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voicemailfromluke-beep · 15 hours ago

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golden hour.

req: yes | 💬 fia girlie! i've followed you over to this blog finally! would you be open to writing a smitty fic with a plus size reader? maybe something where they go to a sharks gala to like hard launch their relationship and he fully shows her off and loves on her like all night? if you have time babes and are open to writing it! no pressure tho!

pair: will smith x f!reader ; will smith x mid/plus-size!reader

genre: fluff, romance, real-world au.

warnings: pure fluff, minor self-esteem/body image themes handled positively, public affection, protective boyfriend energy, tooth-rotting levels of love.

summary: you’ve only been dating will for six months, but tonight marks a milestone, it was your first public appearance together at the team’s annual charity gala. will’s been bragging about you to his teammates for months, but now it’s time for the hard launch. you’re nervous, but will? he’s absolutely thrilled to show you off. and when you step into that ballroom, it becomes crystal clear that he’s not holding anything back. not when it comes to loving you.

🍅’s note: the moment i saw this request, i was so ready, like i couldn’t even wait. i had to start working on it immediately because duh, smitty hard-launching us is literally everything i need. let me stay delulu in peace again and again.

“smitty, do i look okay?”

will turns around mid-buttoning his tux jacket and freezes. his lips part like he’s about to say something, but then he just stares. and stares.

“hello?” you ask, smoothing your dress nervously. “earth to smitty?”

he stares.

and then keeps staring.

you fidget, smoothing the fabric of your floor-length dress, fingers brushing over the curve of your hip, the cinched waist, the soft flutter of the sleeves.

“okay, seriously,” you say, laughing nervously, “you’re scaring me.”

he crosses the room in slow motion, tux half-done, bowtie forgotten, eyes locked on you like he’s just seen the moon for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “but holy shit babe.”

“you look…” his voice cracks. he clears his throat and tries again.

his hands land gently at your sides.

“you look so good i think i forgot how to blink.”

you roll your eyes, blushing despite yourself.

“you’re such a cornball.”

“and you’re unreal.”

he tugs you closer, dipping his head until your foreheads touch.

“like… are you kidding me? you look like someone painted you.”

“okay, now you’re laying it on thick,” your cheeks burning.

he leans back just enough to look at you again.

“thick is my favorite. did i not make that clear?”

you burst out laughing.

will grins, proud of himself. then softer, almost reverently.

“you’re stunning. you always are, but tonight? i’m not gonna stop touching you. everyone’s gonna have to deal.”

the gala is held at an upscale downtown hotel. you step out of the car in heels you only half-regret wearing, and will, true to his word, never lets go of your hand.

you barely get ten steps inside the ballroom before tyler toffoli spots you.

“there she is,” toff says, holding a drink and smiling wide.

“we thought will was making you up. showed us pictures like a proud dad with a costco-sized wallet. finally get to meet the mystery woman in person.”

you laugh. “hopefully i live up to the hype.”

“no offense, but you’re way cooler than we expected,” toff says, eyes glinting.

“he talks about you constantly.”

“he loves you,”

macklin celebrini adds, appearing behind toff with a goofy grin.

“it’s actually kind of gross. but, like, in a good way?”

you blink, a little overwhelmed by the warm welcome.

will slides an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple.

“i told you,” he whispers.

“they’d love you.”

at your table, you sit between will and macklin. across from you are eklund, zetterlund, and a couple of their partners. everyone’s laughing, drinking, picking at their appetizers, but will?

will can’t stop looking at you.

like, physically incapable.

when your hand reaches for your water glass, he covers it with his for a second just to feel your skin.

when you excuse yourself to go to the restroom, he watches you walk away like you’ve taken his entire soul with you.

“she’s gonna be gone for maybe five minutes,” eklund teases.

“relax.”

“i am relaxed,” will lies, adjusting his tie.

“this is my relaxed face.”

macklin whistles. “you’re gone, smitty.”

“absolutely,” will says without hesitation.

“i’d marry her tomorrow if she asked.”

you come back to find will in the middle of describing your homemade lasagna like it’s the eighth wonder of the world.

“i took one bite,” he says seriously,

“and i... i blacked out. when i woke up, i’d done all the dishes and made a playlist called ‘songs that remind me of her.’”

everyone laughs. you shake your head and sit beside him again.

“stop exposing me,” you whisper.

will leans in against your ear. “never. you’re my favorite subject.”

midway through dinner, will clinks his fork against his glass. not loud, but enough to get attention at your table.

“i just wanna say something real quick,” he says, tugging you a little closer to his side.

“i’ve had the best season of my life so far. on the ice, yeah, it’s been amazing. but off the ice? it’s because of her.”

your eyes go wide. “will—”

“she’s smart, she’s funny, she makes the best mac and cheese i’ve ever tasted, sorry, mom, and she loves me even when i forget to change my skate guards before walking across the tile.”

a couple guys snicker. will doesn’t stop.

“i don’t care if this sounds dramatic, but i must’ve saved the whole world in a past life to end up with her in this one.” his voice dips softer.

“she’s everything.”

there’s a beat of stunned silence.

“goddamn, smith,” zetterlund mutters.

“yeah,” toff agrees.

“can’t even roast you after that.”

will beams. “good. that was the goal.”

you cover your face with your hands, overwhelmed and flushed and grinning so hard it hurts. will pulls your hands down gently so he can kiss your cheek.

“you okay?” he whispers.

you nod. “you’re insane.”

“i know,” he said.

“for you? i’d go feral.”

when the night is more calm and champagne is traded for slow dancing, you sway with will on the dance floor, his hands warm and secure around your waist, his smile soft and a little sleepy.

“you know,” he says into your hair, “this wasn’t just a hard launch.”

“no?”

“this was me telling the world,” he says, voice low, “you belong next to me. always.”

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elliespassagerprincess · 2 days ago

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hi angel! is there any way you can do something where reader joins ellie’s band as the lead singer but ellie scares her so badly (reader is just intimidated by everyone) that they don’t talk for MONTHS until ellie asks reader if she’s done something wrong?

headcannons: guitarist!ellie williams x lead singer!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie’s been part of the band for years—deeply respected, a little intense, and emotionally reserved.

☆ The day you show up for your first rehearsal, Ellie’s dealing with tech issues, a terrible migraine, and management breathing down her neck.

☆ You try to introduce yourself, all nervous smiles, and she brushes past you with a curt, “Just try not to be flat.”

☆ You’re stunned. Your stomach drops. The warmth drains from your face—Ellie doesn’t even look at you.

☆ You chalk it up to her hating you. You assume she’s one of those cold, aloof musicians who think singers are replaceable.

☆ From that day on, you keep your distance—show up on time, stay quiet, rehearse, and leave. No jokes, no chatter.

☆ You smile and laugh with the others, but the moment Ellie walks in, your posture stiffens.

☆ Ellie notices. At first, she thinks it’s just your personality—maybe you’re shy.

☆ But then she sees you animated and talkative with Jesse, their drummer, and Dina, the keyboardist. Just not her.

☆ It gets under Ellie’s skin in a way she hates to admit.

☆ One night, Ellie overhears you singing alone in the greenroom. No mic. Just raw vocals.

☆ She stops in the hallway. Listens. Breath caught in her throat.

☆ Her first thought isn’t about the music—it’s You sound like a heartbreak I haven’t had yet.

☆ She avoids you the next day because the way her hands trembled made her feel weak.

☆ Ellie starts watching you during rehearsals from behind her amp, studying your expressions, the way you move.

☆ She becomes hypersensitive to every interaction—or lack thereof. The way your voice lowers when she’s near. How you look anywhere but at her.

☆ She replays your first encounter over and over in her head, wondering if she really said something awful.

☆ She starts texting Dina at 2 a.m.:

“Was I a dick to the new singer?”

“You? Always. But what happened?”

☆ Ellie starts trying to be nice. Offers you water after sets. Gives you a nod. You avoid her eyes and murmur “thanks.”

☆ She starts thinking you hate her. And then worse—that you’re scared of her. That she messed this up permanently.

☆ You flinch the first time Ellie accidentally brushes your arm on stage. She pretends not to notice, but it wrecks her.

☆ Ellie is constantly fighting between giving you space and trying to fix it—but every attempt makes things more awkward.

☆ She asks you a question in soundcheck once—something casual—and you give her a stiff, one-word answer. The silence that follows is painful.

☆ She sees you light up with Jesse post-show and then immediately dim the second she walks by.

☆ Ellie becomes convinced she’s the problem. Starts questioning her tone. Her posture. Her entire personality.

☆ She writes guitar melodies alone late at night titled things like “cold shoulder” and “she won’t look at me.”

☆ Dina starts noticing. Asks Ellie if she has a thing for you. Ellie lies. Says you “probably hate her guts.”

☆ She starts journaling about you. It helps her process. Until she realizes every page sounds like she’s in love.

☆ Ellie googles “how to apologize for something you said months ago.”

☆ She leaves you a note once—folded and tucked under your mic stand. It reads: “Sorry if I came off harsh when we met. That wasn’t about you.”

☆ After the note, you start looking at her differently—less scared, more curious. But you still say almost nothing.

☆ Ellie gets so in her head about it. Overanalyzing every tiny glance you give her.

☆ When you finally laugh at one of her jokes at soundcheck, Ellie is visibly stunned. Blinks slowly. Smiles like it’s the sun rising.

☆ You start singing backup during her solo riffs—and your voice blends with her guitar in a way that undoes her.

☆ Ellie finds herself playing longer solos just to hear you harmonize. “Sorry, lost track of time,” she lies.

☆ You start leaving little post-it notes on the setlists: “You killed that bridge today.” Ellie saves them all.

☆ Ellie’s hands tremble the first time you sit next to her on the bus. You don’t speak. Just rest your shoulder against hers for two seconds too long.

☆ She buys you a coffee during a morning rehearsal, places it on your amp without a word, and avoids your gaze.

☆ You thank her quietly. She thinks about your voice for the rest of the day.

☆ Ellie starts writing full songs about you—every chorus is a question: Do you see me? Do you forgive me? Do you want me?

☆ You catch her watching you during a rehearsal and finally don’t look away. The air turns heavy.

☆ After a show, Ellie sees a male fan flirting with you. She’s silent the whole ride back. Jaw clenched. Guitar pick snapped in half.

☆ When you ask if she’s okay, she shrugs: “Just tired.” But she doesn’t look at you once.

☆ One night, she has too much whiskey and blurts, “You know I didn’t mean it, right? What I said that first day?”

☆ You blink. You nod. “Yeah… I just thought you hated me.”

☆ Ellie’s voice cracks. “No. Never. I just… suck at first impressions.”

☆ You tell her you thought she was beautiful but terrifying.

☆ Ellie looks at you like she’s about to say something important—but then just says, “You still think I’m terrifying?”

☆ You shake your head. “Just… distracting.”

☆ The next time she plays guitar, she watches you instead of her frets.

☆ You invite Ellie to your hotel room after a show. Just to “run through harmonies.”

☆ She’s so nervous she knocks over a lamp. Apologizes five times.

☆ You finally ask, “Why do you always act like you’re scared of me?”

☆ Ellie laughs dryly. “Because you terrify me. In, like… a stupid, perfect way.”

☆ The tension snaps. You kiss her mid-sentence. She forgets how to breathe.

☆ Her hands hover like she’s scared she’ll mess it up—until you tug her closer.

☆ Later, she whispers against your skin: “You’re all I ever sing about.” You smile and say, “Yeah… I figured.”

☆ The next morning, the entire band knows. Jesse cheers. Dina wins $20 from a bet.

☆ Ellie just shrugs and says, “Took us long enough.”

☆ You start writing lyrics together—your words, her melodies. You call them “secret love letters.”

☆ Ellie gets softer. She starts smiling more. Teasing more. All her edges melted by you.

☆ You call her “baby” once during rehearsal. Her pick drops. Face bright red.

☆ She kisses your forehead before every set now. Says, “For luck,” even though she knows you don’t need it.

☆ You sing to her on stage with your eyes closed, like it’s just the two of you.

☆ Ellie writes a solo just for you—starts sneaking your name into her sound.

☆ You perform a duet together on tour. Fans cry. So do you.

☆ Ellie says “I love you” through her guitar long before she says it out loud. When she finally does say it, it’s quiet. Shy. Against your shoulder in the dark.

☆ You kiss her knuckles and whisper back, “I’ve loved you since the day you told me not to be flat.”

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dewberrydusk · 2 days ago

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I luv ur writing it makes me throw up violently so therefore I request ajax angst because I HATE him :D

hi anon! thank you so much haha here you go <3

➷ pairing(s) : childe x gn!reader

➷ warning(s) : death, mentions of blood, this is angst no comfort

➷ author's notes : i was giggling when i was writing this

➷ word count : 1143

You had promised him you’d be here when he got back, the same way you always were—without fail, without question, no matter how late the hour or how blood-soaked his coat, no matter how many hours he’d spent buried in violence and war—you always waited, eyes soft, hands open, heart brave enough to love a man the world called monster.

You had always been his home.

And that was the first thing that struck Childe as wrong.

There was no warmth coming from inside the house—not even the faintest flicker of candlelight through the windowpanes, not the comforting glow that usually spilled across the curtains when you knew he was near, not the scent of your cooking or the low hum of your voice singing to fill the silence until he arrived, not the sound of bare feet hurrying toward the door just before it swung open—there was nothing.

Only quiet. Only cold.

And something distant, sharp, and metallic in the air that had his blood running colder with every step.

He paused at the threshold, gloved hand resting on the doorknob, a strange sort of stillness pressing down on his chest—like the house itself was holding its breath, like the walls knew what he didn’t.

“Darling?” he called, softly at first, almost teasing, his voice betraying nothing of the unease now beginning to spread through his gut like ink in water.

He pushed the door open, and it creaked—just barely—and the smell hit him.

Iron.

Heavy. Familiar. Wrong.

Childe froze in place. His eyes scanned the dim entryway, the kitchen beyond, the hallway that led toward the living room—everything looked… off. Not ruined. Not yet. But not right.

The second time he called your name, it was louder. More urgent.

Still no answer.

His feet moved before his mind did, boots slow but certain as he crossed the blood-warm silence of the room, tracking faint smears of red that had begun near the carpet and dragged inward—each step drawing him closer to something his heart already seemed to understand, even if his brain hadn’t caught up.

And then—

He turned the corner.

And saw you.

You were lying there on the floor, your body twisted at a strange angle that made something inside him scream even before his voice caught in his throat. There was so much blood—so much—it soaked the carpet, clung to your clothes, pooled beneath you and stained everything it touched. Your limbs were still, your chest unmoving, your eyes closed in a way that did not look like sleep but something far, far worse.

“No,” he said, but it wasn’t really a word. More of a breath. More of a pained cry.

He stumbled forward, knees hitting the floor with a thud, the pain not even registering as he gathered you into his arms, his hands shaking as they cupped your face—your cold, too-cold face—and brushed hair from your forehead like it would help, like it would undo what had already been done.

“Please,” he whispered, voice breaking, cracking, shattering into a thousand pieces. “Please, open your eyes. Say something—anything. Tell me I’m late again. Tell me I tracked blood in. Tell me this is just one of your cruel jokes—just wake up—wake up—wake up—”

But you didn’t.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t breathe.

You just lay there, heavy in his arms, silent and gone.

His tears fell before he could stop them, hot and fast, slipping down his cheeks and landing on yours, as if he could give you back some of the warmth you’d lost—if he just cried enough, maybe you’d feel it and come back.

