#can’t live without queue

[sasha-whos-askin-racket]

Fixating on minor Groundhog Day characters is so funny like yes I have an incredibly detailed and intricate lore for Gus built up in my head and an immense amount of oddly specific headcanons. No I have absolutely no idea what his relationship to Ralph is.

[charliemwrites]

Part 5 of Mister(s) Steal Your Girl

Long awaited, but no Johnny smut just yet. Soon, I promise. (And Kyle will be back. It's been so long since he's gotten to smooch our dear reader.)

Also! A little reminder than you can check the queue to see what I plan to post for next. I try to update it often as the worms wiggle. Next I plan to do the final chapter of Greater Bad. (Unless I get my not-so-secret, no-longer-a-surprise oneshot out first)

Lastly! Please note that I wrote the "posts" from his perspective. So inconsistencies with the actual story and any grammar/spelling errors were purposeful or for "authenticity".

Content: Brandon.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ I asked my fiancé for an open relationship before marriage. It worked. A while ago I posted on r/adultery about the affairs (yes, multiple) I was having behind my then-gf’s back. We’d already been dating for ~4 years and I was seeing one of my coworkers (my “work wife”) regularly and one of her coworkers on and off. People on my other post were critical and called me all sorts of things like selfish and pig. I know it’s not traditional, but I genuinely don’t think I could ever be satisfied by one woman. My work wife (Rachel) and fiance’s coworker (Lucy) provide things my fiancé just can’t but I still love my fiancé. She’s the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. When I posted on r/adultery I was trying to figure out how to propose without her finding out. I knew she’d expect me to help with stuff and possibly want to look at my phone more often. It would have been harder to sneak off to meet up with Lucy or Rachel with wedding planning and I was sick of being stressed she would find out. Some nicer people on the post suggested I ask for an open relationship. I took their advice and sat her down to sell the idea. It’s a good thing I’m so good at sales (top 3% in my company for 5 years in a row) because she agreed. Yes, actually agreed. At first she got kind of pale and her eyes got really big and blank. I thought for sure she was about to start crying and run off. Maybe even kick me out. She doesn’t really get angry but she gets upset and it freaks me out. After I explained everything about how good it would be for us though, she agreed. This is my official unlimited hallpass. I’ve been seeing Rachel on weekends and Lucy once or twice during the week for drinks. Tonight I’m going to sign up for every dating site I can. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. If anyone has other suggestions, I’ll check those out too. Fiance has been kind of off but I think it’s just an adjustment period. Sometimes I can tell she’s been crying but she hasn’t come to me about it so she’s probably just being emotional about all the changes. At least she’s got our house to focus on while she gets used to things. I feel a little bad about running out every night but she’s just so mopey and sad all the time and it’s not enjoyable to be around. I know she probably feels like I’m abandoning her a little but once she starts getting back to normal I’ll spend time with her again. You really can have your cake (all the cakes heh) and eat them too. Edit: no, I never told her that I already had Lucy and Rachel and I’m not going to. What good would it do? She’s already agreed to an open relationship and telling her that I didn’t have permission first would just hurt her for no reason.

Kyle’s been gone for two (long, lonely) weeks when he finally gets a chance to call. So far, he’s only been able to send scattered texts at odd hours. Always something sweet – telling you he’s alright, or that he’s thinking of you. Sometimes you even catch him for a brief exchange before he apologizes and “goes dark” again.

Not that you begrudge it. This is part and parcel of dating him and you knew that going in. You’re not complaining when he’s putting his life on the line so that the public can live in blissful peace.

That doesn’t stop you from missing him though. His hugs, his smile. Getting his voice - even roughened by distance - is a nice compromise though.

“How have you been holding up, chickadee?” he asks after the initial reassurance that he’s whole and hale. 

���Easier this time!” you answer proudly. “I know what to expect with you gone and Johnny’s good company.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding pleased.

You can just imagine him now, leaning his hip against the nearest surface, arms crossed over his broad chest. He tends to duck his head when he smiles, and you unintentionally grin to yourself, thinking of him hiding into his phone. God, you miss him. 

“Mhmm! We found a board game bar that you’re going to love. Oh, and we’re going to the Hay Festival this weekend.”

He hums. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to take you, luv, but I knew Johnny would be good to you.”

