbling. Alpine wove around your legs, tail flicking, like she’d been part of the choreography all along.

Bucky leaned against the frame and watched.

You danced like no one had ever told you not to. Like the world didn’t weigh on you. Like there was still magic left in the mundane.

You twirled again, laughing as your spoon nearly slipped from your hand. The music glitched—just for a beat—but you didn’t stop. Just clicked your tongue and spun again, sliding across the floor like you owned it.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t realized he was smiling until his face hurt. Hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out on a soft exhale that didn’t sound like his own.

There was a light in you.

Not flashy, not bright like a star. But steady. Warm. Like a candle left in a windowsill, stubborn against the wind.

You moved like someone who had known darkness—but chose not to live there. Someone who had every reason to be bitter and decided to choose joy instead. It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t naive, it was real.

And it gutted him.

That warmth bloomed in his chest again now, in the present—slow, consuming. The same one he’d felt. Familiar and still somehow too big to name.

The song ended. You turned, startled, a little breathless, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “How long have you been standing there?”

He crossed his arms, leaning casually. "Long enough to question your multitasking skills."

You flushed, stirring the pot without meeting his gaze. “You’re lucky these aren’t burnt.”

“I’d eat them anyway.”

The way you looked at him, then—surprised, soft, like something shifted in the air.

The silence between you held.

You turned back to the stove. “You want some?”

He hesitated. “In a minute.”

The moment passed—but it stayed

And now, in the hush of the bedroom, with your hand curled over his chest and your breath warm against his skin, Bucky thought about it again, felt that moment again.

That light. That laughter.

The ache that wasn’t pain at all—just a kind of fullness that made him feel like maybe he could be more than just what the world had left behind.

And now, Bucky wondered:

"Was it then? When you were just... dancing like the world hadn’t broken you?"

Because maybe that’s when it started.

When you had slowly weaved through the cracks of his walls and into his heart.

Bucky sighed as he turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. You were still fast asleep beside him, breath soft against his shoulder. The next memory played before he could stop it.

It came back to him on a night that had crept in colder than most.

The compound's heater had broken down days ago, and despite the team’s best efforts, namely John wrestling with the thermostat and Alexei threatening it with a wrench, it hadn’t come back to life. 

Blankets had been hoarded, socks pulled up over sweats, and everyone resigned themselves to the kind of chill that sank into the bones.

Bucky hadn’t minded at first. Cold didn’t bother him the way it used to. 

Not really. 

But tonight—it was more than the cold. His thoughts had been loud. Restless. The kind of noise he couldn’t drown out, not with sparring, not with long walks through snow-covered paths around the compound. They followed him, nipping at his heels, dragging him into a version of himself he was always trying to stay ahead of.

By the time he made it to the common room, his breath puffed out in faint clouds. His sweatshirt hung heavy on his frame, damp at the collar from the wind. His shoulders ached. And all he wanted was quiet—the kind that didn’t echo.

And then, he saw you.

Curled into the corner of the couch like a storybook illustration, knees tucked beneath you, wrapped in that oversized knitted throw you always stole from the armchair. A book was open in your lap, pages bent slightly from how long you’d been holding it, your eyes locked on the words like they held the entire world.

The fire Alexei had finally gotten going crackled low in the old fireplace in the corner casted flickering gold across your features. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, it was quiet, peaceful.

And Bucky…he stopped.

Stopped in the doorway. Stopped breathing, maybe. Just for a moment.

Because there was something in that image—something so quietly lovely it rooted him to the spot.

You were frowning slightly at the page, brows furrowed, lips parted like whatever twist had just hit the plot caught you off guard. 

Your whole body was slack with comfort, one arm burrowed beneath the blanket, the other resting on the back of the couch as if it had always known that spot. 

Like you belonged there. Like you always had.

He didn’t want to disturb you. He didn’t want to move at all.

Eventually, though, you looked up. Caught him standing there, halfway between the hall and you.

You smiled.

It wasn’t big or showy. Just soft. Familiar.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You look cold.”

He was, now that you mentioned it. He just hadn’t felt it before.

You lifted the blanket wordlessly, just a small shift of your hand, a space made beside you.

A quiet offer.

And Bucky—he crossed the room like he always meant to. Sat down. Let the weight of the day and the cold and everything else fade when the blanket draped over both of you.

The heat of you soaked into him slowly. Your thigh pressed into his. Your arm settled back across the couch, fingers brushing his shoulder like a second thought.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You just turned another page.

He leaned back, let the fire crackle, let your presence ground him.

Time passed like that. He didn’t keep track. Didn’t care to, he just sat with you. In the warmth you created.

He didn’t even know the book. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was how peaceful you looked. How easily you shared your quiet with him. 

No expectations. No forced conversation. 

Just… space. 

Yours. His.

Shared.