The room blurred.

Everything slowed.

He held you tighter, as if holding you hard enough could undo the reality in front of him, as if pressing you against his chest might jumpstart your heart again, make it beat in time with his, the way it always had.

But the blood was already dry around the edges. Your skin had already gone cold. It had happened long before he got here.

And then he saw it.

A note—folded neatly—tucked between your fingers like a cruel gift, as if whoever had done this wanted him to find it, to read it while holding your broken body in his arms.

He reached for it with hands that didn’t feel like his anymore, fingers numb and stiff as he unfolded the paper.

The words were short. Simple.

“She was holding you back.”

A sentence that ripped through him worse than any blade ever could.

Beneath the note, lying beside your body, was something else—a gleam of silver catching the dim light.

A Fatui insignia. His insignia.

Not his specifically, no—but one of theirs. One of his own.

Someone he trained with. Fought with. Bled beside. Someone who knew him—who knew you. Someone who had to understand exactly what they were doing when they made the decision to come here, to enter this house, to raise their blade, and leave you like this.

Your death wasn’t a mistake. It was a message.

The paper trembled in his hands, and for a long moment, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

“She was holding you back.”

As if they had done him a favor.

As if you weren’t the only reason he still had anything worth fighting for, the only reason he still believed in something beyond blood and death and duty. You, who gave him softness when the world demanded cruelty. You, who taught him how to laugh again. You, who waited every time. Who never turned away.

His chest heaved. His mouth opened.

And the scream that tore from his throat was raw and feral and endless, shaking the house down to its bones. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t even pain. It was something more. Something ancient. Something breaking. Like the last fragile thread of humanity inside him had just snapped.

He collapsed over your body, pressing his forehead to yours, his tears soaking your skin, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“You were everything.”

He sat there for hours. Days. Time didn’t move.

The sun fell and rose again, and he didn’t blink.

Eventually, with hands like stone, he placed the note into his coat pocket. He picked up the insignia and stared at it for a long, long time. Then he stood.

He didn’t look back.

There was no one left to come home to.

But there was someone out there who had taken you from him—and when he found them, they would beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give them that. He would laugh in their face, cold, emotionless.

And then he would make them pay.

With everything they had.

With everything he had left.

────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

@dewberrydusk 2025 | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

#pressed petals.#childe x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe angst #childe x reader angst #genshin angst #genshin x reader angst #genshin impact angst #genshin impact x reader angst

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pinkpurplesunrises · 7 hours ago

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Letters to No One - Scenes That Don't Make The Book: The Things We Notice Too Early, Pretend Not To

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (wlw).

Theme: Ghostwriter x Athlete | Slow Burn | Angst | Emotional Intimacy | Happy Ending.

POV: 2nd person (you), emotion ally immersive.

Setting: Barcelona, Present Day.

ACT: Headcannons after the first chapter of ACT I

Writer's note: wow... thank you for reading chapter one. For sitting with the quiet. For noticing the small things. For your kind words about it. I wanted to share a few headcanons that didn’t make it into the page, but lived between the lines.

The recorder you use has a small crack in the side. She noticed it immediately, but said nothing. Later, she glanced at it again and said, “You don’t upgrade much, huh?” You weren’t sure if it was judgment or curiosity. Maybe both.

You googled her the night before. Scrolled past the stats. The Ballon d'Ors. The headlines. Landed on a blurry fan video of her post-injury warm-up. She looked tired. But she waved anyway. You watched it three times. You wanted to know the girl beneath the stadium noise.

That café, El Magnífico, became a liminal space. A border between truth and performance. You both crossed it but never at the same time.

You had written down 23 questions. You asked five. She answered four.

You wore your softest sweater. Not to impress but to armor yourself with comfort. When she looked at your sleeves, you tucked your hands in like a child. You didn’t realize you’d done it until much later.

You told yourself, “This is just a job.” But the way she said “belonged”… That word cracked something open in you. You didn’t know it yet, but you were already writing toward her.

You almost deleted the Letters to No One document the second after you wrote that first line. You didn’t. Something in you... some ghost of belief, wanted to keep it.

She drank her coffee black. You wrote that down. Not in the notes. Just in the corner of your notebook. It felt like a detail worth keeping. The kind of thing that makes someone real.

When she left the café, she said, “See you next time.” And then added, “If there is one.” But the door didn’t close all the way. You stayed in your chair long after the bell stopped ringing.

You didn’t know it then... but that was the last truly untouched moment between you. Before the slow unravel. Before trust had a name. Before the storm.

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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lxzy-bxby · 11 hours ago

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Extra Free Time

Husband!Leon Kennedy × Fem!Reader

Summary: How to turn overprotective Dad's brain off 101. WC: 1,884 CW&TW: 18+ MDNI ♡ Established Relationship ♡ Fingering ♡ Unprotected p-in-v sex ♡ Interrupted sex ♡ Explicit Language ♡ No use of Y/N ♡ No proofread Tags: @writingwisterias | Taglist A/N: long time no see! i was going crazy ab finishing up with this uni year+then i got & am currently sick but i managed to birth this lol

~ ♡ ~

You jerk in your seat on the couch from the intensity of door slam. Snapping your head towards the house entrance, you see Leon’s sour face and glooming frame.

And here it comes, before you can even open your mouth:

“This bastard is picking her up today.”

It clicks in your head immediately. Lily’s boyfriend. Right.

So, Lily is sixteen. Totally acceptable to start playing the teenage version of house. That’s literally part of human’s development, right? Try explaining that to Leon, though. And better make it quick so he won’t have time to pull his gun out.

Honestly, you gave up on trying. It was easier to deal with the consequences of his wrath than trying to prevent them.

You just sigh when Leon makes a beeline to the fridge and snatches a can of cold beer. “So she just turned you down?”

Leon takes a solid sip before grumbling in response. “I pulled up, she ran up to me, babbled something about this Jason dipshit and waved bye-bye.”

You pictured the scene perfectly, knowing your bubbly daughter. You were able to picture Leon’s expression as well, knowing your husband even better.

Leon plops down onto the couch next to you, crossing his legs at the ankles and nursing his beer. And despite almost two decades of marriage, you still have no idea how the hell to ease his mind in this situation.

“Well, she’s supposed to be there soon too, then.” You usher, aiming for nonchalance, hoping to shift Leon’s mood to the same nonchalance, as well.

But he just scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Right after they’re done making out in the backseat.”

“Gosh! Why’d you suspect exactly… that.” You wince at the mental image.

“‘Cause I remember myself at this age. All that these fuckers do is thinkin’ with their cock.” Leon grumbles, squeezing half-empty can subconsciously.

“Oh really?” You snort, “Some things never change, then. That’s just how men are, I suppose. Because in case you haven’t noticed, you never stopped thinking with your— Ow, what the heck, Leon!?” A squeak escapes your lips at the feel of two arms sliding under your thighs with ease to shift you onto his lap.

You just groan, “See! That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you! A whole ass human being in front of you, and all you see are tits!” You practically spit out the last word.

Not even one muscle twitches on Leon’s face when his palms slide to your boobs, “I’m stressed. Need relief,” He shrugs unabashedly, squishing the plush flesh of your breasts. “Did I tell you that you got a helluva set of tits?”

Leon smirks, “Now now, you’re not being fair. I noticed your butt as well.” He taps it in confirmation, and you just give up.

At least he’s not thinking about Lily anymore. Well, obviously he still is, to an extent. But since your assets could save you from his grumpiness… you decide to let him be.

More than that—to give a head start.

“I hope you noticed a positive side of your daughter being out and about, too. Like… extra free time.” You grin, tracing a random path down his chest with your fingertips.

Frankly speaking, you’ve been worried about Lily just as much; about her heart getting broken or any unwanted consequences. So you gave her the talk—something that’s waaaay more awkward to perform when you’re a parent and not the teenager listening to it.

Lily then told you that she’d be more likely to delete her Ao3 account than to let a dick in her vagina.

You had no particular idea on what Ao3 is. When you googled it to be a supportive mom, you just cheered internally: if she’s keen on reading and writing smut instead of practising it, that’s just great.

Didn’t stop you from sliding a condom in her bedside drawer, though. Just in case.

Sudden feel of stubble on your neck brings you back to reality.

Right. Dealing with Leon.

“That so?” He murmurs close to your ear, his lips grazing the lobe. “And what shall we do with all this extra free time, huh?”

You almost feel surprised at how easy it is to switch his attention to more exciting matters. Almost. After all, it was a good idea to send him off to the couch for two days.

Leon acts way quicker than you think, his lips already sliding down your neck, feeling the flutter of your quickening pulse.

“I don’t know… You got any ideas?” You squeeze out, trying your best to remember how to flirt 101.

Not like you ever had to do that to get him going. Which is exactly why you forgot how to sweet talk in the first place.

To get Leon going, you just had to like walk into the room or something like that.

“Oh yeah, baby, I do,” He rasps to your ear, a distinct smell of bear blowing over you, “You, me… and this counter. How that sound?” His free hand already slides underneath the waistband of your shorts, and you think wow if that ain’t a new speed record.

You raise your eyebrows slightly at the poke of his hardening cock as if you weren't damp already, as well. Well not like you were the one who downed a can of beer five minutes prior.

He cups your sex through the clammy fabric of your underwear, pressing a finger to your entrance. “Gonna fuck that pussy so good, baby.”

You arch your back a tad at the sensation, dipping a hand under your shorts to pull your panties to the side. Leon grins smugly at the action, pushing two of his fingers forward the very same moment.

“Such a warm snug cunt.” He groans to your neck, scissoring his digits slightly and feeling your lube coating them. “No point in fingerfuckin’ her, always too damn tight.”

But you did see a point in fingerfucking your cunt, rolling your hips actively, “That’s just you too big.” You mewl, thinking that ego boost wouldn’t hurt.

What could hurt is him sinking balls-deep into you later, but that would be later.

You moan under your breath, riding his fingers and thinking that maybe your daughter being away is not as bad as you thought, after all.

“Yeah?” Leon grunts, sneaking third finger in. “Gonna be a tight fit, then. So… fucking tight.”

“Wanna take my time with you.” Leon promises, kissing his way down the column of your throat.

You feel him leaning against the back of the couch to lift his pelvis so he could slide his slacks down to his knees. You help—at least try to—him haphazardly, feeling the heat of his erected cock through the thin fabric of his briefs.

“What happened to fucking me against the counter?” You attempt to tease, watching Leon’s hand slip into his boxers to pull out his literally stony length.

“On my to-do list. As soon as you come all over me on this couch.” He just grins shamelessly, finally exposing his drooling shaft and pulled-out sack to the conditioned air of the living room.

You watch Leon sloppily fist himself a few times, smearing pre all over his shaft, when finally remembering your own state of full dress. As deftly as possible, you yank your shorts off just enough to give Leon room to work with.

“That’s right, baby. Those—” He crooks a finger under the edge of your underpants. “—stay on.”

And, way deftlier than you, he gently moves them to the side, putting your glistening folds on full display. Leon simply groans at the view, sliding a finger down your cunt, saturating it with your wetness.

“Can’t fucking wait no more.” He then states, pumping his cock again, before aligning the swollen head with your entrance, smearing both his pre-cum and your juices at your opening.

His tip pushes forward before his brain can even register it, and Leon all but moans. Your inside is not just warm—it’s scorching hot; it’s not just soaked—it’s slippery.

Leon lets out a low groan as he slips out of you for a third time, and against any better judgement, he just plunges to the hilt, turning your moans into squeals.

He strokes your shoulders and back soothingly, giving some time to adjust; you two’s ability to speak suddenly gone, Leon only managing an incoherent string of “I know”s.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to start moving on him, way slowlier than he preferred, but moving nonetheless.

You clutch his shoulders, going up and down on his dick, encouraged by his soft moans. Horrified, you realize that your thighs start to strain after a few bounces already, but Leon thrusts forward, working his hips and spurring you on.

And, finally, you settle on a comfortable pace, simply enjoying the carnal act without any rush or hurry.

You ride Leon leisurely like it’s a completely decent and common thing to do, his head lowered to caress your sternum with his lips.

Your head snaps left for the change of scenery, and the change of scenery makes you suddenly jump on Leon in surprise, making him groan at the feel of your cunt unexpectedly squeezing him.

“Holy… do that again.” He rasps, encircling your waist.

Then he hears car pulling up, and his eyes go wide.

Leon curses under his breath as you both still, his cock twitching inside of you. “Just fucking great. Couldn’t have a nice roll in bed while she was a toddler, now he’s a teenager and it only gets worse.”

You snort as you sink off him, your cunt clamping around nothing at the loss of contact. “Weren’t you the one making a fuss about her being out fifteen minutes ago?”

Leon hisses as he feels the absence of your wet heat, tucking himself back in. “Ever heard of a change of priorities?”

You chuckle, quickly dressing your lower self back up; and as soon as you’re done, he tugs you back onto his lap.

“What? It’s not like parents should be devoid of any kind of affection in front of their kid.” Leon shrugs at your arched eyebrow.

You don’t have much time to protest, because Lily just sprints through the front door, her blowout disheveled yet lipstick all in one place. “Mom, Dad! We’re going to the rides! Just needed to leave my bag!”

“Yeah well, I could’ve gotten a nice ride too.” Leon grumbles under his breath, and you suddenly think that no way in hell that’s the same person who was so against Lily going out.

And Lily’s already back downstairs, a flickering figure rushing to the door. “See you later!”

“W-wait, honey, when will you be home?” You shout, feeling your head spin from her constant running.

“By dinner!” She yells serenely, next moment slamming the door closed.

You blink a couple times, trying to process everything that happened.

While Leon grins at you like a Cheshire cat. “That gives us… what, three extra hours?”

You look down at him, not knowing if to smack him or to kiss him.

And, quickly taking your pick, you kiss him—so you won’t have to waste even a second of your precious leisure time together.

~ ♡ ~

#leon kennedy headcanons #leon kennedy x you #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fanfic #leon s kennedy #leon x you #leon x y/n #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil x female reader #resident evil x you #resident evil hcs #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

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grimmsleftball · 2 days ago

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HEY i dont know if anyone here is interested in reading the beginning of my little girl x adult femb0y story but i've been workshopping it hard and trying to finish the first chapter (still not done) if anyone is interested in reading and giving their opinions or advice.....smiley face emoji. ive added new things to it since i last posted. please dont shit on me too hard this is my first time writing

fragment of it under cut

The faint breeze of spring carried the scent of something unusually cloying through the secluded streets outside an underground nightclub, right as a tired looking idol emerged, looking as if she- no, he? just survived a particularly violent glitter cannon.

He flipped his hair as he stepped up the stairs, pink strands reflecting the glow of the streetlights, expression much too gloomy for the outfit he had on as he reached for the cigarettes in his purse- until his hand stopped mid-motion, nose twitching.

That scent again, what is it?

It was odd, sweet, but not in a traditional sense, it was undercut by something musky, raw, in a way he couldn't name.

Intrigued, he followed the trail, searching with his nose like some sort of hound, inexplicably drawn to it.

He stepped around carefully, his heels loud in the silence of the evening, twisting and turning until he stopped at the street corner, eyes widening.

There, on the pavement, sat a little girl, no older than 5, 6? he guessed, playing with a wad of plants she had pulled out from a nearby patch of grass, wriggling it above a cat just as small as her.