More than good to you, really. There’s not been a day he doesn’t call to check up on you - if he doesn’t see you in person, that is. Dinner, movies, coffee. He’s somehow both a gentleman and an incorrigible flirt, but only with you. He’s nothing more than polite to anyone else, keeping his focus on you and whatever the two of you are doing.

You don’t know what to do with the undivided attention. If you didn’t know better…

“You two are getting close,” Kyle observes.

“I think so,” you admit, then hesitate. “Is… that okay?”

“‘Course, luv. I’m glad.”

You blink. “You are?”

“He’s my best mate and you’re my best girl.”

An odd pang of anxiety pierces your chest. Johnny calls you that too. His “best girl.” You love hearing it - but maybe you shouldn’t?

“It… doesn’t bother you? That we’re spending so much time together.”

He snorts softly, but it’s not derisive. It’s a noise he makes whenever he thinks you’re being silly, but his voice comes out soft and warm. Not an ounce of condescension.

“No, baby, I’m not fussed. You spend your time with whoever you want, however you want. Yeah?”

Your chest floods with warmth. “Okay.”

“There’s a love. I’ve got a brief, so I have to go. I’ll call soon as I can.”

“Be safe, Ky.”

“Do my best. Give Soap a smooch for us, aye?”

You blink as he hangs up. That’s a new one.

You ponder over it while packing on Thursday night. Was it just a joke? A tease at the little crush you’ve developed for Johnny?

Because it is a crush, you know it is. It’s impossible not to be attracted to him. Not with that smile, that laugh, the goofy humor and sweet mannerisms. He still sends you flowers every few weeks - just as the previous ones are about to die. It’s so thoughtful; you’ve started feeling a bit warm every time you look at them.

But you feel greedy, being even remotely interested in anyone else. You have Kyle and Brandon (even if you two are going through a… patch) and that should be enough for you. Shouldn’t it? You’ve never been with more than one person at a time before; it took you weeks to shake the compulsory guilt when you first met Kyle. It feels almost unforgivably audacious to want Johnny too, especially since he’s Kyle’s best mate.

Still… Kyle’s not a jealous or passive-aggressive guy. You’ve been with him long enough now that you know he’d just tell you outright if he was unhappy about something. And he’s been with you long enough that he can surely tell you’re more than a bit fond of Johnny.

Maybe that’s why he made the joke about “smooching” him.

Regardless, you want to talk to him about it. Things always make sense when you think out loud to him. His levelheaded and practical approach to difficult topics always straightens your panic spirals out into neat lines.

Plus, it’s not as comforting to hold your own hand. (God, when is he getting back?)

“Where are you going?”

You blink up at Brandon, folded pajamas in hand.

“The Hay Festival,” you answer.

Speaking of - you slip past him into the bathroom. He doesn’t follow, rooted to the spot spinning his phone around in his hands.

“Alone?”

You snort. “Of course not, I’m going with a friend.”

The allergy pills are at the bottom of the medicine basket beneath the sink. You really need to organize it the next time Johnny’s too busy to hang out. There’s no way you need three bottles of paracetamol. 

“I need that suitcase.”

You toss the bottle in and pivot for the dresser. “What for?”

He shifts, eyes sliding away. “An… overnight.”

Ah. That’s what he’s calling it now?

You snatch a few (too many) pairs of underwear from the dresser.

“Just bring them here,” you say over your shoulder.

There’s a long, tense beat of silence but you’re too busy rummaging for socks to break it first. Will it be too warm for thigh-highs? Eh, you’ll go with the sheer ones; the little lace roses match one of your dresses anyway.

“Bring who here?” Brandon asks slowly.

When you turn, he looks paler than usual. You shrug, trying to project casual comfort.

This is a totally normal and reasonable conversation to have. Just a couple in an open relationship, discussing a stranger coming to the house for a shag. Nothing to make a fuss over.

“Whoever you need the suitcase for? I know you’ve had people over before anyway, and I’ll be gone all weekend.”

He stutters, color returning to his face in bright pink blooms. “Why do you think I’ve had people over before?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I do the laundry, remember? And there was lipstick on one of the wine glasses.”

That had sent you into a tizzy at the time, disgusted that some stranger was in your bed, with your fiancé. You washed the sheets twice on the hottest setting and tossed in a bit of bleach for good measure. Hadn’t been able to look at him the whole week - not that he was there much to not look at.

Now, though, you seem to have adjusted to the idea, even if you’re still not thrilled. Brandon can have his… whoever over, and you’ll goof around with Johnny in Wales.