Now, lying beside you in bed, your hand warm against his chest and your breath soft against his neck, Bucky thought of that moment again.

The space you made for him without asking why he needed it.

And he thought, "maybe it was then. When you gave me quiet without asking for anything in return."

Because love hadn’t broken down his door. It hadn’t come with grand gestures.

It had arrived in a soft smile and a space made beside you.

And he’d been falling ever since.

He’d already fallen for you. Bucky knew that now, as clearly as he knew his own name. He didn’t remember when it had started—not exactly.

Maybe it had crept in slowly, like water seeping through old stone, maybe it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be noticed.

But it was that night, that quiet, aching night—somehow made it undeniable.

It didn’t just confirm what he felt for you, it was carved into him.

It was one of those nights, the kind that made sleep feel impossible.

The storm outside had rolled in sometime past midnight, all low rumbles and steady rain, tapping against the windows like a lullaby with no melody. 

Thunder growled like it had bones to pick with the sky, and the wind sighed through the corridors of the compound, long and low. Not quite violent. Just persistent. Just enough to keep the restlessness in Bucky’s bones humming.

He hadn't even tried to sleep. Not really. His body ached, not from pain, but from presence—that awful, too-familiar feeling of being in it. In his own skin, in his own mind, too aware of the quiet, too aware of the weight in his chest that never quite left. There were nights when it dulled. Nights when he forgot. But tonight, it sat there, aching.

So he drifted.

Down the halls, past the rooms with closed doors and quiet breathing. Until he found himself in the common room, drawn by the dim glow of a flickering emergency light and the faint shuffle of movement.

You were there.

Blanket draped over your legs. One arm cradled around a cup of tea, the other curled beneath your head. The couch sagged gently beneath your weight. You looked up when he entered, eyes soft, tired—but not surprised.

“You too?”

He nodded. “Storm’s loud.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “Or maybe our minds are louder.”

That made him huff a quiet sound. Not a laugh, exactly. But close.

You gestured at the couch. “Come sit? Might as well not sleep together.”

He blinked, and you immediately made a face. “You know what I meant.”

He chuckled under his breath and took the spot beside you. You shifted to make room, the blanket spreading to cover both your legs. The warmth of you hit him slowly, like a tide instead of a flame. No rush. No pressure. Just there.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The quiet stretched—but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt full. Like a space that had been waiting for the both of you to fill it.

You were the first to break it.

“Okay. Worst date you’ve ever had.”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him, mouth tugged in a sleepy grin. “Worst date. Everyone’s got one. Don’t say you don’t.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Alright. ‘42. This dame fell asleep halfway through the movie. Woke up, asked who I was.”

You snorted. “Wow.”

“Yeah. I think she thought I was someone else the whole time.”

Your laugh was soft, real. “That’s kind of impressive.”

“Your turn.”

“Blind date. The guy said he ran a startup. Which turned out to be code for unemployed. Also wore crocs to our date. Bright yellow ones.”

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You nodded. “And I stayed for the entire dinner. So really, I lost.”

He laughed. You did too. It bloomed between you—gentle, quiet joy. The kind you didn’t have to earn. The kind that just happened.

The storm rumbled again. But it didn’t feel so loud now.

“Steve used to love nights like this,” Bucky said, almost absentmindedly.

You turned slightly, your smile fading into something softer. “Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes on the ceiling. “We’d sneak out of camp sometimes. When we could. We would sit on rooftops and talk about what we would do when the war was over.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let him go on.

“He always said he’d find a place with a porch, you know the real quiet ones. Said he wanted peace, but not too much of it. The kind that makes you grateful.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Did you ever find a place like that?”

His throat worked. “Not really.”

“Maybe not a porch,” you said, gently. “But you found the peace part. Or you’re getting there.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in him shifted.

You leaned forward slightly, knees brushing his. “I miss her,” you said. “Nat. I still hear her voice sometimes when I train, telling me to keep going, that I always had it in me.”

“Bet she’d be proud,” he said softly.

“I hope so. She always saw more in people than they saw in themselves.”

You were looking at him when you said it. Not pointedly. Just… truthfully.

His hand was resting on the couch between you. Yours wasn’t far.

The room felt warmer now. Not from the storm. Not from the tea. Just you. Sitting close. Speaking like it was safe. Like the night wasn’t so long. Like maybe this was the kind of quiet Steve had meant.

You nudged his foot gently with yours. “We’ve both lost a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… I’m starting to think not everything is gone.”

Your fingers touched. Neither of you moved.

You looked down at them—just barely brushing. Then up at him again.

“Do you ever think about the moments that change everything?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I think this might be one of them.”

And there it was.

That ache in his chest that wasn’t painful. That warmth that was too big to name.

He didn’t kiss you. You didn’t kiss him.

But your faces were inches apart, your breaths mingling. You leaned your head onto the couch cushion. He turned to face you, his eyes steady on yours.