He remained stunned for a second, hand wiggling in the air uncertainly as he debated what do next.

A kid... definitely had no business here alone, in this side of town.

He looked around searching for a parent, guardian, anyone, but there was no one but the two of them as far as he could see.

Who would leave an angel like her out here all alone?

Curiously he stepped closer, cautious not to alert her of his presence. At this new angle, he could see her face, small, still rounded with that pinchable baby fat, blue eyes crinkling at the corners from a smile so bright he could almost swear it was too pure to be from this world.

His heart dropped dangerously fast, his chest unbearably warm at the mere sight of her.

There was something so endearing about her, like a small kitten you want to pinch and pamper and squeeze 'till it pops.

Normally he wouldn't even think about talking to a kid- they're loud, sticky, stupid, but oh, this one just looked so precious.

His lips twitched upwards in amusement as he watched her play, even as his skin pirckled with something like worry- something's not right here.

Still, she's just so cute.

He stepped even closer, unintentionally looming over her, waved his hand in what he thought is a disarming gesture, and finally spoke, with the same voice he used around high paying fans when trying to convince them to come again tomorrow night:

"What's a small bird like you doing out here all alone~?"

Thud. Bang. And before she knew it, she was thrown onto the concrete, followed immediately by the sound of a door slamming shut.

She got up, knees and palms scratched, picked up her dearest bunny plushie which was thrown out alongside her, and looked up at the door with wide eyes, shifting her weight from one foot to the other uncertainly.

She clutched her bunny closer to her chest, the blood from her hands staining its already dirty fur, and stood outside the house, fidgeting nervously.

For a long moment, there was no sign anyone was coming back for her. The only sounds she could hear where her soft shallow breaths alongside the cold pitter patter from the rain and the sounds of her parents talking and watching tv just a wall away in the warmth and safety of their home, audible through the open window, although she couldn't make out what they were saying.

She remained there, just staring blankly and waiting for her parents to open the door and drag her back inside like they always did after moments like these- until realisation finally dawned on her, she almost laughed at herself for not getting it right away.

"They're sending me on an adventure!"

But of course thats it, what else could this possibly be? She watched enough cartoons to know this- the heroine always has to go on an adventure by herself, away from family, to accomplish her ultimate goal. Hers (obviously) is to be the first person in the whole wide world to be everyone's friend. She was already halfway there, her dearest Mr. Bun was such a good friend he took up about half the spots just by himself.

Her considerate parents were nice enough to give her that one last push that she needed to make her dream come true, and oh how grateful she was. Mommy and Daddy must love me so much! Well, naturally.

With that, she turned on her heel and hopped out, setting off on her adventure, exploring her newest urban fantasyland with giddy excitement. It wasn't long before the bad guys- scary men in the sad blue uniforms- caught sight of her and tried chasing her down. She simply giggled and crawled under fences where they couldn't reach her, running as fast as her little legs could take her and sticking her tongue out at them.

end for now can u tell where this is going

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jungkoode · 1 day ago

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WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 01

˗ˏˋott and capy ˎˊ˗

“Ott and Capy. Stupid nicknames, really. Which is fitting when you’re like 8? 10? and your best friend is being annoying. Now at almost 30 it’s… something alarming to be called in the middle of Tennoji Station. But then again, this is your childhood friend Hoseok who you’re talking about.”

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 4,7k

content: moving out/in, new beginnings, discovering Osaka, wondering the merits of texting your childhood best friend, 5 years no contact, reconnecting, work discoveries, dinner plans, hobi being loud on purpose, hobi being a literal golden retriever, nicknames (are we surprised this is a kiki fic), yn being black grumpy cat coded andweird feelings.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

HEEEEYYYYYY did ya losers miss some good ol’ Kiki-Hobi energy???? WELL GUESS WHAT. I’m back. I’m here. I’m mentally unwell. And I’m writing Hoseok as a hentai mangaka. You’re welcome.

So here's the thing: after Off Labels I thought I was done. Thought I’d said all I had to say about Hoseok and trauma and weird intimacy and shame and giggles through grief. And then this man—this stupid man with his stupid loud laugh and his stupid kind eyes—crept back into my mind and refused to leave. He's my wrecker. Shocking, I know. Please hold your gasps.

This fic came to me because I couldn’t stop listening to Kyary Pamyu Pamyu and having weird visual flashes of neon Osaka streets, vending machines, childhood nicknames, and that very specific flavor of yearning that comes from bumping into someone you used to know so well, and realizing you don’t know them at all anymore. I sat with that for a while. It festered. And then, like all things in my life, it became fiction.

This chapter… hurts. Like?? Soft and fluffy?? Kind of?? But also??? Pain?? It’s not loud pain. It’s not sobbing-in-the-rain pain. It’s quiet ache pain. It’s “do they still like lemon cake” pain. It's the psychological spiral that hits when you realize someone who once knew you like breathing is now asking you for your address like a stranger. It’s sitting across from your childhood best friend and realizing neither of you remember how to touch. How to say goodbye. How to exist in each other’s presence without flinching.

And yeah okay I know exactly why it hurts. (I’m a psychology girlie. I analyze my own trauma for breakfast and then write porn in the afternoon. Duality.)

It’s the displacement. The unspoken. The existential nausea of identity—like who are you, if the person who knew you best doesn’t recognize you anymore? It’s the phantom limb syndrome of old intimacy. You keep reaching for a version of them that doesn’t exist anymore. And maybe they’re doing the same with you.

This fic will be slow-paced. Of course it’s slow. This is a Kiki fic. We write longing so extended it loops back into erotic torment and then loops again into grief.

Anyway, I’m really proud of this chapter. Like, genuinely. I think the tone is doing something very specific that I don’t always allow myself to linger in: melancholy. It’s bittersweet but not tragic. Nostalgic but not sappy. It’s two people walking a tightrope over their shared past, too scared to look down.

I’ll stop rambling now (no I won’t). Read the chapter. Text your childhood best friend. Or don’t. Maybe just sit in it. Let the ache settle.

Thanks for reading. ~ Kiki (aka Capy in spirit, Ott in chaos)

P.S. If you're not already invested in Hoseok as a feral golden-retriever-turned-hentai-artist, I will make you. Give me three chapters. Bet.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

wattpad

ao3

Your phone's been staring at you for three hours, and you're pretty sure it's winning.

You've spent three days arranging your meager possessions in this shoebox apartment, and still, it doesn't feel like yours.

The walls are too thin, the floor creaks in places it shouldn't, and there's a mysterious stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like Australia—which feels like some cosmic joke you're not in the mood to appreciate.

And it’s Sunday evening in Osaka.

Tomorrow you start your new job at that international marketing firm—the one that hired you specifically because you can string English words together without having an aneurysm.

Impressive skill, that.

Your phone sits on the fold-out table, screen cracked in one corner from when you dropped it while unpacking.

The pixelated display of your Nokia mocks you with its emptiness.

No messages. No missed calls. No one even knows you're here except your family, your new boss and the unimpressed landlady who barely looked at you when handing over the keys.

And right now you're sprawled on your sad excuse for a futon, scrolling through Mixi for the fourth time today like some digital masochist.

There it is again—Jung Hoseok's profile, mocking you with that ridiculous peace-sign photo and his stupid orange beanie.

Osaka Life: Year Five! with a picture of manga sketches and what looks like convenience store ramen.

Classic.

You scroll through the contacts, thumb hovering over his profile. 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤. Saved without a nickname or emoji because you're allegedly an adult now.

"This is stupid," you mutter to the empty room, tossing the phone onto your futon. It bounces pathetically, like everything else in this apartment—cheap and temporary.

Five years. Five years since you've properly seen him.

Yeah, there was that awkward coffee when you both happened to be home visiting parents three years ago, but that barely counted. Twenty minutes of surface-level catching up before he had to run for his train.

You both promised to keep in touch better.

Neither of you did.

You wouldn't even know Ott was still in Osaka if you hadn't stumbled across his profile on Mixi last month while researching your move.

The nickname forms in your head unbidden.

Ott.

Right. The stupid nickname. Ott. Otter.

Because he never stopped moving as a kid, always splashing around, getting into everything, making noise.

Like an otter.

You called him that once to piss him off, but he'd just grinned that stupid grin and started calling you Capybara—Capy for short—because you were ‘always sitting there, judging everyone, looking grumpy but actually kind of cute.’

You were not cute. You were eleven and had braces and hated everything.

Still kind of do.

Your apartment's single window faces another building, barely six feet of space between them. Someone's laundry hangs on the opposite balcony—a man's shirts and pants, all in dark colors. You wonder idly if your neighbor is as lost in this city as you are.

You moved to Osaka because it made sense. The job offer came at the perfect time—just when your old position in Sydney had become so monotonous you were considering setting your desk on fire just to feel something.

They needed someone who could communicate with their English-speaking clients.

You needed a change.

Simple math.

The fact that you knew Hoseok lived here was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. It's not like you were expecting to run into him in a city of 2.6 million people. And it's definitely not like you were going to reach out to him.

Except now you're sitting here, stomach growling because you still haven't figured out where to buy groceries, staring at your phone like it might bite you.

You hear everything happening outside.

Distant trains, muffled voices speaking rapid Japanese you can barely follow, someone's TV playing what sounds like a game show.

You've learned exactly seventeen useful phrases in Japanese, and fifteen of them are food-related.

Your laptop sits on the floor, ancient and struggling to connect to the building's spotty internet. The email from your new boss stares back at you:

"Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at 8:30. Please be punctual. Orientation materials attached."

God, you're not ready. You're not ready for any of this.

You grab your phone again, a decision forming against your better judgment.

It's just practical, really. He knows the city. He could tell you where to get decent food that won't bankrupt you. Maybe recommend a better internet provider. That's it.

Your thumb hovers over the message button. You type, delete, type again. Finally:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚎𝚢. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚈/𝙽. 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚢𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚢. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙾𝚜𝚊��𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔. 𝚂𝚊𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚡𝚒. 𝙰𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗 𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝟽-𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗?

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately throw the phone down like it's contaminated.

What the hell are you doing? He probably doesn't even remember you properly. Or worse, he does, and he'll think you're some desperate loser who can't make friends without dredging up people from elementary school.

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

You force yourself to unpack the last box, arranging toiletries in your tiny bathroom, pretending you're not listening for the message alert.

When the phone finally beeps, you nearly trip over your own feet rushing to check it.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙲𝙰𝙿𝚈?!?!? 𝙽𝙾 𝚆𝙰𝚈!!!!! 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝙾𝚂𝙰𝙺𝙰????

All caps. Multiple exclamation points. Some things never change.

Before you can respond, another message:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?? 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊?? 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙰𝙻𝙻 ��𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚜! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ

And then another:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙾𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?? 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚆???

You stare at the screen, a strange mixture of irritation and something warmer swirling in your chest.

Of course he texts like an overcaffeinated teenager. Of course he uses those stupid Japanese emoticons. Of course he still calls you that ridiculous nickname.

You type back, deliberately keeping it casual:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚓𝚒. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚆, 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝.

The reply is instant:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙽𝙾𝙹𝙸?! 𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎! 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙴, 𝙲𝙰𝙿𝚈! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

Fate. More like unfortunate coincidence.

Your stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, reminding you of the original purpose of this ill-advised communication.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚂𝚘... 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜? 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚞.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍! 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚓𝚒 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝟸𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜! 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝! 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝙾𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕!!

You stare at the message in horror.

No. Absolutely not.

You did not sign up for actually seeing him tonight. You're not mentally prepared. Your hair is unwashed, you're wearing your oldest t-shirt, and you haven't slept properly in three days.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙾𝙾 𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴! 𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙? ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟷𝟿 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜!

You throw your phone onto the futon with a groan.

This is exactly why you hesitated to contact him. The man has no concept of boundaries. Never has.

You remember how he used to climb through your bedroom window when you were thirteen because your mom said he couldn't come over until you finished your homework. He'd just sit on your floor, reading comics quietly, claiming he wasn't ‘technically’ visiting if he didn't talk.

You glance at your reflection in the small mirror above your sink.

Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt from a concert you don't even remember attending.

"Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing a somewhat cleaner shirt from your suitcase.

You're not dressing up for him. You're just not going to give him ammunition to tease you about looking like a zombie.

As you change, you tell yourself this is purely about food.

You're hungry. He knows places. End of story.

It's not because some small, traitorous part of you is actually relieved to have someone familiar in this strange city.

And it's definitely not because, despite everything, you're curious about what five years in Osaka has done to Jung Hoseok.

Sixteen minutes later, you're standing at the north exit of Tennoji Station, arms crossed over your chest, scanning the sparse Sunday evening crowd for a familiar face.

You spot him before he sees you.

He's jogging toward the exit, still wearing that stupid orange beanie from his profile picture, a faded hoodie hanging loose on his frame.

He looks... the same, somehow.

Different, but the same.

Like someone took the Hoseok you remember and just stretched him slightly, sharpened some edges, but left the core intact.

He hasn't seen you yet, and for a moment, you consider turning around and heading back to your apartment.

Pretending you never messaged him.

Starting fresh tomorrow without this complication.

Then he looks up, eyes scanning the area, and his entire face transforms when he spots you.

His smile is so wide it should be physically painful, eyes crinkling at the corners, hand shooting up to wave frantically like you might miss the only person having a full-body spasm in the middle of the station.

"CAPY!" he shouts, loud enough to make several people turn and stare. "CAPYBARAAAAAA!"

You want to disappear into the concrete.

Instead, you lift a hand in the smallest possible acknowledgment, your face already settling into the scowl that feels most natural around him.

He bounds over like an overexcited puppy, stopping just short of actually tackling you, which you half-expected him to do.

"Look at you!" he says, eyes scanning you from head to toe. "You look... exactly the same! But taller? Did you get taller? No, that's impossible, we're adults, we don't grow anymore. Maybe I shrunk? Did I shrink, Capy?"

He's talking too fast, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he can't contain the energy in his body.

Some things really never change.

"Hello to you too, Ott," you say, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it. "And no, neither of us has experienced a height change. You're just as annoyingly tall as always."

His grin somehow gets wider at the nickname, like you've given him some kind of gift. "You remember! You still call me Ott! This is the best day!"

"It's been five years, not fifty. I haven't developed amnesia."

"Five years, three months, and approximately—" he makes a show of checking an imaginary watch, "—twelve days, but who's counting?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Apparently you are, which is concerning."

He laughs, the sound exactly as you remember it—too loud, slightly high-pitched, completely uninhibited. "Come on, I'm taking you to the best okonomiyaki place in Osaka. The owner has a daughter who speaks some English, so you can point at stuff if you need to."

Before you can protest, he's already walking, gesturing for you to follow. You hesitate for only a second before falling into step beside him.

"That's the best convenience store—they never card you for beer. That place has decent ramen but the bathroom is sketchy. Oh, and never go down that street at night unless you want to get offered 'massages' by very persistent men in suits."

You're barely listening, too busy trying to process the fact that you're walking through Osaka with Jung Hoseok, like the last five years never happened, like you're still the same people you were back in Sydney.

But you're not. You can't be. Too much has happened. Too much time has passed.

As if reading your thoughts, he glances at you sideways. "So. Marketing, huh? Always figured you'd end up doing something with all those fancy words you know."

"It's just copywriting. Nothing fancy."

"Still. International firm. Sounds impressive."

You shrug. "They just needed someone who speaks English. The bar was pretty low."

He nudges your shoulder with his. "Classic Capy. Never take a compliment when you can deflect it instead."