“Just toss the bedding in the wash afterwards,” you add.

“I thought you do the laundry,” he sniffs.

“I’m not traveling all day just to do chores when I get home,” you answer. He does a double take like you’ve started speaking a new language. “You’ll be here all weekend, I’m sure you’ll have time.”

He opens his mouth, and you can tell already that he’s about to argue - though you don’t really know what about. It’s not like he can’t do laundry or dishes, after all. He lived alone before you moved in together.

Thankfully, his phone distracts him before he can form the words. He spins away to tap at the screen and shuffles out of the room, shoulders till tense. You go back to packing and teasing Johnny about the amount of hair gel he’ll bring.

Friday afternoon can’t come fast enough. Even though you’ve taken a half day from work, the few hours seem to drag. You’re practically daydreaming about the food and drinks, music and activities. There’s a baker’s dozen art stalls you want to check out as well, and a gift to pick out for Kyle…

“Hope yer thinkin’ o’ me when ye make tha’ face.”

Your head snaps around so fast, you nearly give yourself whiplash. Johnny grins down at you in all his casually handsome glory – ripped jeans, green tee, and brown boots. Angels are singing somewhere, you think. Or maybe that’s just your nosy coworkers ogling from their own cubicles.

The reality of him sinks in a moment later and you leap up from your cushy chair – and right into his arms. He’s like a furnace compared to the cool, conditioned air of your office, a welcome source of warmth for your chilly fingers.

“What are you doing here?” you giggle. “Who let a rowdy guy like you in?”

He smells like bergamot and pine. It takes active thought to resist pressing your face into the crook of his neck. It looks cozy there.

As always, he squeezes you a bit tighter just before letting go.

“Hey now, Marcy’s a discerning lady. She knows a fine gentleman when she sees one.”

You snort, belied by the smile curling your lips. “She may need new glass then.”

“Och, don’t go talkin’ poor about my second-best gal now.”

“Is it that easy to get in your good graces?” you scoff, glancing at the time on your computer. It’s later than you expected; no wonder he came up to retrieve you. You spent so long daydreaming that you’ve lost track of time.

“Aw don’ be green, dove, you’re still my number one. Send ye flowers ‘n all.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, and now I’m wondering just how special that is.”

He stands close, proclaiming his case for how obviously special you are while you shut everything down for the weekend. You’re only half listening to the bit, admittedly. Mostly just basking in your excitement for the mini road trip and the weekend to come. You have no doubt that it’s going to be fun, even if it would be better with Kyle along too.

“Where are you headed off to?” Lucy asks.

“Hay Festival,” you answer shortly.

You’ve never been a big fan of Lucy, but lately she’s been insufferable. Talking over you during meetings, leaving you out of emails, throwing away papers at the printer. (Okay, you haven’t seen her do that last one, but you know.) Worst of all, she can help but make backhanded comments about every flower delivery.

“You’re not taking Brandon?” she simpers. “Something wrong?”

“He’s hanging out with a friend this weekend too,” you correct, “and he doesn’t like hay.”

“Shame that,” Johnny adds, sounding like it’s not a shame at all.

You haven’t told him much about Brandon – but you’re sure that Kyle has. From the face Johnny makes the rare times your fiancé comes up in conversation, he doesn’t think much of Brandon.

“Have fun you two!” your manager, Selene, calls.

You wave and shoot Lucy one last, unimpressed glance before stepping onto the elevator with Johnny.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ My fiancé is going on a weekend getaway with another man. I’ve posted in r/adultery and r/cakeeater before. I’m not looking for judgement or insults here. I really just want advice.

A little context: my fiancé and I are in an open relationship and it’s been like this for a few months now. I originally asked her to ope the relationship and for a while she was weird about it but lately she’s been getting sbetter. I thought she was finally getting used to me going out with other women and things were getting back to normal.

A few weeks ago, I noticed she was on her phone more. Like, all the time. Even at dinner when she used to be really picky about phones at the table. One day I came home from work and she was talking on the phone to someone. Giggling and laughing. When I turned the corner she was kind of blushing too. It kind of bothered me but I figured she was talking to a friend and just hot from cooking or something.

Lucy texted me pissed off one day, asking why I was sending my fiancé flowers but not her. I told her I hadn’t sent any flowers. I think they’re way too expensive for how long they realistically last and that they take up a lot of unnecessary space. But I thought it was weird that someone was sending my fiancé flowers and got kind of uncomfortable. That’s a pretty romantic gesture and her family isn’t the type to randomly send flowers either.