The silence returned—but it wasn’t empty. It was full.

Of everything unsaid. Of everything still coming.

You fell asleep like that. Fingers laced. Breaths in sync. Noses almost touching.

And Bucky stayed awake a little longer.

Just to look at you. Just to be there.

Because something about that night—the laughter, the closeness, the weightlessness—felt like more than a memory.

It felt like a beginning.

Was it that night? he wondered, when I didn’t want to fall asleep because I didn’t want to stop looking at you?

Maybe.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Or maybe he’d been falling long before.

But this? This was the moment he knew.

The room was quiet. Not silent—just full of the kind of stillness that came when everything had settled. The kind that felt earned. The kind that made you want to breathe softer, like even sound might disturb it.

Bucky lay there beside you, his chest rising slow, your body warm against his. You were curled toward him, fingers tucked near your chin.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

And thought about all the moments that had led here.

The burnt croissants. The laughter. Your laughter. The way you danced in his old t-shirt like nothing in the world had ever broken you. The nights you let him talk about Steve, about the war, about the things he’d lost without flinching. Without pity. Just… listening. Staying.

And that night on the couch when your fingers had found his in the dark, and you’d fallen asleep inches apart like it had always been meant to happen like that.

He thought about all of it.

And this ache bloomed in his chest, not the sharp kind. Not the kind that clawed. But a full ache. Heavy and thick and alive. Like love had taken root somewhere behind his ribs and grown too big to contain.

Because he knew. He knew.

It hadn’t been just one moment. It had been all of them.

A quiet accumulation of grace. Of breathless laughter and wordless comfort, of light handed to him again and again, until he finally believed it was his to hold.

Every glance, every silence, every shared second where you just let him be, all of it had been falling. Quiet and certain. Like gravity, like truth.

He didn’t know how to carry something this soft. This good. But god, he wanted to try. He wanted to hold it right. Carefully. Like it was something sacred.

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You stirred, just barely, and leaned into him, like your body knew his touch even in sleep. 

Like something in you had decided that he was the one..

He pressed his forehead to yours.

Closed his eyes.

"It was always you," he whispered, voice low and raw. 

And it was true.

He hadn’t just fallen in love with you—he had unraveled into it. Slowly. Completely. Like warmth spreading through frostbitten limbs. Like air returning to lungs that didn’t know they’d been holding.

He loved you.

So deeply it scared him. So honestly it steadied him.

Not in grand gestures, but in quiet knowing. In the way your presence never demanded anything from him. 

He kissed your temple, slow and steady, and the weight in his chest didn’t crack this time. It settled.

"I love you," he said, softer now. 

Like it had always been true. Like it would always be.

Just a twitch of your mouth. Just enough to let him feel it again, that bloom. That quiet, endless warmth.

He stayed like that, forehead against yours, hand cradling your waist almost as if you were something precious. 

Someone he'd never stop choosing.

Because for once, Bucky wasn’t afraid of loving someone this much.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this!! i hope this love finds all of us! 💖

[murasakiyams]

I really like to believe that if you were dating Suguru and Satoru, Satoru’s clinginess would rub off onto Suguru. But not as badly, but I think he’d have his days.

It’s just one of those nights where you wake up hot, sticky, and with the urge to piss. slowly climbing out of bed, careful not to wake up the two men who swore you needed to be sandwiched between them to be safe.

It takes about 30 seconds max for Suguru to shift in his sleep to realise you’re not there. His eyes are still closed, but he’s patting his hand on the bed like you’re the lost remote on the couch. He’s mumbling shit till he finally opens his eyes and sees you’re not there, and oh boy, he doesn’t like that. He hates the fact that when he woke up, you’re not there beside him with Satoru, sleeping peacefully.

you finish your business, rolling up your pants when you hear a sudden deep voice that scares the fuck out of you.

“babe?”

“fuck! suguru? why are you up?”

“why aren’t you in bed?”

He won’t admit it, but you and Satoru have seen it enough to know that Suguru whines. And he definitely pouts, but that’s only behind closed doors when he’s away from everyone and nothing else matters but you two.

“Go back to bed, I was just using the bathroom.” You answered, pushing past him to wash your hands. He leans against the wall next to the sink, not saying anything, just admiring you. His eyes are barely open, his hair is such a mess, and his clothes are wrinkled, sweats barely hanging on his hip (yummy), his arms crossed, and that shirt does nothing to help hide those ridiculous big biceps he has.

“Suguru? Y/n?” another voice calls out, and you groan. Satoru always had trouble sleeping, so the fact he was up during this hour meant it was going to take forever for him to sleep. “Here!” Suguru mumbled, and he opened the door to meet a somewhat arguable sleepier Satoru.

“Why aren’t you two in bed?”

“I had to piss.”

“They weren’t in bed.”