"It's not a compliment, it's an observation. And what about you? Still drawing?"

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. "Yeah. Still drawing."

"Anything I would have seen?"

He lets out a short laugh. "Uh, depends on what kind of websites you visit."

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he stops in front of a small restaurant wedged between a closed flower shop and what appears to be a tiny bar. The sign is all in Japanese, and the windows are steamed up from the heat inside.

"Here we are! Best okonomiyaki in the city, I swear."

As he slides open the door, the smell hits you—savory, slightly smoky, with hints of ginger and onion. Your stomach growls audibly, and Hoseok laughs.

"Someone's hungry! Don't worry, Capy, I'll feed you." He puts on a baby voice, reaching out like he's going to pinch your cheek. "Poor widdle Capybara, all alone in the big city with no food."

You swat his hand away. "Touch my face and lose the hand, Ott."

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Still so violent! I see Osaka hasn't softened you at all."

"I've been here three days."

"Ah, so there's still hope!"

The restaurant is small but cozy, with grill tables where customers cook their own okonomiyaki.

An older woman greets Hoseok warmly in Japanese, exchanging a few sentences before she leads you to a table in the corner.

As you sit down across from him, the reality of the situation finally hits you.

You're having dinner with Jung Hoseok.

In Osaka.

After five years of nothing but occasional likes on social media and that one awkward coffee shop meeting.

He's looking at you with a strange expression, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"What?" you ask, immediately defensive.

"Nothing," he says, but the look lingers. "Just... it's weird, right? You being here. In my city."

"It's not your city. You just live here."

"Five years makes it mine. Three days makes you the tourist."

"I'm not a tourist. I live here now."

His eyes widen slightly. "Wait, for real? Like, permanently?"

You shift uncomfortably. "Well, the contract is for a year initially. But yeah, I moved here. Shipped all my stuff. Got an apartment. The whole thing."

"Huh." He leans back, processing this information. "A whole year of Capy in Osaka. The city won't know what hit it."

The daughter—presumably—comes over with menus, speaking in careful, slow Japanese mixed with English phrases.

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian.

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

When the waitress leaves, you raise an eyebrow.

“Show off."

He looks genuinely confused. "What?"

"The Japanese. You sound like you actually belong here."

"I mean, I've lived here for five years. And I am half-Japanese, remember?"

You do remember. His mom speaking to him in Japanese when you were kids, though he'd usually respond in English because it was easier around you.

Another piece of Hoseok that feels different now, more layered than the boy you knew.

"So," he says, leaning forward on his elbows, "what made you choose Osaka? Of all the cities in all the world, you just happened to pick the one where I've been living?"

There's something in his tone—playful, but with an edge of genuine curiosity—that makes you look away.

"The job offered the best package," you say, which is true. "And I needed a change from Sydney. That's it."

"That's it? Not even a little bit because you knew your favorite childhood friend was here?"

You roll your eyes. "You weren't my favorite childhood friend. You were an annoying neighbor who wouldn't leave me alone."

"I was totally your favorite," he insists, grinning. "You let me read your diary once."

"I did not! You stole it, and I pushed you into a bush for it!"

He laughs, the sound filling the small restaurant. "Oh yeah! I had scratches for weeks. Your mom thought I'd been attacked by a cat."

"You were. A human one."

The banter feels so familiar, so easy, that for a moment you forget the five-year gap, the distance, the strangers you've become.

For a moment, it's just you and Ott, arguing like you're thirteen again.

The waitress returns with a tray of ingredients and begins preparing the grill built into your table. Hoseok watches you, strange expression back on his face.

"What?" you ask again.

He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. It's just... good to see you, Capy. For real."

It catches you off guard, the sincerity in his voice.

You don't know what to do with it, so you fall back on sarcasm.

"Well, don't get used to it. I'm going to be very busy with my important marketing job."

"Of course, of course. The great Y/N, too important for old friends." He contorts his gaze in fake agony. "How will I survive the rejection?"

"The same way you've survived the last five years, I imagine. Without a single thought about me."

It comes out more bitter than you intended, and you see it land—a slight widening of his eyes, a pause in his perpetual motion.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then the waitress saves you by placing a bowl of batter on the table, demonstrating how to mix in the cabbage, meat, and other ingredients before pouring it onto the hot grill.

Hoseok jumps in, taking over the cooking and flipping the pancake-like creation with surprising dexterity.

"I thought about you," he says quietly, eyes on the grill. "I just... didn't know what to say anymore. It felt like we'd gone in different directions."

You don't know how to respond to this sudden honesty, so you watch him cook instead. His hands move confidently, sprinkling bonito flakes and drizzling sauce over the okonomiyaki once it's cooked through.

"Try it," he says, cutting a piece and sliding the plate toward you. "Best thing you'll ever put in your mouth, I promise."

You take a bite, and damn it, he's right. The flavors explode on your tongue—savory, sweet, umami, with the perfect texture of crispy exterior and soft interior. You can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes you.

Hoseok's face lights up. "See? What did I tell you! The Ott never lies about food."

"The Ott refers to himself in the third person now? That's not concerning at all."

He laughs, taking a huge bite of his own portion. "Some things change, Capy. But the important ones stay the same."

You're not sure what he means by that.

You focus on eating instead.

The food really is incredible, and you realize just how hungry you've been, and for a few minutes, you both eat in companionable silence, the awkwardness fading under the simple pleasure of good food.

"So," he says eventually, "where's your apartment? Is it nice? Do you have roommates?"

"It's in the south part of Tennoji. It's tiny and depressing, and no, I live alone. The company arranged it."

"Alone? In Osaka? That's no fun. You should have called me before moving! I could have helped you find something better."

The idea of planning this move with Hoseok's input is so absurd you almost laugh.

"Right, because we've been in such close contact."

He has the decency to look slightly abashed. "Yeah, well... we're fixing that now, right?"

You're not sure what to say to that either.

Are you fixing it? Is that what this impromptu dinner means? Or is this just a one-off reunion before you both return to your separate lives in the same city?

"How's the manga going?" you ask instead, changing the subject. "I saw your blog. Looked like you were working on something."

That strange expression crosses his face again. "It's... going. It pays the bills."

"What kind of manga? Anything published?"

He coughs, suddenly very interested in arranging the remaining food on his plate. "Yeah, it's published. It's, uh... it's adult manga, actually."

It takes you a moment to process what he's saying.

"Adult as in...?"

"As in not for kids." He meets your eyes. "Hentai, if we're being specific."

You blink. "You draw porn?"

"I draw adult-oriented manga with complex characters and narratives that happen to include explicit sexual content," he corrects, the words sounding rehearsed. "But yeah, essentially, I draw porn."

Of all the ways you imagined Hoseok's life had gone, this was not on the list. The boy who used to draw elaborate superhero comics in the margins of his school notebooks now draws hentai for a living.

You can't help it—you start laughing.

His face shifts from defiance to confusion. "What's funny?"

"Nothing, just..." You try to control your laughter. "Of course. Of course that's what you do. It's so perfectly ridiculous."

"Hey! It's legitimate art! I'll have you know I've won awards!"

This only makes you laugh harder. "Awards? For porn? Like what, 'Best Depiction of a Tentacle'?"

He rolls his eyes, but you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. "Mock all you want, but it pays well, and I'm good at it. I have a whole fan following online."

"I bet you do," you say, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. "God, Ott. Only you would somehow turn drawing dirty pictures into a career with awards."

He grins, seemingly relieved that you're not judging him. "What can I say? I found my calling."

"Does your mom know?"

"She thinks I illustrate 'romance novels,'" he says, making air quotes. "And we're both happy with that explanation."

The image of Mrs. Jung proudly telling her friends that her son illustrates romance novels while he's actually drawing explicit hentai is somehow both hilarious and oddly sweet.

As your laughter subsides, you realize something.

This is the first time you've really laughed since arriving in Osaka.

The first time you've felt anything close to comfortable.

Hoseok is looking at you again with that soft expression that makes something flutter in your chest.

You quickly squash it.

"What?" you ask for the third time tonight.

"I missed that," he says simply. "Your laugh. It's still the same."

“Well, don't get used to it. I don't plan on making a habit of laughing at your poor life choices."

"But you'll have to see me again to laugh at my future poor life choices," he points out, grinning. "So that means we're hanging out again, right?"

You hesitate.

The sensible thing would be to thank him for dinner, go home, and focus on your new job. Keep things casual. A message here and there, maybe coffee someday.

Not jump right back into whatever intense friendship you had as kids.

But there's something about sitting across from him in this tiny restaurant, the familiar rhythm of your bickering, that feels like the first real thing since you arrived in this city.

"I start work tomorrow," you say, neither a yes nor a no.

"Perfect! You'll need dinner after your first day. I'll show you another spot."

"I didn't agree to that."

"You didn't not agree either." He reaches across the table, stealing the last bite of your okonomiyaki with lightning speed. "Come on, Capy. You missed me too."

Too.

You narrow your eyes at the theft of your food. "I will admit no such thing. And you'll pay for taking my food."

"See? Violent as ever." He beams like your threat is the greatest compliment. "I'll pick you up after work tomorrow. Where's your office?"

Before you can protest, he's already pulling out his phone, ready to input the address.

And somehow, against every instinct screaming at you to maintain boundaries, you find yourself telling him.

He walks you back to your apartment building later.

And it’s not because you wanted to (you said no multiple times). But he insisted on seeing you home safely, ‘because Osaka can be confusing at night.’

So now here you are, both walking, side by side whilst keeping a deliberate distance between you.

Most shops are closed by now, and the night air is cool against your skin, makes you nuzzle your sweater a little bit.

"This is me," you say, stopping in front of your building.

It looks even more depressing at night, the lighting in the lobby flickering slightly.

Hoseok looks up at the building, assessing. "Not bad. Kind of reminds me of my first place here."

"Let me guess, you live somewhere amazing now, with your fancy porn money?"

He laughs. "Nah, still in a pretty basic apartment. Just with more bookshelves for all my manga research."

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at 'research.'

You roll your eyes. "Gross."

"You love it."

"I do not."

He grins, rocking back on his heels. "So, tomorrow. After work. I'll meet you at your office at... what time do you finish?"

"I don't know yet. And I didn't agree to tomorrow."

"Text me when you know," he says, completely ignoring your protest. "I'm free all evening."

You should say no. You should set boundaries now, before this becomes a thing.

But the thought of coming back to your empty apartment after your first day at a new job in a foreign country...

"I'll text you," you concede. "But no promises."

His smile is annoyingly triumphant. "That's all I ask, Capy."

There's an awkward moment where neither of you seems to know how to say goodbye.

In the past, you might have shoved him, or he might have ruffled your hair.

Now, you stand a careful three feet apart, the years between you like a physical barrier.

"Well. Thanks for dinner," you say finally. "And the recommendation. It was good."

"Anytime. Seriously." There's that sincerity again, throwing you off-balance. "It's really good to see you, Y/N."

The use of your actual name instead of the nickname startles you.

You look at him—really look at him—for the first time all night. There are new lines around his eyes when he smiles. His hair is different under that beanie, longer than he used to wear it. He's thinner than you remember, or maybe just more angular.

But his eyes are the same, dark and warm and always, always watching you too closely.

"Yeah," you say, before you can think better of it. "You too, Hoseok."

His smile softens into something different, something that makes your stomach do a strange little flip. You quickly look away.

"Goodnight, Ott," you say, already turning toward the building entrance. "Don't get lost on your way home."

"Goodnight, Capy," he calls after you. "Sweet dreams about your first day in the big, scary office!"

You flip him off without looking back, his laughter following you as you enter the building.

Inside your apartment, you lean against the closed door, releasing a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

The space feels even smaller after being out in the city, the silence more pronounced.

Your phone beeps with a message:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤; 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎! ��𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 (𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎). 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠! 𝙶𝚊𝚗𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎!!! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ"

You stare at the screen, torn between annoyance and something dangerously close to affection.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢.

Three dots appear immediately.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚃𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠! 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝! 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜!!

You put the phone down without responding, but there's a small smile tugging at your lips that you can't quite suppress.

Tomorrow you start your new job. Tomorrow you begin the life you came to Osaka for. Tomorrow everything gets real.

But tonight, for just a few hours, it felt like maybe you weren't completely alone in this strange new city. Like maybe there was one person who still knew you, even after all this time.

You're not sure if that's comforting or terrifying.

Probably both.

goal: 150 notes.

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@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @sashakittyct @bjoriis

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#hoseok x reader #hobi x reader #hoseok x you #hobi x you #jhope x reader #jhope x you #jhope fanfic #jhope fic #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fic #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #jungkoode #wgu #hobi fanfic #hobi fic

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stereopticons · 1 day ago

Text

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: May 30

2018

have you met my family [david/patrick, T, 3,374] by TheSuperDandy

‘David knew exactly how attractive he was – it was his personality that was forever letting him down. But Patrick…Patrick honestly seemed to have no idea how that spoon in his mouth felt like sex to David, how the bright arc of his smile cut the world open. Or had it cut David open? Either way, it made David feel painfully awake. Patrick continued to watch David, and the quality of his smile changed. Okay, so maybe he knew.’ David and Patrick eat a lot of ice cream.

2019

Take my Heart, Make it Strong [david/patrick, G, 5,354] by @erandi

“Have a seat, we need to talk.” His dad gestures to the empty seat in front of him and David sits. He knows exactly what this talk is going to be about, his dad only uses that tone of voice for one thing. It just so happens to be the one topic that David would rather eat glass than discuss- which is saying a lot really, considering some of the things he’s done- but he knows from experience that it’s easier to just let his dad say what he wants to say. “Son, your thirty-fifth birthday is coming up in a couple of months, and we all know the timeline that we’re working with.” “Yeah, yeah. Twenty years to break the curse otherwise we’re stuck like this forever.” or The Rose family is cursed and the only way to break it is to find David's True Love.

Three is a good number, maybe [david/patrick/ted, G, 413] by AmyriadfthINGs

Ted likes Patrick.

2020

And if you're fallin' down [david/patrick, T, 456] by @spiffymittens

When David's looking at Instagram, he can't stop messing with his lips. It kind of makes Patrick walk right into walls. A little ficlet for the Jukebox prompt: "the first time Patrick sat in David's lap" Title from Noah Reid's new song "Got You", which is a total jam.

And the moon will keep my secrets [david/patrick, T, 2,837] by @petrodobreva

David just came back from visiting Alexis in New York. It didn't go well. Patrick is worried about it.

Can we always be this close [david/patrick, T, 590] by @kiwiana-writes

And suddenly, suddenly he understands what David has been trying to tell him for weeks, about letting go of expectations and doing what makes you feel right. Or, the first time Patrick sat on David’s lap.

Off-Book [david/patrick, T, 614] by bigficenergy

Patrick is up late running lines, and David just wants him to come to bed.

Take Me Out [david/patrick, G, 1,719] by @roberttchase

Ronnie’s halfway to first base and almost falls as she stops herself to look at him, the whole field and bleachers suddenly deathly quiet. Shit. Of course it’s Brewer who gets hurt. Of course it's her fault. She might not be his biggest fan, but she would never intentionally hurt him.

The Hackathon [ronnie/the florist, T, 3,184] by another_Hero

"Come on, baby," Dulce said over ice cream, "I want to see your town!" wherein Ronnie invites the florist to a fundraiser for the Schitt's Creek curling team uniforms.