I tried taking her out on a date but she was all mopey again and turned her phone to ‘do not disturb’ so I wouldn’t even see if she was texting someone. We don’t have much to talk about now. I love her but she’s not a good storyteller or into very interesting things. All her ‘funny stories’ are just mundane things that happen during the day. We’ve run out of interesting topics about because we’ve been together so long. (That’s why I like having more than one partner.)

Yesterday she randomly started packing for a trip. I don’t even think she was planning to tell me until I asked her. She was packing a bunch of cute clothes too. Like dresses and tights and things like that. Stuff she only used to wear on our dates. I asked who she was going with and she just said ‘a friend’ which is weird because she would usually say the name of someone even if I don’t remember who they are.

Well today Lucy sent me a picture of my fiancé leaving her job with some guy. I couldn’t see his face because he was turned away, but I could see the side of my fiancé’s face and she was smiling at him. I got this awful sinking feeling in my chest like it was hard to breathe. It took me a few minutes to process that she’s going away for a weekend with a complete stranger.

Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? Where did she even meet this guy? They’ll be gone all weekend so are they sharing a room? A bed? I nearly threw up thinking all these things as I called her.

I asked her to cancel her plans and come home. She seemed confused and reminded me that her plans were with someone else and it would be rude to ditch last minute. I told her I wanted to spend the weekend with her and that I’d been missing her. She seemed surprised and said that she’d see me on Sunday night, but she was looking forward to the festival with her ‘friend’ and wanted to go. As a last ditch effort I asked if her friend was more important than me, nearly begging at that point. She must have heard the desperation in my voice, but she just told me that she was already on the road and it was too late.

My fiancé doesn’t like lying but it’s hard to believe this guy was just a friend. Even if she sees him as a friend I know how men think and I doubt he sees her the same way.

She said some other weird stuff before she left about having someone over while she was gone. I don’t get it. How could she just casually invite someone else into our house like that? Has she had other people over? Is she dating now?

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t like that she put this trip over me. Should I talk to her about how bad this makes me feel? Should I call again and tell her to come home more forcefully? Am I blowing all of this out of proportion?

Edit: she doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing Lucy. I haven’t told my fiancé about any of the women I’ve been seeing. (mostly just Lucy and Rachel. I’ve done a lot of texting through apps and gone on a bunch of first place, but most women don’t put out right away and I usually can’t be bothered to get to know them better). Even then, I wouldn’t tell her about lucy. They don’t get along and never have. It would cause a lot of unnecessary drama.

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[thatdammchickennugget]

Hi Marky! 💘😽 thought id pop in for a request - I liked this groceries idea but I thought I’d spin it a bit. For a au pinning where you flat with Blaise and Theo and one time when Mattheo is over you’re out of groceries so he offers to go with you. And it’s just bit pining over doing a mundane task together - kind of inspired by the song groceries by mallrat sorry if this is shit lmfao ily! 🤍

pairing - mattheo riddle x fem!reader

warnings - fluff, soft matty, theo and blaise are pretty useless

a/n - thanks for the request flower, I love it 💕

wordcount - 849

“Whose turn was it to buy groceries?” you asked, staring into the barren wasteland of the fridge. A half-empty carton of orange juice and a single, lonely lemon mocked you from the shelves.

“Not mine,” Blaise called from the living room, where he was sprawled across the couch like a Renaissance painting.

Theo, perched on the armrest with a mug in hand, raised a brow. “It was yours.”

You slammed the fridge door shut. “No, it wasn’t. I went last time. It’s someone else’s turn.”

Blaise didn’t even glance up from his magazine. “I vote Theo.”

“You can’t just ‘vote’ me,” Theo retorted.

“Watch me.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the counter. “You’re all useless, you know that? The only thing left in this flat is desperation and vibes.”

“And even the vibes are questionable,” Theo said, earning a snort from Blaise.

At that moment, the front door opened, and Mattheo strolled in like he owned the place. He glanced at the scene—Blaise reclining like a bored prince, Theo sipping tea like he was better than everyone, and you looking moments away from a breakdown—and smirked.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked, shrugging off his jacket.

“We’re out of food,” you replied flatly.

“Out of food, out of coffee…” Theo mused. “Out of patience, if we’re talking about her.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t test me.”

Mattheo chuckled, leaning casually against the counter. “Sounds like you need to hit the store.”