You sighed and grabbed their hands, walking to the bed. “OK, are we all good to go to bed now?” you asked them. They both nodded a yes and climbed into bed.

But if we’re going back to talk about Suguru, he does get clingy. He’s the first one to wrap his arm around your waist as you’re facing Satoru, who wraps his arm around your waist. Is it comfortable? Not really. Is it hot and really only works during winter? Yeah. But does it make you feel nice and loved? Yeah. It does.

[blood-smiles]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐓!

꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ

↝ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — TW : yandere character . SFW . Kissing . Slightly suggestive but nothing happens… yet ⁽⁽٩(๑˃̶͈̀ ᗨ ˂̶͈́)۶⁾⁾

꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ۪ꥇ໋۬ ꒷꒦﹋ٜ

So.. You had a crush.

And not a little one, but like a BIG one, possibly the size of a house.

You loved your job because you got to see him everyday, your huge little crush. It may sound cruel, but you were happy that so many people died and needed to get fixed up— So that you could go see the beauty that your heart craves.

Dario Spade. A tall, ravenette with cheekbones that put live action Maleficent to shame, eyes bright as emeralds, chartreuse irises that you could get lost in any day of the week.

You sighed dreamily, wheeling in a dead body with a white sheet over it on a trolley. Your heart beat in your chest with the intensity of a war drum, delicate butterfly wings brushing against the walls of your stomach in a flurry.

You peeked your head into the room where the long haired male stood, writing something down in a black leather notebook.

You gently knocked on the door frame, your hands smoothing your hair before clearing your throat.

“Heeeeey.. What’s cooking, good looking?” You flirted hopelessly, your ancestors face palming from above at your courting attempts.

You leaned against the trolley, sending you stumbling forwards, thankfully Dario had moved swiftly and caught you in his arms.

“(Y—Y/N)!” He called your name with a soft tone of surprise, you batted your eyelashes, the gentle sound of his voice really did feel like the angels were singing a ballad just for you.

His lips moved to form words, and you just stared shamelessly, not even trying to hide your obvious infatuation.

His teeth were pearl white, straight and somehow attractive. You blinked slowly, nodding your head and smiling at whatever he was saying.

Dario.. The man that you are. You thought with no shame as you fidgeted with the buttons of your uniform.

Dario could just stare at you forever, but he didn’t want to scare you off so he just started clearing out the patient bed and carefully placing the new cadaver on the metallic chair.

“What are you doing?” You asked thoughtfully, leaning over to check out what the process of embalming was.

“Just.. Draining blood.” He murmured, looking at you from under his hair, a soft blush forming on his almost sickly pale skin.

“(Y/N).. A-Are you allowed to be here? I think.. That you might get in trouble if your supervisor notices..” 

You shook your head, ironing your shirt down with your palms, cooking up a reply to his sweet concern.

“Nuh-uh.. But you know I would kiss a rotting cadaver for you.” You watched how his body seized up with embarrassment, cheeks burning red again at your strange remarks.

Somehow it worked.

He swiped his split tongue over his bottom lip, a flustered whisper leaving his lips. You didn’t even know what he said, you were too focused on his tongue.

..His tongue must work wonders.

You forced your gaze up, looking into his eyes, only to find that they were already staring at you.

His hand fidgeted with a scalpel in his bony hand, mentally mapping out where he would make small incisions.

He could also practice.. cutting meat for you, so when you come home tired from work he can cut something up for you and feed you.

Just the thought of having a relationship as intimate and domestic like that made blood run south.

Now that he thought about it..

His house wasn’t very far from the mortuary, it was a quaint little flat with little light, just enough for one person or perhaps two.

“A-After I’m done with him would you..” he paused, eyes closing tight as the words climbed up his throat “—Would you like to have some tea with me back at my place?”

He did it, phew. He could swear that blood was about to start dripping down his nose, pressure built up in his chest as he awaited your answer.

“Hell yes.” You didn’t even blink while answering him, a dopey grin breaking out on your lips as you heard the words that you had been hoping for so long.

The drive to his house was smooth, instead of looking out the window at the scenery you found yourself staring at his pretty side profile.

What hair products did he use? No matter what day or hour it was, you always found that the raven hair atop his head was always styled and pristine, glossy even under the dim and cheap lighting of the mortuary.

You had noticed that he had put in some jewelry into his skin, something you were completely unaware about but somehow even more enamored by.

Your dear admirer almost bit a hole through one of his cheeks, his teeth nervously chewing on the soft skin of his inner cheek. It was so hard for Dario to drive and look at you at the same time, it was driving him nuts— It was like a dream having you in his passenger seat.

He had been so nervous since this morning, during his shower he had made up his mind about telling you what he really felt about you— How he followed you home everyday, how he knew things about you that even your own mother didn’t know!

That he sleeps in the same bed with you when you have nightmares, that he watches you bathe and fingers himself on your bed. Today, he made up his mind. He was going to make out with you until you saw stars— Today. He was going to make you allll his.