This is Nice [david/patrick, G, 627] by @delilah-mcmuffin

David has climbed into Patrick's lap countless times. It’s his safe space, completely enveloped in the arms of his person. Sure, sometimes David feels a little ridiculous, like Gulliver curling up in the lap of a Lilliputian. But Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, so neither does David.

2021

Bells Falls [david/patrick, E, 16,482] by @picassofoxpeachy

Patrick has just broken off his engagement with Rachel and moved to Schitt's Creek. They were great as friends but any time their relationship progressed, instead of becoming closer they grew further apart.Thankfully, he came across an ad looking for a part-time mechanic at Bob's Garage. It had been so long since he had to opportunity to work on cars. He found himself actually excited about the chance to do something different, if even for a short time.Patrick figured he'd be able to do a couple months in Schitt's Creek, get himself sorted out and move on.But that was before he towed a car belonging to one David Rose, a man who caused Patrick to reassess what it is that he actually wants. NOTE- as of the conclusion, I did some editing that I couldn’t before. It’s great what avoiding something for over 2 months will do! I hope it reads a little bit better now though.

Everything You Need [david/patrick, E, 3,271] by @blackandwhiteandrose

“You’re killin’ me here…” David mumbled, leaning in just enough to nuzzle at Patrick’s jaw. Patrick chuckled, “Almost there. You can wait a little longer.” “No, I can’t,” David insisted. “Oh, I think you can.” -OR- Back in their hotel room after attending a black tie wedding, Patrick takes charge.

finally finally finally finally finally [david/patrick, G, 100] by @seadeepy

David gives some advice to Ted that might also apply to himself.

Grape wine [david/patrick, G, 1,125] by @picassofoxpeachy

David and Patrick are at a small business convention together. David tries a wine that’s amazing, but turns out to be from Herb Ertlingers winery. He has to make a decision about whether to start selling Herb Ertlingers win in Rose Apothecary or not.

It Won't Let Go [david/patrick, M, 12,619, CW: domestic abuse] by @fand0mfancies

Patrick kept going back to Rachel for 15 years. Why? And will he go back again?

save it from the funny tricks of time [david & moira, G, 1,114] by @hullomoon

While David helps her pack up her wigs, Moira reflects on their relationship.

Suddenly you're mine [david/patrick, E, 1,774] by @rmd-writes

Patrick doesn’t give him an answer and instead starts playing the piano, the song sounds familiar but David can’t place it until he hears Patrick singing quietly. “I never understood before, I never knew what love was for, My heart was broke my head was sore, What a feeling …” “Patrick,” his voice is just a whisper. Patrick looks at him, smiling as he continues to sing, his eyes both loud and soft, and fond. *** David and Patrick steal a moment after their wedding ceremony; and Patrick surprises David with an unknown skill.

what right feels like [david/patrick, g, poem] by elifisher96

I kissed a boy. to be moreprecise, he kissed me but does thathonestly make a difference?

2022

Getting What You Want [david/patrick, E, 2,393] by obsessedwithdavrick

It took Patrick a while to admit how much he loved cum. Now that he has, he is leaning in. David helps. And so do a few others.

Losing Control [david/patrick, E, 8,515] by @a-noble-dragon

David and Patrick have a little competition going to see which of them comes first. Who will win? Round 1- The first one to lose control and come loses. Featuring masturbation and dirty talk. Round 2- No talking! That means you, David. Round 3- Finger sucking. Round 4- Phone sex. Round 5- Overstimulation.

The Rush Before We Touch [david/patrick, E, 1,085] by @alienajackson

David is horny. Patrick (eventually) helps.

2023

[Art] "I know why you came here" [david/patrick, M, fanart] by @lizzie-bennetdarcy

David visits Patrick's glassblowing studio and receives a very warm welcome. Inspired by Molten Glass Hearts by Januarium

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017 or 2024 2018: 1 fic/3,374 words 2019: 2 fics/5,767 words 2020: 7 fics/10,027 words 2021: 8 fanworks (7 fics, 1 poem)/36,693 words 2022: 3 fics/11,993 words 2023: 1 fanart Total: 22 fanworks (20 fics, 1 fanart, 1 poem)/67,896 words

#on this day in sc #sc fanfic #sc fanart #sc fanworks #schitt's creek #david rose #patrick brewer #david x patrick #patrick x david #alexis rose #stevie budd #moira rose #ronnie lee #ted mullens

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corseque · 1 day ago

Text

I said I wouldn't write essays and would write fanfic instead, but here's a last one

I'm thinking about my clair obscur otp a lot and mentally exploring their dynamic because I'm trying to write fanfic about my otp. and after thinking about it, I don't think that Clea's observations about them and their relationship are necessarily completely correct just because she's an outside observer.

Clea is the kind of person who really deeply prioritizes total independence, and she's obsessed with perfection. She is canonically humiliated at the thought of being even a little bit wrong and mortified at even the slightest idea of needing help or being incapable. Like her mother, she is extremely skilled and proud, and so from the start, I think Clea finds the idea of her father helping her mother a little ridiculous. I don't think Clea could imagine being helped herself in that way, so she doesn't imagine her father could help her mother. Clea declares very firmly that the way they need to work through their grief is in a very Clea kind of way, the only way that Clea understands working through grief - they need to somehow work through their grief completely alone and THEN talk to each other....

I mean, I guess, but it sounds like the advice of an extremely independent single woman who is terrified and mortified of leaning on others.

Renoir, in the letter that he wrote that you find in his room, says that he would greatly prefer mourning WITH his wife and not mourning alone, and it seems like he couldn't get on with processing his feelings when he actively felt the other people in his family dying or isolating unhealthily. Like, I get that much more - how could he concentrate on himself the way Clea says, or watch his wife just fade more and more and do nothing? So already, his wanting to pull together WITH his family in grief seems different than what Clea would ever choose for herself.

I think deep in my soul that Renoir was right, maybe not in every single detail, but at least in his fear being justified and his strategy and method needing to happen for Aline to ultimately live through the events of the story. Because they BARELY got her out of there even after doing EVERYTHING they could for 67 years. So to me, he was right to be so adamant from the very beginning.

I think it's a little bit Clea believing in her mother's competence to think that she needed absolutely no help whatsoever and she could have come back out on her own. Clea seemingly has not experienced what Renoir has experienced, almost being lost in a Canvas, and though she must be aware of the dangers, Renoir is better able to see the signs and make that judgment call, even while being afraid and maybe jumping the gun a tiny bit for his own personal reasons.

Maybe Clea is a bit right because while they were in the Canvas, they WERE processing their grief on their own and isolated, but I think it was important to Aline to know that Renoir WAS there, that she could feel his presence and she was reminded that he was still fighting and struggling for her.

Aline did paint her version of Renoir to always loyally guard her and never be far from her, to protect their house and to cushion her in her grief. She completely stopped talking to her family, but she still needed them to be with her.

And I think it was important for Renoir to have something to fight for, something to determinedly cling to as he spent 67 years alone and thinking deeply about his family and processing his own grief.

I just don't see how the narrative concludes that Renoir's fear was selfish or unjustified when, even after doing everything they possibly could to get her out, they still just barely seemed to get her out right at the edge of death. To me, that implies that she WOULD have died had they done ANY LESS than they did, which justifies Renoir and proves his reaction toward her being in the canvas was totally rational.

Now, I agree with his characterization being one driven by being terrified of losing more family and going to extremes to prevent that, but the story didn't prove to me that the extremes were unnecessary. Like, he was driven by fear, but his judgment seemed ultimately sound. And I think that part of it was echoed by how he dealt with Alicia in the canvas - even in his fear that makes him raise his voice, he still listens carefully.

anyway long story short - I think that Clea was also speaking from her own point of view and not objective reality, and I think that's proven because Renoir's fears were ultimately justified by the story. So I think Renoir was right and Clea was wrong in saying they were just being dramatic and overreacting and causing problems on purpose. The problems were real and Renoir was doing the best he could. And I think that Aline needed him to do what he did as well. I think she would have definitely died without her husband's help. And I think that they would not have recovered as a couple if Renoir had left her alone to process it alone, I think she needed Renoir there as a continuous pressure so she knew she wasn't actually alone.

this is way too long I'm just talking to myself here lmfao

#Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 #working though my THOUGHTS

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thatblackravenclaw · 3 days ago

Text

In the Interest of Security

a/n: sorry for disappearing for almost two years. mental health was in a silly goofy mood and decided that i didn't like writing anymore. i also had this small matter of graduating uni, so that took up a wee bit of my time. will you guys accept bucky smut as an apology?

but yeah first smut in 2 years, be gentle 🫣

Blog Details | Let's take a trip

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warning(s): slow burn (kind of), cussing, yearning, smut, p in v, oral (fem rec.), not proofread (it's 1 am)

word count: 2.7k

“The reformation of the Avengers initiative marks a pivotal movement in our shared global security efforts. While we recognize the complexities of empowering individuals with extraordinary capabilities, it is our responsibility to ensure that accountability and oversight evolve alongside them. We are not here to condemn nor to canoize— we are here to ask the right questions, and to protect the public interest.”

I hate Sam for putting me in this position. Not between him and Bucky, but in front of a crowd of people as I have to basically say the “New Avengers” are here, without being able to properly have an opinion on it. It’s his fault I have this stupid position. I was recommended by Captain America and the money is definitely needed. He knew that.

“Congresswoman, with individuals like James Buchanan Barnes returning to active duty under the New Avengers banner, how does the committee plan to address public concerns about trust and past affilations— especially given his history as the Winter Soldier?”

I scan the room for the voice. Must be a new reporter. Everyone knows that you wait to be called upon. We lock eyes as I find the match. She reminds me of a young Peggy. Smart ass smirk on red-painted lips. A beige, two-toned pantsuit that washes her out more than the bleach she recently traumatized her hair with.

“Mr. Barnes has more than earned his place on the team. He’s demonstrated not only compliance with oversight but consistent commitment to the safety of civilians. Often at great personal cost. It’s easy to define someone by the worst chapter of their story. It takes more integrity to acknowledge how far they’ve come.”

Silence.

Her smirk wiped.

“That will be all for today. Thank you.”

I give her one last glance. I turn behind the curtain as the questions start spewing from the public and the cameras flashing enough to cause an epileptic fit. I hate press conferences. I hate reporters like her more. How dare she? Everyone by now knows he was brainwashed. If she had done proper research before walking in here, maybe I would not have had to embarrass her in front of everyone who watched the altercation.

“Watch out. It almost sounded like you cared about me out there.”

His deep husk interrupts my thoughts. My shoulders drop from my ears and an exhale flows from my lips.

I don’t turn to face him.

“It’s my job to care about national security.” I say, steady.

A pause.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Behind me, there’s a soft shuffle of boots on marble. No words. Just the sound of him closing the distance. Slow. Deliberate. He stops close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back, the faint rustle of his jacket when he shifts his weight.

“You always this protective with your assets?” he asks, voice lower now.

I finally turn.

It’s a mistake.

Now we are eye to eye, breath to breath, and the air between us is charged— static wrapped in silence. His gaze flickers to my mouth. Just for a second, then back up, unreadable.

“I protect what’s earned it,” I say quietly, and it’s too honest.

Far too honest.

His expression shifts— barely. Something softens in his eyes, like he hears the thing I’m not saying. His hand lifts slowly, uncertain but deliberate. Fingertips hover just above mine, not touching. Just the promise of it.

“Aw, hell no.”

Sam’s voice cuts through the moment like a slap of cold water. Bucky’s hand drops. I step back so quickly that I nearly stumble into the podium. Sam rounds the corner into the room in full gear, shield slung across his back, but his tone anything but official.

“Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes without it turning into a slow-burn indie movie.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, unamused. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Sam says, tossing him a protein bar like this is all part of his job as Captain America. “Also, press is clearing out. Which means you’ve got” —he looks at me— “about sixty seconds before your staff starts sniffing around looking for you, so maybe save the soft eyes for later.”

I straighten my blazer, trying to remember what words are.

“Noted,” but when I pass Bucky on the way out, our shoulders brush. Neither of us moves.

Bucky leans against the edge of a steel table, arms crossed, still staring at the spot she just vacated. The air hasn’t quite settled. Sam’s adjusting the straps on his suit in front of a mirror, but watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t start,” Bucky says without looking at him.

Sam grins. “Start what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You breathed judgement.”

“That’s just my face, man.”

He glances over his shoulder at Bucky, then turns fully to face him. The grin lingers, but there’s something gentler beneath it now.

“You know, for a guy who spent most of the last century undercover or frozen, you’ve got some real modern commitment issues.”

Bucky gives him a flat look. “That wasn’t a commitment issue. That was a press conference.”

“Uh huh. Sure, and you just happened to be standing one breath away from kissing the congresswoman for, what? Diplomatic reasons?”

Bucky says nothing.

Sam steps closer, his voice dropping into that annoying big-brother wisdom tone he pulls out exactly when Bucky doesn’t want it.

“Look, man. I get it. She’s sharp, powerful, scary as hell, and you think she deserves someone… less broken.

Bucky looks away at that.

“But you’re not that guy anymore, and she’s not looking for perfect. She’s looking at you. Every damn time.”

Bucky still doesn’t respond.

Sam pats his shoulder. “Of course, what do I know? My last date ended with me pretending to get called to a mission just to escape the horror of a group karaoke bar.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You don’t even have a comm on weekends.”

“Details.” A beat.

“You gonna tell her how you feel?” Sam asks.

Bucly shrugs, quiet. “She’s got a whole country to answer to.”

Sam gives him a long look. “Yeah, but she still looks at you like you’re the thing worth protecting.”

With that, Sam turns toward the stage, hidden behind the same curtains she came from just moments prior, rolling his shoulders.

“Alright, Time to go smile for the cameras and say something inspirational. Try not to brood too hard while I’m gone.”

“Can’t promise anything.”

“Didn’t think so.”

The city hums beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m still in my suit, heels kicked off hours ago, blouse unbuttoned just enough to suggest I stopped pretending to be okay sometime after midnight.

A half-finished glass of wine rests on the coffee table. The TV plays news coverage of the press conference, muted. My own face on the screen—composed, sharp, untouchable.

I watch myself defend Bucky again.

“He’s demonstrated not only compliance with oversight but a consistent commitment to the safety of civilians—often at great personal cost…”

My voice, clear and sure, doesn’t match the weight I’m feeling now. I sigh, leaning back on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer some clarity, but all I see is him. The way he looked at me backstage—like I was something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.

And that damn line.

“Watch out. It almost sounded like you cared about me out there.”

God, it would be easier if he weren’t so—

Good.

Not just good at what he does. Not just a soldier or an asset or a man with too much blood on his hands, but good in ways that scared me. Steadfast, selfless, infuriatingly observant. The kind of man who carries his guilt like armor and still somehow makes space for softness when it comes to me.

I pick up the wine glass, swirling what’s left, but I don’t drink.

“Get a grip.” I mutter to myself.

But I know I’m lying. I’ve known for a while now.

I’d memorized his file before I ever met him. Now I’ve memorized the tilt of his smirk, the way he crosses his arms when he’s hiding something, the rare sound of his laugh when Sam actually lands a joke.

I’m not just involved. I’m undone.

And no matter how many press conferences I hold or how many laws I pass, that feeling doesn’t shrink.

It grows.

I lean my head against the back of the couch, eyes closing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the right way to keep my distance again, but tonight, I’ll let myself miss him.

I’m not looking for it.