“She does,” Blaise chimed in, flipping a page.

“Well, I’m not going alone,” you said, crossing your arms.

Mattheo raised a brow. “You scared of the big bad grocery store?”

“No, I just know that if I go alone, I’ll end up doing everything, and then you three will eat it all and leave me with nothing but crumbs.”

“Harsh,” Theo said, though he didn’t look particularly offended.

“I’ll go with you,” Mattheo said, surprising everyone.

The room went quiet for a beat. Blaise raised his head, looking between you and Mattheo with barely concealed amusement. “Since when do you volunteer for manual labor?”

Mattheo shrugged. “I’m feeling generous.”

“Generous?” Theo snorted. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Shut up, Theo,” Mattheo muttered, his ears tinging pink.

You hesitated, glancing between the boys. “Fine. But if you’re coming, you’re carrying the bags.”

“Deal,” he said, already heading toward the door.

“Have fun, lovebirds,” Blaise called, earning himself a glare from Mattheo and a not-so-light smack on the back of the head from you.

♡

The grocery store was quieter than usual.

Mattheo grabbed a cart without being asked, his fingers drumming lightly on the handle as you started down the first aisle.

“You’ve got a system, right?” he asked, glancing at the list in your hand.

“I don’t need a system,” you replied, tossing a loaf of bread into the cart. “I know what we need.”

“That’s a system,” he said, smirking.

“You’re a system,” you muttered under your breath, and his chuckle sent a small thrill through you.

The two of you moved through the aisles in a rhythm that was surprisingly natural. He handed you things from higher shelves without asking, tossed in snacks you didn’t have the heart to scold him for, and even managed to charm an older woman into letting you skip the queue at the deli counter.

“You’re awfully good at this,” you said as he expertly steered the cart around a corner.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied, smirking.

“Sorry, I just didn’t peg you as the domestic type.”

He shrugged, adding a pack of chocolate biscuits to the cart. “Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest as he said it, focusing instead on grabbing a box of cereal.

By the time you reached the self-checkout, the cart was full, and the air between you felt lighter, more comfortable. He took over scanning the items, his grin widening every time you tried to help.

“Are you having fun?” you asked, exasperated.

“Maybe,” he said, scanning a box of tea. “It’s cute when you get all bossy.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the words stuck as his grin softened into something warmer, more genuine.

Mattheo carried most of the bags without complaint, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to make your heart race if you looked too long.

“Thanks for coming with me,” you said after a while.

“Anytime,” he replied, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You hesitated, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “You didn’t have to, though. Blaise or Theo could’ve—”

“They wouldn’t have,” he interrupted, his voice quiet but certain. “And even if they would’ve, I wanted to.”

The simplicity of his words left you momentarily speechless.

By the time you reached the flat, your heart was racing for an entirely different reason. As you unpacked the groceries together, his hand brushed yours, lingering just long enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose.

And when he smiled at you—soft, a little shy—you couldn’t help but smile back.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

[kaiyunsim]

safety zone —

pairing : bf!wonbin x m!reader

summary : after a year of dating, you and wonbin agree to move in together. only thing is, he didn’t know you had a habit for being shirtless.

warnings : fluff, shirtless reader, kinda cringy

a/n : sorry for such a short fic :( it also seems so half-assed but i can’t keep working on it just i lowkey have writerd block for this.

queueing : safety zone - leehi, supernatural - ariana grande

[requested]

— wc : 0.5k — not proof read —

it’s moving day.

there are boxes everywhere, bubble wrap all over the floor, and somehow wonbin is still trying to alphabetize the spice rack while you’re shoving ramen packets into a random drawer.

“that’s not where those go,” he says, eyes narrowing.

“they go in a drawer, don’t they?”

“not with the can openers.”

you just shrug. “it’s efficient.”

wonbin sighs like he’s already regretting this decision. he probably isn’t. probably.

still, it’s cute the way he furrows his brow and mutters about ‘systems’ and ‘organization’ while placing your cereal boxes in height order.

he keeps getting distracted every time he unpacks something sentimental.

like the framed photo from your second date, the one where you’re both making stupid faces. he stares at it a little too long, then quietly places it on the shelf beside the bed.

“you kept this?”

“duh,” you grin. “you fell asleep halfway through the movie. it was adorable.”

he blushes and mutters something about having ‘dry eyes,’ but you catch the small smile he’s hiding.

then, disaster.

you start changing your shirt, completely unaware.

wonbin turns around mid-sentence, sees skin, and immediately short-circuits.