Dario stood behind you, his palm brushing the small of your back. Your inquisitive eyes roamed his apartment, the first item to greet you being a taxidermy mount of a deer on the wall, you blinked slowly, nodding your head as if approving of the internal decoration.

You were guided to a comfy couch, you know, like the ones that are so incredibly comfortable that you never want to get up from there ever again.

Dario came back to you with impeccable timing, two porcelain teacups in hand, a pleasant odor coming from the both of them, (favorite flavor) tea and.. Damiana tea?

You hummed, thanking him and taking the cup from his hand, sipping contently your warm beverage.

Dario sat beside you, you faced him and he did the same, his knee bounced anxiously.

He looked nervous, his fist tightened around his knee, trying to look into your eyes for longer than two seconds.

His mind completely blank, shit. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to ease you into his confession?

“Remember when we met?” You asked with an understanding smile, helping him out on the conversation topic. His face lit up and a fond smile spread over his face at the precious memories.

The old guy who used to work in your position died, Dario was apprehensive about anyone else other than him really coming into contact. 

He never had an easy time making friends or communicating with others, he felt as if every time he would open his mouth to speak he would get overshadowed by a more extroverted person, or get strange looks for simply commenting on something.

So naturally he was suspicious of you. Were you one of those people who only wanted to befriend him to look better in others eyes? 

He was originally pretty cold and rude to you, he couldn’t allow anyone else into his heart. Not when so many had taken it for granted and trampled all over it like it was nothing.

Dario watched you try and try again to befriend him, he genuinely thought that soon you would grow tired and begin giving the treatment that he gave you. Once, a time he truly regrets, he lashed out on you, going as far as pushing you into a desk corner, accidentally hurting you.

Yet you still stood there, despite getting humiliated and in this occasion, injured, you still mustered a smile, apologizing to him about coming on too hard. 

His heart cracked a little, he looked deep into your eyes, searching for a sign of malice— That you wanted to hurt him too, but he found nothing other than empathy and.. comprehension.

That day his heart melted, Dario let his walls down a little, enough for you to peek at his true self through cracks in the ice fortress he had built, though never enough to let you inside.

He noticed, you were dorky and a hopeless romantic, he couldn’t help but become slowly endeared by you, he wondered if you had practice dark magic on him, charmed him with your otherworldly powers.

He misjudged your character, you were sweet, caring, honest, a horrible flirt but most importantly, a good person.

He had found you. He had placed the scraps of his ruined heart in your hands, with affection and patience you took what was left and carefully stitched it back together.

It wasn’t perfect, there were still deep scars of trauma, open wounds that still needed time to be mended—But he had you now.

And you had him, you could trust him, that he would never hurt you like he had before. Never again.

Dario’s hands trembled around his empty cup, he took deep breaths, his heart beating in his throat. His brain told him to stop, that there was no way that you would ever take interest in a weird hermit like him.

But his heart lead him, it reassured him that you were different, that you would still be by his side even if you didn’t accept his feelings. The thought hurt more than he could handle, but he preferred having you around him even as just a friend rather than leaving you.

“(Y/N). I want to..to tell you something.” He spoke firmly, almost robotically. His hands began to break out in a cold sweat, an uncertain feeling of doom curling around him like dark smoke.

“I-I know we had a bad beginning, but. I really appreciate you, I don’t know what I would be like if you hadn’t come into my life.” His breath shuddered, getting closer and closer to revealing it all.

“Thank you. Thank you for being patient with me. Thank you for everything.” 

“But.. I wanted to tell you something different. I don’t know how you will react, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore— It hurts so bad not knowing..” 

“(Y/N), I.. I think—No, I know that I’m in love with you.” It’s out, Dario thought, his eyes widening at his own words, he didn’t even think he would be able to get it out.

He eyed the bottom of your expression, not being able of meeting your eyes directly. What if you didn’t feel the same way? What if you hated him now?

He rushed to apologize after a beat of silence, oh dear, he had really done it now, hadn’t he?

“I mean! It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way! I-I understand—Ah! Uhm! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that!“ 

His eyes began brimming with tears, you hadn’t said anything yet. He had lost his first and only friend, all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He looked up at your expression finally, expecting to see a disgusted glare, perhaps even a hateful look but he was surprised.

You were shell shocked, your eyes were wide for a moment but the that melted away and a happy smile began to appear on your face.

“I love you too.” You replied, no sappy words or a cringy pickup line this time. Dario was going to cry again, not in dread, but in joy.

He jumped on top of you, his knees beside your hips, he trapped you inside his arms, his hands hovering over your cheeks, waiting for a sign to keep going.

“Sorry! Did I make you uncomfortable—“ he began shifting his body to get off, only to be stopped when your hands gently landed on his waist, keeping him in place where he was.