I’m looking for something else entirely. An old case file I’d half-buried under a pile of research on Sokovia-related amendments, but then my hand brushes soft cotton, tucked between the couch cushions like a secret.

I pull it out slowly.

Dark gray. Worn. Faded Hydra logo scratched out with a black Sharpie.

It’s his.

He must’ve left it the last time he stayed late—some early morning strategy session that turned into a three hour debate about jurisdiction and freedom, followed by the world’s most loaded silence as he stood in my kitchen drinking tea like he belonged there.

I run my thumb along the neckline. The fabric is stretched a little, like he yanks it on in a hurry. It smells like soap and metal and him.

My heart stumbles.

It’s stupid. He probably forgot it existed, but my fingers curl around it before I can talk myself out of it.

I check the clock. 03:10 AM.

Too late. Too unprofessional.

Too obvious. I grab my keys anyway.

I don’t knock right away.

I just stand there in the hallway, staring at him door like it might open on its own and make the decision for me.

It doesn’t.

So I knock soft, two quick taps, like maybe I don’t really want him to answer, but then the door creaks open.

He’s in sweatpants and a sleeveless black shirt. Hair a little damp. Barefoot.

He blinks at me, then at the shirt in my hands.

I lift it between us, pretending my pulse isn’t thundering in my throat.

“You left this.”

His brow furrows, like he’s trying to remember when.

“I figured you’d want it back,” I add, even though I know it’s a weak excuse. He can read it all over me.

Bucky looks at me. Really looks at me, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

Then he steps aside.

“Come in."

I don’t expect the knock.

Especially not at three in the morning.

I was mid-way through brushing the dust off an old vinyl when I heard it— two light taps, hesitant. Not the kind of knock from someone angry, or official. The kind that means maybe this is a bad idea, but I’m doing it anyway.

I open the door and there she is.

Barefoot in boots, blazer traded for something soft and off-duty, but still her—still composed, still sharp, still every inch the woman I can’t stop thinking about. Her eyes flicker up to mine, then down to the shirt in her hands.

My shirt.

I forgot I even left it there, but now, seeing her holding it like it’s something delicate, something worth returning? My throat goes tight.

“You left this,” she says.

I look at it. I look at her.

She could’ve waited. Could’ve sent it back with one of her aides. Could’ve pretended it wasn’t worth noticing, but she didn’t.

“I figured you’d want it back,” she adds, like that explains the late hour, the tension in her shoulders, the way she won’t meet my eyes for more than a second.

I let her in. She walks past me, slow, like she’s not sure if I’ll change my mind. She sets the shirt down on the edge of my kitchen counter, but doesn’t move away from it. I close the door behind her. The lock clicks too loud in the quiet.

“You drove all the way over here for a t-shirt?” I ask, keeping my voice level, teasing even, but it comes out too soft. Too aware of her. She turns, finally meeting my eyes. Her mouth twitches like she’s thinking of something clever to say, but she doesn’t say it. Instead, she just watches me. And it hits me—she’s not here for the shirt. She’s here because she couldn’t not be.

I lean against the counter, arms crossed to keep them from reaching for her. “You know,” I say, “for someone who gives a hell of a speech about oversight and professionalism, this is… a little off-script.”

She huffs a breath—part laugh, part sigh.

“I know.”

She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t explain.

God, she doesn’t need to.

Because I’ve replayed that moment backstage a thousand times in my head already. Her voice defending me like she meant every word. The way her eyes softened just before she looked away.

And now she’s here.

I push off the counter and take a step closer. Not touching. Not yet, but I watch her breath hitch. Just a little.

I speak low.

“You’re not just here about the shirt.”

“Maybe I needed a reason.”

That lands somewhere in my chest and sinks, slow and deep.

“You don’t need one,” I say. My voice is rougher now.

I can see it, everything she’s been holding back. It’s all there in her eyes, in the way she’s standing so still, like movement might shatter whatever this is between us. I reach out, not to touch, just… to hover. Close enough for her to choose.

She does.

Fingers brush mine. Barely.

Then her hand wraps around my wrist, deliberate, grounding. And that’s it—that’s the moment I stop pretending.

Her hands find my chest, my shoulders, like she needs to memorize the shape of me all over again. I can feel the way she’s breathing—shaky, sharp, like every inhale is a risk. I lean in, my forehead almost touching hers.

“I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into that press room,” I murmur. “Hell, maybe before that.”

She’s the one who closes the last inch, and when our lips meet, it’s not firework—it’s gravity.

Her teeth catch my bottom lip. My hips buck into hers, pushing my cock further inside of her. A restrained “fuck” with a hiss is heard from my lips, as the most gorgeous moan is heard from hers.

I need to keep hearing it.

My hips pick up pace while I swallow her moans in a kiss. Her nails create small, crescent indents in my back, only making me thrust deeper. She makes it easy by having her legs wrapped around my lower back as if she’s afraid that I’ll stop.

I’m barely able to hold off my own orgasm when I hear her dulcet tone whimper into my ear that she’s close.

“Mm mm.” I slow down and shake my head. Her eyes pop open, begging without a single word. “Not yet. I haven’t gotten to taste you yet.”

I gently remove her legs from around me, but keep them open and bent with her feet on the mattress. I can’t help but groan as I slip from inside her. I miss the warmth and the way her walls wrapped around my shaft, but not tasting her is killing a part of me.

On bended knees, I put her calves on my shoulders and my mouth on her clit. Her hips push up against my face but I put my left arm on her pelvic to ensure her place.

“Shh, just let me taste you, baby..” I coo and murmur before delving my tongue through her lips. Her moans do nothing, but spur me on and harden my cock.

So sweet. So creamy. So mine.

I can’t help it. My thumb presses against her clit, finding which pressure she prefers. Her arousal oozes out and right on to my awaiting tongue. My eyes close in pleasure, erasing everything but her. Her sounds, the way her thighs perfectly encapsulates my face.

“B- Buc-” Her thighs tighten. Nimble fingers run through my hair and tug.

“I know. I know. You can cum for me.”

She shudders and floods my tastebuds. I lick and slurp until I have her cleaned up.

“Wait,” I release my grip on her, letting her fully sit up. “what about you?”

I looked down to my wooden floor covered with a patch of my creamy white substance. With no choice but to chuckle, I lean forward and give her clit one more kiss.

“I’m handled, sweetheart.”

More Bucky | New York City

#bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfiction #slow burn #bucky fic #soft!bucky #bucky barnes smut #bucky x fem!reader #marvel smut #mcu smut #mcu #marvel fanfic #marvel #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #thunderbolts

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witless-winion1 · 2 months ago

Note

Do you think when Ody comes back, he is so immensely touch starved, like he is constantly walking around the palace fully wrapped around his family, climbing them, just fully around the palace staying as close as possible to them, asking Telecommunications to move back into the room w/ his wife and him so he can hold them both oh so tight so he can believe in his touch that they aren't going to be ripped from his arms, and he's back on a lil raft, alone, maybe even prays to hope like Hermes and Athena come over more often so he can hug them in thanks and like w/ how many friends lost, drags them into a cuddle pile on a surface of some sort (floor? Bed? IDK) so he can trust he isn't alone and those who helped him and those he loves are still there, passing out, and all they can hear is screams (begging for them to not leave please pleASE PLEASE) (I'm coming back for more once I have more ideas, but yeah)

why the hell did this take me so long to answer. Why have I been letting one of my precious few asks rot in the box. I am so sorry my fren, my brain saw the wall of text and activated both the EXCITEMENT and OVERWHELM buttons at the same time. But anyway. Yes.

Odysseus Absolutely clings to Penelope every chance he gets (and she does the same). Remember that comic with his empty throne while he just snuggles up with Penelope on her lap on her throne? I’m a big supporter of that. It’s canon.

He’s a bit more nervous about touching Telemachus, because he doesn’t know his son’s boundaries as well as he knows Penelope’s, but he learns pretty quickly that while is son is mostly unused to constant physical affection, he is very open to it.

In my mind, Telemachus doesn’t sleep with his parents unless it was a bad night for one of them (Tele and Pen suitor trauma, Ody…everything trauma), but they do frequently have cuddle piles in the evening, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they constantly fell asleep like that.

Also now that I’m considering it, I do think Telemachus moved his bedroom to directly down the hall from Penelope when he was a teenager to protect her, just in case. So he stays close even on regular nights. Though he does have to invest in earplugs.

Also, I LOVE the idea of him summoning Hermes and Athena purely to spend time with them.

When he prays to Athena, she’s there in a snap, and is initially rather confused. She’s not very used to physical affection or ‘cuddles’ (a term she does not use), but she finds she enjoys it more in her owl form. Although she refuses to participate in the “physical closeness sessions” when Hermes is there after the first time. She didn’t want him spilling to the rest of Olympus about how, in a sleepier owl form, she started arranging the blankets and pillows of the wedding bed into a nest around the edges of the bed. You know, to keep the chick (Telemachus) from falling off.

Hermes just laughs and dives into the bed, remarking that it’s somehow almost as soft as the ones on Mount Olympus! and playfully sits on Telemachus’ legs and says stuff to get Penelope to whack him with a pillow (or olive tree branch, depending on how bad it was). He also occasionally offers them moly. Odysseus always declines, but Penelope and Telemachus both tried it once out of curiosity.

Penelope then sat down and weaved a tapestry (magnificent enough to make Athena notice and ask about it later, leading to a very fun and intelligent conversation). She then fell asleep (passed out) at the loom when it was done. Odysseus carried her to bed, and she had no recollection of the night before or of weaving the tapestry.

When Telemachus tried moly, he just started mumbling about how he missed Argos. And then he stood up and started rambling about the legends Penelope had told him about Odysseus when he was a young boy. Odysseus nearly cries from both sentimentality and laughter at his son’s clumsy recollections.

But after a while, after some speculation with an old healer in the palace, Odysseus tried microdosing (am I using that word right?) moly in hope of helping with his nightmares, because of every night’s a repeat of “captain”, “but we’ll die”, “this life is amazing,” “waiting,” “get in the water,” “thunder bringer”, etc. He finds his dreams to be more chaotic, but less intense and traumatizing…? Like fever dreams? He decides to only use it on the worst nights, because he’d rather not see Polites and Eurylochus dressed up in winion and lotus-themed drag every night.

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elliespassagerprincess · 6 hours ago

Note

Abby x Butch reader who never bottomed before having there first orgasm and there basically spazzing out ‼️‼️‼️

tremble - abby anderson x butch!reader

hi anon!! i hope you like this... i deadass suck i writing smut.. i tried:(

masterlist

warning: NSFW content! MDNI 18+

You weren’t the kind of person to give up control.

You’ve led raids. Killed clickers with your bare hands. Sharpened your blade on a WLF helmet and walked away laughing. No one ever looked at you and thought submissive. No one dared.

No one until Abby.

You weren’t even sure when she started looking at you like that. Like she knew something you didn’t. Like she’d already won a game you hadn’t agreed to play.

And tonight? You’d let her take the lead — just once. Just to see what she had in mind. Just to prove you could handle it. You never saw it coming.

Abby has you splayed out on the mattress, the busted old springs creaking with every shift of her weight. Her thighs straddle yours, strong and sure, pressing you down without even trying. Her eyes gleam in the dim light, one brow cocked in that infuriating, cocky way.

"You sure you’ve never bottomed before?" Her voice is low, teasing.

You scoff, your arms braced behind you. "What do you think?"

She leans in, her hand wrapping around your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I think you’re about to find out why people do.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does.

Her mouth crashes into yours—hungry, deep, demanding. She doesn’t ask. She takes. Her hands aren’t gentle. They wander like they own you, learning every sharp edge and smooth scar. You try to stay cocky. Tough. You’ve done this before—led before.

But Abby? She’s not interested in what you can do. She wants what you haven’t done.

And she’s patient. Methodical. Her fingers press at your limits, testing how far she can push before you flinch, before you bite back a sound. Every time you growl a warning, she smiles like she wants it.

When her mouth finds your neck, sucking a bruise just under your jaw, your breath hitches.

"Still got that attitude," she murmurs against your skin. "Let’s see how long it lasts."

Her hand slips between your thighs. You jerk like you’ve been shocked.

"Abby—"

"Relax."

It’s not the touch itself that breaks you. It’s the way she does it—slow, knowing, devastating. Like she’s been here before. Like she studied your anatomy better than you ever did. Like she enjoys watching you unravel.

And you do.

Against every instinct, your hips jerk into her hand. Your breath comes short and ragged. Your hands tremble.

"You’re close already?" she teases, her voice dark silk. "You’re fucking shaking."

You want to snap something back, but your tongue won’t work. Your brain's gone static. Heat coils through you—tight, electric, burning.

You've never felt it like this. And when it hits—when that tight, impossible heat snaps—it’s like your body betrays you completely. You twitch, full-body, a desperate noise catching in your throat before it bursts free, unfiltered and raw.

Your vision goes white. Your thighs lock around her. You gasp, shudder, curse. You spasm.

Abby doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch.

She watches. Eyes locked on yours like she’s memorizing the way you fall apart. Like she planned for this moment.

When you finally sag back, your chest heaving, she leans over you. Sweat beads at her temples. Her smirk is damn near predatory.

"Still think you’re in control?"

You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Your hand claws at her bicep, the only thing grounding you.

She leans down, voice velvet-drenched steel.

“That was your first?”

You nod, once. Maybe twice.

She kisses your temple, slow and satisfied.

“Oh, baby... we’re just getting started.”

You’re still catching your breath when Abby shifts her weight and leans back on her knees, the soft creak of the bed dragging you out of your haze.

You're still stunned. Still twitching every few seconds like the aftershocks are dancing under your skin. It’s almost embarrassing—your fingers won’t quite obey, your chest still stutters with each inhale.

She’s watching you.

Her face isn’t smug anymore. It’s darker than that—hungry. Intent.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” she murmurs, running a thumb along the underside of your jaw. “That wasn’t even my best.”

You glare at her, or try to. Your eyelids are heavy. Your body’s still locked in that strange high—your muscles loose, your brain buzzing.

And still... craving.

Abby sees it before you can say it. Your hips shift just slightly, unconsciously, and her expression twists into something downright cruel.

“Oh,” she says, soft and sharp, “you liked that. Look at you. Legs shaking. Pupils blown out. Fuck.”

Her hand trails down your stomach again.

You catch her wrist. “Wait.”

That one word surprises both of you. Abby tilts her head, but doesn’t pull away. Her voice loses the mockery, but none of the control.

“Too much?”

You shake your head. You don’t want her to stop. But you’ve never felt this raw before—never let someone touch you like this. You’re butch. Tough. You fuck. You don’t fall apart.

You don’t ask.

But here you are. Half-limp, overwhelmed, wrecked, and still burning for her. She leans closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it.”

“Say what?” you rasp, half defensive, half breathless.

“That you want me to keep going.” Her palm presses just above where you’re still aching. “You can take it.”

You should say no.

You should flip her over, regain control, prove this was a one-time fluke.

Instead… you nod. It’s humiliating. It’s thrilling. She smiles like she owns you now.

This time, she doesn’t tease. Her mouth is on your chest, your ribs, your stomach—biting, sucking, marking a trail. Her hands are confident, knowing exactly how to touch you, when to press and when to drag out the tension until you’re writhing again.

“You’re so sensitive now,” she murmurs, two fingers slick and slow between your thighs. “Never felt this good before, huh?”

You try to grit your teeth. Try to hold on to something. But then she curls her fingers just right.