“y-you’re just walking around like that?!”

you blink. “uh… yeah?”

he tries to act normal. he fails. he spends the rest of the evening avoiding eye contact and knocking over a glass because he’s so flustered.

you don’t comment. but you do store that reaction in your brain for later.

wonbin learns that you sleep like a starfish and somehow manage to slap him in your sleep.

you learn that wonbin has an elaborate coffee ritual involving freshly ground beans, water temperature control, and judgmental looks when you mention instant coffee.

“that’s not coffee,” he says.

“then what is it?”

“a war crime.”

—

it’s a lazy saturday morning.

wonbin is peacefully sipping his coffee, his weird ritual when you walk into the living room, shirtless, yawning, and stretching like you didn’t just casually murder his soul.

wonbin chokes.

like full-on coughs into his mug, eyes wide, red ears.

“you—y-you’re just walking around like that?!”

you blink. “uh… yeah?”

wonbin refuses to make eye contact for the next ten minutes. he starts talking to the fridge.

you smirk. this is going to be fun.

from then on, it becomes a game.

lounging shirtless on the couch. walking past him like it’s no big deal.

he tries to stay strong. he fails.

wonbin starts covering his face with pillows. he dramatically sighs every time you enter a room. he mutters “this is fine” like a man barely holding it together.

you’ve never had so much fun. but wonbin has had enough.

the next morning, as soon as you step out shirtless, a shirt hits you in the face.

“what the—”

“put that on.”

“did you seriously just throw a shirt at me?”

“yes. i refuse to be weak anymore.”

you glance at the couch. there’s a pile of spare shirts folded next to him.

“you’re carrying extras now?”

“yes.”

“even inside?”

“especially inside.”

he is prepared. he is smug.

but you are the master of counter-chaos.

so you wait. patiently.

that evening, you sit next to him on the couch. close. he notices. you stretch out, then, without warning, lay your head in his lap and close your eyes.

wonbin malfunctions.

his hands hover awkwardly above your shoulders. he freezes. he tries to focus on his book. he can’t even see the words.

you breathe evenly. you’re napping. actually napping.

wonbin does not know what to do.

does he touch your hair? does he gently move you? does he explode?

you shift a little, mumble, “comfy,” and snuggle in.

wonbin dies again.

he sits there, completely frozen, for the entire nap. twenty minutes of pure, unfiltered suffering.

when you wake up and stretch, he’s staring into the void.

“you good?”

“fine,” he mumbles.

“you sure?”

“…yes.”

“you look like you saw god.”

that night, cuddled up in bed, you kiss his temple and whisper,

“you’re cute when you’re shy.”

wonbin groans and shoves his face into your chest.

“stop.”

“never.”

he grumbles, but pulls you closer.

and yeah this is home.

tysm for reading :>

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver

[sengardet]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.

[more-hysteria-things]

BEGGING FOR SOME LIKE JACK FLUFF FROM LIKE A ROUGH DAY ON SET AND HIM JUST BEING SWEET TO US!! (my first scenario🥳)

ROUGH DAY

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jack champion x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it’s one of those days on set, and jack is not having it. even worse that it’s his birthday, the day when it’s supposed to be fun and carefree. then, you come along to truly show how much he means to you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none! just tooth rotting fluff :)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,224

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: FIRST JACK FIC LFG.

also, since this is my other account for non-sturniolo fics i’m still putting the same tag list. if you would like to not get tagged for this blog, just let me know!

shoutout to bbg @venusbabysblog for helping me get started🥹

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 blessing. it’s a job where you have great opportunities to meet amazing people and be in hit films, but sometimes it’s a struggle. jack opens the door to his trailer with a clenched jaw, shutting the door as he looks around. his eyebrows twitch in confusion, noticing how you’re not in sight.

your boyfriend loves to bring you along to wherever he goes for filming. one reason being that he honestly can’t live without you, but also because you’re his biggest fan and will support him through anything. usually, you’d be watching him act from afar or you’d be waiting in his trailer by watching TV or keeping yourself occupied in general. however, you’re nowhere to be seen.

he’s on a long break until later tonight, which annoys him. he just wants this day to be over. “y/n?” he calls out, peeking his head into the small bedroom. alas, you’re not there.

alarms start to go off in his head, although it’s silly. you can’t really go anywhere, but since you’re not in your usual spot, the caring boyfriend in him makes him worry that something bad has happened. especially since you didn’t text him that you were going somewhere or anything.

then, a giggle is heard along with the opening of his trailer door, and he turns around to face the noise. he takes a small sigh of relief when he sees you beaming from ear to ear holding a present bag.

while in the middle of a scene, jack texted you about the day he’s having—lines he couldn’t nail, and a director who seemed impossible to please. you frown slightly when you see his semi-disgruntled face, shuffling over to him excitedly to wrap your arms around his body in an embrace he desperately needs. he exhales deeply, bends down to nuzzle his face into your neck, and kisses it softly.