His cold hands finally touched the warm skin of your face, you watched how his pupils dilated at the soft feeling of your flesh. 

His green eyes really did sparkle like the rarest of emeralds, his pale cheeks gained color, a beautiful blush spread over his cheekbones, he looked like he almost couldn’t believe that this was reality.

He leaned in, looking into your eyes for approval, you nodded. Dario pressed his lips against yours with the softness of a feather, you thought he was going to pull away but were taken by surprise when he changed the position of his hand to grab the back of your head, fingers clutching your hair.

He angled his head, losing himself in the passionate kiss, he wanted to taste all of you, he tasted the flavor of (favorite tea) all in your mouth, it made him wonder if you would allow him to feed you like a baby bird.

He mewled into your mouth, not knowing what to do with this new level of intimacy. Your hands gently landed gently tapped his sides trying to tell him to let you breathe for a moment.

Dario pulled away for a second, he allowed you to take in as much as air as you needed, but just because you stopped doesn’t mean he did too, he pressed loving kisses along your face, beginning at the corner of your mouth then slowly trailing up, over your left cheek, and stopping at your temple for just a second then moving to gently nibble on your earlobe.

You couldn’t help but blush, not knowing that Dario could get this bold. He didn’t stop there, he gently kissed the underside of your jaw, nipping the sturdy bone structure ever so slightly.

He saw the way you averted his eyes, too embarrassed to make eye contact with him. How the roles had reversed, where did that sweet talker he knew go?

He didn’t need to say “I love you” out loud for it to be know, he spelled it out with his tongue already, he’s sure that you understood too.

Dario was breathless and flushed when he pulled away, he wanted to laugh at your face, you looked so surprised that he just wanted to kiss that expression off you.

“Stay over.. please?” He asked so nicely that you couldn’t find it in you to say no, he adjusted his position to sit next to you, with a hand he pushed you down to lay on his lap. His fingers gently patting your head in an attempt to relax you.

Dario would never let you go now. Or ever.

[botchedbrat]

“fuck, baby. i really can’t get enough of your mouth.” mark moans from above you, watching the way you take him into your mouth while gripping the arms of his chair.

you’re on your knees in front of the company’s ceo. it’s actually not the first time either. how you ended up here, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you really love having your boss’ cock in your mouth.

“aren’t you scared you’re gonna get caught fucking your little employee?” you tease, pulling your mouth away to pump his cock wet with your spit.

“don’t give a fuck, baby. i’m the fucking ceo.” he pulls your head back by your hair and you moan at the sting in your scalp.

“get up.” he says, hand still in your hair, bending you over his desk.

“love it when you’re rough with me.” you moan, pushing your ass onto him.

“gonna give you a promotion after this.” he whispers under his breath as he lines his tip up with your entrance.

you both moan when he bottoms out. he gives a couple slow thrusts before picking up the pace. he places one hand on your hip and the other trails up your spine and makes its way into your hair again, pulling your head back.

“oh fuck. love your cock so much.” you bite your lip, lifting your upper half off his desk so your back meets his chest.

“yeah? love getting fucked by your boss, baby?” removing his hand from your hair to rest it on your stomach.

“yes.” you drag the word out. hands coming up to play with your tits. “wanna cum on your cock.”

“think you deserve that?” the hand on your stomach moves to your jaw, turning your head to look at him.

and that’s when you really get to admire him, mark lee. a man who doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body, who doesn’t use his powerful position to treat his employees like shit, who treats you with such respect maybe that’s why you’re constantly on his knees for him.

“wanna be yours, mark.” you sniff not even realizing your eyes had begun to water until he wipes a tear away.

mark lee the sweetest man you’ve ever met. even with his long hair covering his eyes he still looks the prettiest.

he leans in to kiss you, hand holding the back of your head. and that’s when he cums, tongue in your mouth and taking in your confession.

he turns you around so you’re laying on your back on his desk. continuing to make out with you while thrusting to make sure you finish. he always makes sure you finish too.

“mark,” you grip his bicep and look up at him with teary eyes. “cumming.”

“go ahead, baby.” placing soft kisses on your neck. mark’s never told you this because he never thought you’d feel the same, but he’s been in love with you from the moment he saw you, as cliche as it is. why he didn’t just confess his feelings instead of fucking you in his office everyday? he didn’t know, but he for sure wasn’t going to let you leave without being his.

“my pretty girl.” he whispers, admiring how beautiful you look coming down from your orgasm. truly the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid his eyes on.