Your whole body arches like it’s been pulled by strings.

“Fuck—!” It bursts out of you, choked and wild. Your hand flies to her wrist, not to stop her—just to hold on.

She laughs, low and hungry. “There it is.”

Your second orgasm crashes into you like a wave over glass—sharp, clean, unstoppable. It tears through you, from your core to your fingertips, and your legs kick once—uselessly—before you go rigid.

Then limp. Then silent.

Abby stays with you through it. Her free hand strokes your side, grounding you while her other fingers finally still, sliding free with a wet drag that makes you flinch.

She leans in again, whispering into the shell of your ear.

“You’re fucking beautiful when you come.”

You don’t answer. You can’t answer.

She kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, warm and slow. The contrast from earlier—rough to tender—makes your head spin.

“I’ll get you some water,” she murmurs, finally.

You nod once, dizzy.

As she stands and moves toward the tiny kitchen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the cracked mirror across the room. Hair a mess. Face flushed. Throat marked up. Legs open, trembling slightly. And your expression? Half-shocked, half ruined.

You don't even recognize yourself.

And the worst part?

You want more.

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humanjarvis · 3 months ago

Text

caught in a lie

synopsis: when you ignore caleb’s calls, he catches you trying to run from the consequences. you make a false promise to appease his anger, not expecting your lie to unravel. but almost immediately, it does.

tags: based loosely on caleb's "hidden waves" memory, porn with plot, manipulative!caleb x manipulative!reader, brat!reader, mean(ish) dom!caleb, caleb makes out with your cunt for an hour, reader cries, belly bulge, 3 brother mentions but they’re done ironically/out of spite, humiliation, semi-public sex (caleb makes you call and cancel plans with that friend while he fucks you), lines lifted directly from hidden waves in bold pairing: caleb x fem!reader word count: 3.9k

a/n: love the scene this is based on bc it reminds me of my favorite book from the wattpad era in 300 BC. also this is my first time writing full-on smut and omfg i don't know how people write like 10k of it u guys are wizards. but the response to this will determine how explicitly i write going forward, no pressure

As the Skyhaven nightscape twinkles around you, you can’t help but feel like you’re forgetting something.

You’d had a great night: Simone had invited you to a cute café, the owners had given you a free muffin, and the raging storm from this afternoon had dwindled into a drizzle. But still, a sense of foreboding loomed over you, threatening to taint the precious memories you’d made tonight.

“...And next week we can go to this new bar downtown! I heard they have the best drinks, and there’s even a puppy mascot they let walk around and play with guests. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Yeah, sure,” you agree absently, Simone’s words going in one ear and out the other. “I’ll be there.”

As you walk farther down the sidewalk, the vibrant city atmosphere melts away your worries. People of all ages were out splashing in leftover puddles, trying new food stalls, and window shopping in the strip of stores that lit your path. Gradually, you give up on trying to place your unease, surrendering fully to the comfort of the cool night air.

“Hey!” you exclaim, an idea popping into your head. “Do you want to find a photobooth and take some pictures? I want something to remember tonight by.”

“Oh my gosh, absolutely,” Simone responds. “There should be one not too far from here. I went with my brother a few months back! It was really fun.”

At her words, you stop in your tracks. Her enthusiasm is no match for the dread building in your chest.

Caleb.

Caleb who’d told you to text him when you got to the café, when you were about to leave, and when you were almost home.

Caleb was what—or who—you were forgetting.

Slowly, you reach your hand into your purse until you feel your phone, digging it out and staring as if it were a venomous animal. Taking a deep breath, you tap the screen awake and immediately lose the air you’d just inhaled.

7 Unread messages

4 Missed calls

3 New voicemails

Fuck.

“Uh, actually,” you start, chucking the device back into your bag, “I just realized I didn’t bring a brush! There’s no way I can take pictures without fixing my hair—it’s like a bird’s nest up there,” you ramble, giggling nervously. “Can we end the night here?”

“O…kay?” Simone says, clearly confused by the sudden shift in your mood. “Yeah, we can go back now. Your hair looks fine, though.”

Thanking the universe for giving you such an agreeable friend, you walk back to her car, the quickness of your usually unhurried steps betraying your agitation.

He’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna kill me, you think.

As the familiar outline of Simone’s car comes into view, she turns to face you. “Do you want a ride to the train station? I told my girlfriend I’d be home at 1:30—I have another hour.”

“Wait!” you cry, throwing your hands out in front of you. She looks at you as if the intensity in your voice is unnecessary. Which is true, because she’s standing a foot away. Quieter this time, you ask, “Would it be okay if I spent the night at your place? Just this once, I promise.”

“...If you really need to,” she agrees warily. “As long as you don’t mind cat hair.”

When you reach her car, Simone gestures for you to wait as she walks around to the passenger’s side. “I just need to clean up real quick. The granola bar wrappers build up when you’re constantly called in early for emergencies.”

But when Simone pulls on the door handle, it doesn’t open. “Weird,” she mutters, wiping raindrops onto her jeans. “I swear I unlocked it.”

She clicks a button on her keys and tries again. Inexplicably, the door still doesn’t budge. “It’s like some force is holding it shut or something,” she says. At that, an alarm sounds in the back of your mind. But before it can reach your consciousness, she continues. “Well, I have a locksmith on speed dial anyway—I’m always losing my keys. But before I call, seriously, are you ok? The way you asked me to stay over….Is there something scary waiting for you at home? Why do you look so worried?”

"It’s probably because I’m home,” the all-too-familiar voice rings out behind you.

In an instant, your entire body goes rigid. Your now-pounding heart screams at you to run, but you can’t obey without making a scene in front of your friend.

Plastering a smile on your face, you turn around slowly, as if the longer you took to face him, the more likely he’d be to disappear.

You had no such luck. Towering over you, umbrella in hand, was Caleb, his normally expressive face a wall of stone.

Despite his obvious anger, he steps forward to shield you from the downpour and you refrain from taking a step back—against your better judgment.

“Caleb!” you remark, your voice shrill with unease. “What a surprise!”

Ignoring your greeting, Caleb turns his attention to Simone. “Skyhaven isn’t very safe tonight,” he says coolly. “You’d better get home.”

The finality in his words makes it clear: you won’t be joining her.

“Um, sure,” Simone trails off, wary eyes searching yours. “Will you be alright?”

“...Yes, it’s okay.”

Though your words don’t seem to convince her, Caleb’s penetrating glare does. She quickly walks to the driver’s side and effortlessly pops the door open—surprise, surprise—before jumping in. Giving you one last look, your only chance at salvation drives into the night.

The ride back to Caleb’s house is silent. You scoot as close as you can to the window beside you, paying no mind to the intensifying patter of rain against the glass. All that you notice is how he grips the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white.

When you pull into his driveway and exit the car, he walks closely behind you, preventing any more last-minute escape attempts. His imposing presence follows you inside and all the way to his bedroom.

When you both cross the threshold, the air thickens with tension as you stand in silence, unmoving.

“Well, goodnight!” you call when you can’t take it anymore. But before you can take one step, Caleb swings the door shut with his Evol. Huh, you think. Doors must be his speciality tonight.

“Where do you think you could possibly be going after the night you gave me?” he asks, steely voice cutting through your thoughts.

“Listen—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You ordered coffee three times. Burst out into laughter I could hear from outside six times. And yet, you somehow managed to check your phone zero times.”

“If you’d just given me more time, I was going to—”

“You were going to what? Because here’s what I think would have happened: If I hadn’t picked you up, you would’ve gone to your friend’s place, right? Then, you’d message me with an apology. Oh, throw in a cute emoji as the cherry on top,” he snorts.

“With that done, you’d put your phone away and curl up into a ball to sleep. You wouldn’t even dare to check my response. You’d wait it out and believe I wouldn’t be upset. And once I’m away on a mission or somethin’...you would sneak back into the house and pretend nothing happened. Tell me,” he challenges you. “Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong—not about your habits, at least.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you snap. “I thought you said you were ‘done playing games’? You don't have to act so big brother-y all the time.”

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Caleb’s head rears back, his eyes going wide in incredulity before he scoffs.

Alright, you sigh, time to turn on the waterworks.

Taking a deep breath, you force tears into your eyes. “Caleb,” you begin, “I really didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just having so much fun. S-someone brought their puppy to the café and I got distracted.” The café hadn’t allowed pets, but you needed all the sympathy you could get. You’d have to thank Simone for telling you about that new bar later. “I won’t do it again. I won’t even go out at night anymore—promise.”

As he takes in your pitiful expression, you see Caleb’s resolve start to crack, the twitch in his right eye giving away how much he wants to console you. Maintaining your pout, you internally grin like a Cheshire cat. He could never say no to you. He could never le—

Your phone rings.

You thought you’d turned it off in the car, but your fucking phone rings. Right when you have him where you want him.

The shrill tone sucks the air out of the room, and with it, any hope for your escape.

“Answer it. Speaker.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

Visibly shaken, you fish your phone out of your bag and accept the call. “H-hello?”

“Hey Y/N, it’s Simone. I’m calling to check on you—that guy who took you home was kinda scary. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t do anything. Are you okay?”

At the insinuation that he’d ever harm you, Caleb’s face turns thunderous, his jaw clenching so hard you’re afraid it’ll snap.

“No, no, I’m fine,” you reassure her. “Thanks for worrying though, that’s really sweet,” you add, your eyes darting up and immediately back down after meeting Caleb’s glower.

“That’s great, I really was worried,” she says, relief evident in her voice. “Well, before you hang up, are we still on for same time next week at the bar I mentio—”

You hang up as soon as she reveals your plans, throwing your phone so abruptly it bounces off the chair where your purse sits and onto the carpet. But it was too late. There was no sweet-talking the irate scowl off of Caleb’s face. You’d lied.

Like a deer in headlights, you stand frozen and helpless as Caleb stalks toward you.

“You almost had me,” he chuckles darkly, squishing your cheeks between one hand. “And I bet you knew it, too. Remind me to thank Simone for being such a good friend later.”

His grip tightens when you try to respond, and he pulls your face closer to his instead. “I think I’ve had enough of you talking for now. No point in hearing it if you’re just gonna lie to me again.”

With uncanny speed, he lifts you by your legs and tosses you onto the mattress. When you attempt to sit up, hoping to crawl away, he captures both of your wrists in his hand and claims your lips in a bruising kiss.

“Don’t talk.” A kiss. “Don’t move.” Another. “Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, and I might not chain you to this bed.” You’re so distracted by his final kiss—the exclamation point—that you barely register when he yanks your loose pants down, baring your cotton panties to him.

When he spots the wet patch spreading through the middle, he moans, shifting to push his nose into your center. The deep inhales he takes seem to calm him down, and his voice loses some of its earlier edge when he murmurs, “Can’t believe you were keepin’ her from me tonight. Look at how much she missed me.”

He demonstrates by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your panties, tasting you as you leak harder under his tongue. The whimper you let out falls on deaf ears as you remember his command: Don’t talk.

Licking a stripe up your clothed folds, Caleb sighs into you in contentment. “Gonna see her in a second,” he breathes. “Just can’t give her too much at once, or she’ll get greedy.”

He’s too far gone, you think, closing your eyes in preparation of what’s to come. But nothing prepares you for the way the seemingly sedated Caleb rips your panties open at the seam, exposing your hot skin to the cool air.

With no hesitation, he plants a long kiss onto your core, his lips smacking against the fat of your outer folds. Covering your skin with a flurry of pecks, he moans into you, his intermittent licks becoming sloppy, appreciative kisses.

Caleb was making out with your cunt like your brain wasn't in the room, kissing it like he hadn’t seen it in years. The sensations and lewd squelches make your arousal unbearable, but when you try to grind into his mouth—to get him to do something more—he pushes your hips into the mattress.

“Don’t interrupt us,” he mumbles, lips still latched onto your unspread cunt. Heat rushing to your cheeks, you flop your head back down, defeated as the man ignores you to have his heartfelt reunion with your core.

An agonizing few minutes later, you feel him press a last hard kiss against your skin before finally spreading your soaked folds. “Can’t believe you ever thought you could hide from me,” he growls, eyes sparkling. “I’ll show you you can’t. Make you never want to again.”

Slowly, he licks up and down your wetness, teasing his tongue around your entrance. You try to relax during his ministrations, knowing he won’t give you what you want this early, but he catches you off guard when he buries his tongue into your weeping, sputtering hole.

A strangled moan escapes you as he fucks you with his tongue, twisting, turning, and circling himself inside you.

One pulse has your walls flexing with desperation, and Caleb pulls back slightly when he feels you tighten around him. “Look at that, I think she’s kissin’ me back,” he coos, a string of his saliva refusing to part from your quivering cunt.

Spurred on by the whine you give him, he flashes you a wicked grin before diving back in, plunging his tongue in and out at a punishing pace.

All the while, he studiously avoids where you need him most, licking and kissing everywhere but your twitching clit—neglecting it like you did him earlier in the night.

Suddenly, he lifts his head up, flashing you a quick smirk. “You know,” he starts, licking his glistening lips. “When you were givin’ me all those crocodile tears and cryin’ about puppies earlier, you never did say sorry for trying to run. How about now, hmm?” he asks, pressing a wet kiss to your center. “You sorry?”

You pant out an incoherent moan, and he nips at your clit—the first time he’s touched it all night. Ignoring your squeal, he gives you another kiss. “I don’t know what that means. Try again.”

You go to speak again, but Caleb suddenly rubs his nose against your clit, your resulting gasp sending your back shooting off the bed. He swiftly slams you back down with his Evol, giving you another nip. “Just two words, baby. You can do that for me, yeah? Two words, loud and clear. Want to know you mean it.”

You don’t know what it is—the last strands of your pride clinging on for dear life, your stupor after being toyed with for almost an hour, or pure stubbornness—but you can’t bring yourself to say it. With a whimper, you clamp your mouth shut, staring at the ceiling in rebellion.

“Hmmm,” he hums, looking up at you briefly. Before you can even process it, Caleb covers your clit with his mouth and sucks, simultaneously groaning into you. The combined sensations set your nerves on fire, and you come in his mouth with a prolonged cry.

“I’m sorry!” you wail, the tears in your eyes genuine this time. As Caleb laps up your release, chants of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—oh—I’m sorry,” fall through your lips, your earlier defiance reduced to blubbering submission. “Should’ve checked my phone and called you back, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve apologized ten times over, it feels, but he won’t let up. He suckles you until it aches, and there’s nothing you can do but lie there and sob as his Evol keeps you pinned down. When he’s finally had his fill, he presses a reverent thank-you kiss to your cunt before crawling up your body, nestling in between your thighs.

“Aw, none of that, now,” he coos, wiping under your eyes. “I forgive you, alright? I forgive you for getting distracted, baby.” Still crying, you nod frantically, leaning into his gentle touch. “But if you ever run from me again, whoever you’re with won’t like what happens when I catch you,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your lips and then your forehead before plunging into you.

Though his pace is relentless, your walls draw him in, his earlier date with your cunt letting you take his thick length with ease.

When the pressure builds and you shy away from his brutal thrusts, he turns your chin toward him, pressing an ironically chaste kiss to your mouth. “No running, remember?”

As you hurtle toward your release, he leans close, kissing you briefly before speaking into your lips. “The next time you wanna ignore me—next time you wanna hide from me and lie to me sayin’ you’ll be good from now on—I want you to think of this, to think of me right here,” he murmurs, palming his cock through your belly. You squeal at the foreign feeling, but he only adds more force, and you think you’re about to pass out.