[havingsomemorejohnlarks]

when i was trying to get through johns bunker in fc5 (normal difficulty), i tried so many times to get through it and kept dying. (fun fact: i really cared about this game so my brain did something weird and made me scared to play it when i was stuck on this in case I died again - yes, its weird. no, i dont understand it either). anyways, i eventually tried a different method and started making progress.

when i met my partner, i watched them play it through too and i was so excited bc i loved the game and i love them so i was well happy :D

they got stuck on the bunker too. it surprised me a little bc theyre so good at video games and i personally am ok at them but always play exponentially terribly whenever theyre watching me (performance anxiety? 😭)

but it rlly wasnt working for this one mission so i asked them "hey do you want me to try?" and they agreed. almost immediately, i got them through and i was so pleased with myself bc that was like the one time in our whole relationship (including afterwards) that i could show them that i rlly am ok at video games and ESPECIALLY at this one. they were so shocked 😭

that was the only mission i had to play through over and over and over i think - by the time i got to the other regions, i was used to the controls.

side note: the only one that actually RLLY got me was the arrow shooting side mission up in jacobs region. christ 💀 the most annoying thing about it was that whenever i failed, it counted it as a death? and i respawned all the way across the other side of the mountains and obviously couldnt fast travel bc i had to complete the mission first 😭 insanity

made a picture i will use a lot

[brujaluas]

what would nature like to say to you?

Pile 1

You have this dreamy energy, a very dreamy one, the kind that people say you seem to daydream and rarely keep your feet on the ground. Be careful not to get too caught up in dreams and remember that you need to live for them to happen, daydreams alone are not enough to manifest the experiences you want. You are also a person who can do better at this stage of life in a large social circle, don't be afraid to socialize! You may even find a specific person who is really cool for you, like your other half, but I'm not trying to get you too excited, I've seen that if I say something like "you're going to find your soulmate" you might go to Japan to meet new people to meet your soulmate for example lol or also through new experiences with people you might get to know a new side of yourself!

Pile 2

Similar to pile 1, nature encourages you to go out a little and try new connections (is everyone here the super hyper mega introverted type or have they lost interest in human beings and relationships?) Anyway, but here's a warning, whether you think so or not, you are an innocent person. There is a naivety in you that can be felt and that's great! But in the real world can be danger, protect your energy and even if someone seems super harmless, remember that there can always be a wolf hiding in the skin of a sheep, I don't want to scare you or make you more paranoid than usual in social relationships (sorry) but remember that bad people take advantage of other people's innocence, unfortunately, don't let yourself trust someone 100% and try not to enter into a codependent relationship (of any kind) with someone. I see that you may feel overwhelmed by all the interactions and prefer to communicate from a distance or you may also be thoughtful about your next steps in life. A change of perspective after meeting so many people, whether you like it or not, can be good for you and your personal development.

Pile 3

You give me a very calm energy, like a summer afternoon, something homey. There is a beauty in the place that is familiar to you. It doesn't necessarily have to be your home, somewhere you know. People don't necessarily make that place good. In fact, they have nothing to do with it, but the place itself has a good energy that suits you very well. I feel that many of you really need to do a complete cleansing within yourself, go through a manifestation, a truly serious metamorphosis. Take care of your physical and mental health! SERIOUSLY! Are any of you French? Do you speak French? Would you like to go to France? Sorry for the questions, but there's something very strong about France here, Paris. You need to cut out certain things in your life, habits. Some people here smoke, so cut that out immediately. It's almost affecting your physical health. I don't want to scare you, just warn you. You can find beauty in everyday routine things, and that's cool and very positive, finding beauty in everyday things.

[antwuzhere]

I need to stop. Making life series musical aus. That no one wants…. Anyway does anyone remember descendants?? 10 years ago….😰 yeah. I divorce quarteted that. And it’s??? Stupidly accurate????

Rotten and red au <3333 life series x descendants

Now being posted under ‘rarau’ tag

Mind you I told myself I was taking a break from art today….

This is so silly.. taking my fixation from when I was little and smushed it with my current one…..

I am. Really obsessed with them… the outfits. The implied dynamics.. hhhhhh… I might need to make more………

Mean gills + space between would break me actually.

A lot of Character Design notes under the cut;

• Martyn’s hair curls upwards to make these stupid horns and I love it sm.

• dragon wings on his bootssss

• Very sharp edges??? Angular ? Lizard tongue core.

• His colours are so desaturated from mals original pallete.. hhhh. I just couldn’t get it to work….

• That is an hourglass necklace with green sand in it around his neck yes.

• His little, dangly bits of hair at the front are cut so uneven I’m obsessed.

• Scott is 3 apples tall /silly /ref.

• No but seriously, his body type was just based on like. Two apples. And the bun? Apple. And the round face? Apple.

• i like the apple motif okay. Sue me.

• It’s not even important??? I just like the loose over shirt being pulled in by a high elastic waist thing look?? What a guy.

• His hair, like Evie’s original hair, is just this dark blueish gray, with streaks of vibrant blue all through it.

• Very round design overall. 10/10 love it.

• Cleo…. Hhhhh… Icl I’m not a fan of jays outfits, so I ‘designed?’ it straight from jafar instead of the original vk.

• I like the massive scarf wrapping all the way round. I probably would like. Singe the edges if I draw them again. Little fire starter <3

• The scar across their face is meant to atleast reference the zombie stitches from her original character.

• Her hairs lighter at the end for no reason??? It’s just??? Pretty?? I really like it. Almost genie-ish. But that doesn’t make much sense for heractuallkyyyyhhhh

• Pearls fluffy bits of hair look like dog ears but they’re not, she’s 100% human.

• I do like the way her capes like?? Fluffy looking?? From the tattered edges, it’s so dog tail.

• The dual tones are cute but h that’s obviously just referenced from carloses outfit

• I added a lot more fur though, like on the cloak and boots. ….. dogssss… although.. ig she starts scared of them??? … no one tell her it’s dog fur

• Birthmark (or scar I’m undecided) across her face looks like a moon. Cause. Yknow. Moon

There wasn’t as much thought put into the other 5 icl.. lemme speed run this.

• Dogwarts banner around rens waist

• His hairs in like this massive poofy bubble braid but you can’t exactly tell.

• His ears, unlike pearls, are real. And he has the ability to turn more ‘beast like’ like his father.

• false as Audrey save me false as Audrey.

• Her outfits based on her outfit from empires ..

• scar….. beautiful baby scar…. Hhhh.

• Put some clothes on please.

• Multiple hats.. pirates smp reference .

• That cane definetly has like a cap on the end you can take of and turn it into a spear.. he’s stabbed so many people with it.

• Grians a cod.. monster?? Instead of octopus. I kinda imagine he transforms and it’s just like.. a cod version of a hydra or something…

• Parrot feather in his hat HELLO

• There’s nothing to say about Jimmy bless. Except I went through the trenches trynna figure out what gils last name was. And then realised I could just look up Gaston’s.

[plussizeficchick]

He’s been all over my fyp on tiktok recently and I finally have a bit of free time sooo.. let’s talk about Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who you became friends with after hearing him hum a song from a movie you didn’t expect a guy like him to watch.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who tells you the lamest jokes with the straightest face. And has the audacity to ask you what’s funny when you laugh.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who would literally stand behind you when you’re not paying attention and waits for you to notice him so you get a little jump scare and has the nerve so snicker.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who suggests you guys make up your own language, everyone looks at you like you have two heads when you both start talking/giggling in the language.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who keeps plants. Even names them and convinces you that as his best friend you get one to keep his company.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi that you’ve noticed stares at you longer than what’s probably appropriate. His touch lingers on you too, never wanting to stray too far it seems.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who suddenly becomes clingy. To the point where he’s even slipping his head inside of your(his) oversized hoodie so he can lay his head on your chest.

Canonically Weird Best Friend! Akaashi who says that just being friends with you isn’t enough for him, he likes you so much he wants to be in your skin so you never have to separate, but he refrains from mentioning that, simply stating that he longs to be with you romantically.

Canonically Weird Boyfriend! Akaashi who steals all your faded/ old graphic tees. He’s a collector of the like and you have a great selection.

Canonically Weird Boyfriend! Akaashi who “borrows” one of your socks from you on game days for “good luck”.

Canonically Weird! Boyfriend Akaashi who constantly fantasizes about fucking you in the most absurd positions/places. Doggy style on the court. Cowgirl in the locker room. Full Nelson in front of Bokuto.

That one really does it for him.

Canonically Weird! Boyfriend Akaashi who gets visibly excited when he finally has you laid out in front of him, all plush thighs and soft stomach. Your juicy cunt just ready for him to dive in. “Please, Keiji. Need you so bad!” You whine out for him.

You look so fucking cute. The way the tears pool in your eyes while you look up at him all doe-eyed making his cock throb between his bare legs. “Patience, baby. I always treat you right, don’t I?” He asks, smirking as he runs a finger through your folds. You shudder at the feeling, your voice barely above a whisper, “Yesss.” You practically hiss, and Akaashi decides to have a little mercy on you.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, running his tongue over the bundle of nerves briefly before slowly moving down, tongue laving at your opening. He points his tongue before licking inside, wiggling the muscle as far as he can inside your cunt. You gasp, pussy clenching at the intrusion before you slowly start grinding your pussy against his face, seeking out more of that delicious friction. His nose bumps your clit a few times and it’s with that your orgasm washes over you. You shudder as it ripples through you, your essence flooding Akaashi’s tongue.

He comes up for air, chin glistening with your juices. He wipes his chin with his thumb before sticking the soaked digit in your mouth. Your flavor dances on your tongue before Akaashi’s taking the appendage out, replacing it with his tongue. You both make out while you slowly come down from your high, though it’s only a matter of time before he’s back to being his weird self.

“Next time, we’re putting frosting and sprinkles on your ass. I want cake.” 

[panvani]

Going to DiaBort land on the Niichan continent