“My baby,” he chides. “Loves to act out but she can’t handle the consequences.” While he speaks, he folds your left leg up, pushing it to your chest so he can penetrate you deeper.

“Please, Caleb!” you beg, the new angle making stars float across your vision. As your body rocks with the force of his strokes, you cry, “I said I was sorry!”

“Mm, you did,” he nods, absorbing a tear on your cheek with a kiss. “But I don’t think you really are. Not yet.”

Without warning, he pulls out of you and flips you onto your stomach before sliding back in. Resuming his thrusts, he uses his Evol to pick your forgotten phone up off the floor. “Call her back. Speaker,” he orders.

At first, you're flustered into hesitation, but as he holds the phone ahead of you and taps through your history to do it himself, you pull yourself together. “Wait,” you wail. “Wait. I’ll do it.”

You do it.

When Simone picks up, Caleb shows you mercy by decreasing his pace so the sound of slick skin colliding doesn’t travel through the phone.

“Hey Y/N, what’s up? Is it about earlier? …Did something happen?” she asks in concern.

Frantically, you twist your head to look up at Caleb, not knowing what to say.

Leisurely, he folds forward over you, his chest flush with your spine so he can whisper in your ear. Throughout his dramatics, your time to respond without raising suspicion wanes, and you grow more desperate by the second.

“Hi Simone,” Caleb finally whispers, pressing kisses to your ear in time with his languid strokes.

“H-hi Simone,” you repeat louder, a slight tremble in your voice.

“I just wanted to say thanks again for checking in. That guy, the one from earlier—he can be so mean sometimes,” Caleb murmurs, pouting his lips in ridicule.

“I just wanted…wanted to say thanks again for checking in. The guy from earlier—hah—can be so mean sometimes,” you echo, breathless from the impact of Caleb’s hips rocking into yours.

“Can we reschedule our plans for next week? My big brother’s,” he emphasizes, mocking your earlier jab with two deep thrusts, “coming home, and he really misses me.” As he feeds you lines, the taunts in his words break through the softness of his whispers.

As softly as you dare to, you whimper for him, hoping it’s enough for him to end his torture.

But as the phone screen goes black from inactivity, you see his smirking reflection looming over your humiliated one. The only way out is by appeasing him.

“C-can we reschedule our plans for next week? My…my friend—”

As soon as the word leaves your mouth, Caleb lifts off of you slightly, landing a harsh smack on your ass.

“Y/N? What was that noise? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you all but moan as he bites your neck, reprimanding you further for breaking his script.

“My friend is visiting next week, and he really misses me,” you finish, waiting with bated breath for her—and Caleb’s—reactions.

“Oh…sure, Y/N. That’s fine with me. That’s a lot better than I was expecting, you sounded like you were in trouble for a second.” Caleb smirks against your ear. “Just let me know when you want to reschedule.”

“Sounds good,” you breathe as Caleb’s thrusts return to a faster pace. “I-I gotta go, I’ll see you later!” you rush, almost squealing as you end the call.

For the nth time that night, you want to burst into tears. “I can’t believe you just did that,” you whine, your voice mixing with the renewed slaps of skin on skin.

Chuckling, Caleb lifts off of you, his sudden absence from your cunt making you shudder. In an instant, he flips you over so you’re face-to-face before entering you again.

“Technically, you just did that,” he smirks, his thrusts now lazy and sporadic. “I don’t remember pressing ‘call.’” His matter-of-fact tone is teasing, but you knew that if you hadn’t canceled on Simone, he’d have made good on his earlier threat. He always does.

As you open your mouth to retort, Caleb’s face grows serious, and all your neurons responsible for making witty comebacks seem to atrophy at once.

Caleb leans down, light bites on your throat punctuating his confession. “I can’t stop at wanting you not to run from me anymore. I want you to stay with me. To choose to, for as long as we live, for the next hundred years.”

“But what if…” you trail off, but he understands what you’d been implying.

At that, his eyes darken. Rutting into you with renewed fervor, he grasps your chin tightly, holding you captive in his gaze. “You’ll be around for however many years I’m alive and kicking,” he growls. And you believe him.

Nerves alight, mind numb, and core throbbing from your impending climax, you nod as much as his iron grip allows you to. “I’ll stay,” you whisper, kissing his thumb near your lip. “Wanna stay—with you.”

Letting out a strangled huff, Caleb surges forward, his lips meeting yours in a searing kiss. He bites your bottom lip as he presses down on your stomach once again, and you careen over the edge, feeling the hot spurts of his release intensify the flood inside your cunt.

With a shuttering groan, Caleb collapses to your left, immediately closing the space between you with a hug. You stay like that for a while, your sore body curled into his arms as you face each other on the bed.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, rubbing circles into your hip. “I know it was a bit much.”

“Forgive you,” you mumble into his chest. “Felt good.”

He chuckles, tapping your nose twice. “You shouldn’t forgive me so easily. Or else I’ll want to keep testing your limits.”

When you fall asleep in his warm embrace, Caleb looks down at you intently, trying to brand the visual into any part of his commandeered mind that’d take it. Daring to disrupt the image, he gently untangles your bodies, lifting you before laying you back down on top of him.

At peace for the first time that night, Caleb looks out the window, smiling to himself. The rain has stopped.

#iris writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lads #lads x reader #caleb smut #lads smut

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divinedomainn · 2 months ago

Text

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 1 ▷ || play next song?

summary : After another horny stream, you drop the bomb: fuck-a-fan fridays—seven weeks, seven fans, seven filthy videos. masks on, faces hidden, just you and one lucky subscriber tangled up on camera each week. All they have to do? strip down, get hard, and show you why it should be them. Auditions start now.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men

A/N : and so it starts!!! is everyone ready to see the submissions from your favorite horndogs? :) (also i hope you can tell whose who hehehe) i'm trying to keep the writing inclusive for every sort of female presenting person so let me know how i've done!

The next few weeks passed in a blur of lace, lube, and direct deposits that made your head spin. What had started as a desperate half-joke had morphed into a full-blown empire - your empire. The girl who once contemplated selling her underwear for gas money was now clearing rent, tuition, groceries, and still had enough left over to drop serious coin on clothes and silk bed sheets.

You’d gone to the next level. Your friends were of course benefitting from your suspiciously newfound wealth, you casually said you had found a better part-time job, never letting them know the truth when you decided to take them shopping. Not yet at least.

Private requests were your bread and butter. You weren’t just good anymore - you were a professional tease, a digital siren with a library of toys, outfits, and vocal tones that could bring grown men to their knees. They paid for everything; soft whispers, rough talk, slow stroking, filthy roleplays. Some just oddly wanted to hear your moans on loop. Others wanted personalized videos where you called them by username and told them exactly what you’d do if they ever had the balls to show up in person.

You were making big bank. Like “accidental tax bracket change” big. Like “should probably consult a financial advisor” big.

And the men?

Oh, the men were obsessed.

Especially the regulars. Their usernames lit up your screen night after night, tipping with reckless abandon, flooding the chat with unfiltered thirst. You didn’t know who they were in real life, yet, but their personalities bled through the screen in such vivid, chaotic little ways.

EmoWithaBoner was yearning. Desperate in a way that made your chest clench and your thighs twitch. His messages were usually soft, almost sweet - You deserve everything, You looked so beautiful tonight - until something cracked open inside him mid-message and he’d type something crazy like: I would lick your cunt until you beg me to stop. Now that had gotten a small “Oh.” out of you. He wanted to worship you and ruin you all at once.

SixEyesOnly was a fucking menace. Flirty, cocky, constantly sending emojis that were way too smug for someone probably watching with only one hand available. His tips were ridiculous, like, spend $300 just to watch you eat grapes in a bad wig slowly sort of ridiculous, and his messages read like he was trying to fluster you on purpose. You assumed it was some sort of control thing with him, throwing money at people and getting them to do it. No complaints from you.

TempleOfSin was smooth, a little poetic, a little filthy. He asked for long, descriptive videos where you described what you were wearing, how you’d touch him, how you'd taste. He liked to also order roleplay videos where you pretended to worship him like he was some sort of God. Sometimes he called you his loyal little follower. You didn’t ask questions.

daddyissuez was feral. No other word for it. His requests were blunt, primal, always toeing the line of what the platform allowed and your own, now lacking, self-control. He liked spit, degradation, and power games. His tipping was sporadic and a lot less compared to the others, though, it was enough to keep him in your attention.

OfficeAfterHours was different. Polite. Polished. His messages came like little business memos laced with innuendo. “You looked stunning tonight. That color suits you,” followed by a $200 tip telling you to buy more in the same color. Never crude, always composed. It made him stand out more, somehow. Like a man who didn’t need to beg. A man who expected what he wanted, and always got it.

And then there was KingOfRot.

Unpredictable. Crude. Arrogant. He dropped tips like they were nothing. $500 just because you looked at the camera in a way he said was like a ‘deer in the headlights’. Odd, but $500 was a good amount to keep your mouth shut. He called you “pet,” “whore,” “delicious little thing.” You should’ve blocked him. Instead, you kept reading his messages twice over with your jaw unhinged and in wonderment whether or not he actually said that. His energy was intense and you hated how hot that was.

Which brings us to tonight.

You were perched in your new silk sheets, ring light warm against your skin, wearing your most transparent slip where your nipples were clearly on display and a smug little smirk behind that now iconic mask of yours. You’d hyped this stream for days - teased it on your feed, hinted at it in DMs. The chat was already on fire and you hadn’t even said a word yet. Tonight was a big one.

EmoWithaBoner: god ur so fucking hot tonight SixEyesOnly: i logged in 15 minutes early and i still feel late :(( OfficeAfterHours: You’ve outdone yourself this evening. KingOfRot: Come on, get to the fucking point, girl.

You grinned, slow and lethal, dragging your fingers along your inner thigh and ignoring KingOfRot.

“Well,” you purred, “I figured since you’ve all been very generous lately… it’s time I give something back.”

SixEyesOnly: oh fuck You licked your lips, loving the short little power trip it gave you. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Maybe it’s time to start a little… tradition.”

You paused for dramatic effect.

“Fuck-a-Fan Fridays.” You bit your lip. Boom. Chat detonation. SixEyesOnly had sent you $200 just for the phrase.

EmoWithaBoner: you’re joking SixEyesOnly: oh shit baby TempleOfSin: Perfect. KingOfRot: You say when and where, pet. daddyissuez: i’ll be first. fuck the line OfficeAfterHours: I trust you've thought this through..

You leaned in close. OfficeAfterHours was cute in the way he was concerned for you. “I mean, why stop at one, right?” You giggled, cheeks burning behind your mask as you kicked your feet a little bit out of the view of your webcam. “I was gonna keep it casual, but um… yeah. What if I made it a thing? Like, a series?”

Another pause. You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried heat.

“One fan. Every Friday. For seven weeks.”

You crossed your bare legs over one another, your slip rising on your thighs as you did so. “Seven Fridays. Seven people. Seven chances to fuck the brains out of a very nervous, very willing woman who cannot believe she’s actually saying this live right now.”

You sat up again, brushing the slip back into place like your nipples weren’t clearly on display.

“I mean..obviously, we’ll keep it anonymous. Like, we’re not stupid here. Masks. No faces. Just hands. Bodies. And my camera.” The chat was still in full meltdown, comments stacking so fast the shitty platform could barely keep up. Your heart was pounding, your skin warm and tingling from the high of it all—of watching them fall apart just from your voice, your words, the soft shift of silk and skin. You hadn’t even done anything explicit yet, and they were on their knees.

God, it was addictive.

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft sigh, the movement pulling your slip just high enough to tease your hips. A final little gift before the curtain dropped.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said with a giggle, feigning innocence even as your gaze sparkled with something much dirtier. “You guys are gonna give me a heart attack.” SixEyesOnly: no no no don’t leave yettt!! :(( KingOfRot: You owe me for the buildup, woman. You tilted your head, lips curving into a sweet little smile as you leaned forward, giving them just one more generous view of your tits before the curtains closed.

“But before I go…” you said, voice slipping into something quieter, softer, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. “If you’re serious about Fuck-a-Fan Fridays… I want you to show me.”

The pause that followed had its own kind of weight. You watched the chat stall for half a second. The anticipation was thick enough to choke on.

“Send me a message,” you murmured, “with a picture. No face. Just your body, and cock, obviously.”

You let your fingers trail down your own torso, to your hips, your thighs, hinting at what you wanted to see. “Let me see what I’d be touching.. What I’ll be fucked braindead by.” EmoWithaBoner: fuck i’ll take a hundred SixEyesOnly: don’t lose your mind too much baby KingOfRot: It’ll be mine you dream about when you touch yourself. OfficeAfterHours: Submission will follow shortly. No face. Clean framing. High quality.

You had to laugh—giddy and a little breathless. You honestly didn’t think they’d go this feral.

“Think of it as an audition,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest, playing sweet again. “Show me what you’re offering. How you’d fit against me. In me.”

You smoothed your hand up your own thigh, lazily now, teasing.

“And just so you know,” you added with a little grin, “I’m only really looking at the ones who’ve tipped enough to keep my attention. You know who you are.”

Oh, they most definitely did.

The seven of them were already scrambling—photos incoming, tips rolling, blood leaving their brains. You didn’t need names. Their usernames were burned into your memory. Their obsessions with you were paying your bills.

“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered. “Impress me.” The second you ended the stream, you collapsed backward into your pillows with a dazed little laugh, limbs spread like you’d just run a marathon and won a gold medal in filth. The glow from your laptop cast a soft haze across your legs, the screen already lighting up with the chaos you’d left behind—tips still pouring in, messages stacking, your inbox begging for attention.

And the photos?

Oh, they were already flooding in, from people you didn’t want, but it was there regardless - upping your activity.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin resting in your palm as you clicked open the first one with a half-curious, half-unhinged smile.

No face, just like you asked. Neck down. The guy was standing in front of a mirror, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other lifting his hoodie to show off his chest. His abs were flexed. His cock hard enough to cast a shadow.

You blinked. Let out a slow breath.

“…Damn.”

Another one came in. Different guy, different vibe—tattoos on his hips, hand slick and stroking himself in a dimly lit bathroom, captioned: Fridays look good on me. Want to see how I look underneath you?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, laughing as you pulled your legs up behind you. “This is real. I’m really doing this.”

And you were. One fan. Every Friday. Seven weeks. Seven videos. Each one getting posted to your feed, available for your hundreds of subscribers to watch, rewatch, tip on, comment under, and probably break their dicks to.

It wasn’t just a hookup. It was content. Premium content.

Still riding the rush, you opened your messaging panel and started typing.

New Mass Message Sent to All Subscribers:

Hey babes— If you missed the stream tonight (rip to you), here’s your official invite.

Fuck-a-Fan Fridays is happening. Starting next week, I’ll be choosing seven of you to spend one very intimate night with me. Every Friday for the next seven weeks, I’ll be posting a new video. One fan. One full-length scene. Just me… and whoever impresses me the most.

How to audition:- Send me a photo. - Neck down only. No faces. Masks will be worn on camera, so full anonymity will be protected. But I need to see everything. Cock out. Hard. Your body. Your vibe. The way you'd look on camera—underneath me, on top of me, behind me, inside me.

Show off a little. Or a lot.

Make me want it. Let the auditions begin.

xoxo,

—Your girl

taglist : @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @syubseokie

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