“sorry, i was hoping i’d be back before you were, but your mom and i got stuck in traffic,” you say in his chest before pulling away after long seconds. trying to make the atmosphere more positive, you smile and extend your arm with the bag in hand. “happy birthday!”

the smallest smile appears on his face, grabbing your hand to head over to the leather couch to sit down. he places the bag onto the floor, removing the tissue inside of it to reveal his presents. his eyes widen in surprise, seeing more than he thought you’d get him. “you didn’t have to do all of this...” he says, a small blush forming on his cheeks.

he pulls out the first thing that sits on top of the rest, which is a homemade birthday card out of construction paper in his favorite color. he lets out a chuckle as he looks at the front of it, seeing two drawn stick figures that are supposed to be you and him holding hands with the title in big writing: HAPPY BIRTHDAY •ᴗ•

opening the card, there’s a bunch of words scribbled on the right side.

jack,

*queue song* happy birthday to you!

i am so incredibly proud of you watching the way you chase your dreams. here’s to many more birthdays, memories, and quiet moments in between the chaos. no matter how many lights and cameras around, you’ll always just be jack to me. the one who laughs too loud, holds me close, and somehow manages to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world.

i’m so grateful to be apart of your story.

always, y/n ❤︎

p.s. like what your name implies, you are indeed a champion.

his heart jumps with joy, closing the note and leaning in to peck you on the nose. your face turns red as you try not to beam with happiness, tilting your head to the bag. “there’s still a lot more.”

he nods, placing the card aside as he grabs a leather journal, specifically personalized for him. the border of it is embroidered with eye-catching detail, his initials JC in big cursive letters in the middle. you know jack sometimes likes to scribble lines down in between takes in a way to remember, or something to put his ideas in for fun. he flips through the pages rapidly, the gust of air flowing on his face as he smells the paper and leather mixed.

you watch his every move, nibbling on your bottom lip excitedly when he pulls out a small, navy blue box. inside of it is a chained necklace with a small pendant of a waxing crescent. the moon phase the day he was born.

scratching the back of your neck nervously, you speak. “this one’s a little girly…” you trail off. “you don’t have to wear it, you can hang it up or something for decoration. i just thought it was pretty.”

he nudges your arm with his elbow. “stop that. it’s beautiful; i love it.”

jack carefully takes it out of the box, undoing the chain and reaching behind his neck to clip it. the length is perfect, and the accessory oddly suits him. “thank you.” he says softly, running his hand over the moon and reaching into the bag once more.

this time, he pulls out two things. another book along with a film camera on top of it tied in ribbon so both items can stick together. while untying it, he notices the scrapbook underneath.

THE STORY OF US…

he glances at you as he starts to look into it. the pages are filled with film photos, ticket stubs, and little mementos from your favorite times together. you’d written little captions under each, capturing inside jokes and sweet moments. it was something he could flip through on hard days.

however, each left page is blank. “you can add to it whenever you have the time. it takes two people to make a love story, you know.” you explain, feeling somewhat cheesy and cringy at the saying, but you mean it.

last but not least, the last few items are snacks. homemade cookies, energy bars, and even a small container of his favorite food.

he feels overwhelmed by all of the gifts but in a good way. nobody has ever shown him this much adoration before, and it’s obvious how much he means to you. “y/n.” your name rolls perfectly off of his tongue, his eyes not leaving the presents now scattered on the couch cushion. “i love it all so much. genuinely, thank you.”

you place your hands on the sides of his neck so he can look at you, kissing him full of love. he cherishes you, and he couldn’t ask for a better girlfriend. he’s always so grateful that he met you that time in his hometown. you made his 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐘 turn around completely.

“how’d you even do all of this?” he adds, starting to feel dumbfounded about how you did all of this under his nose without him knowing.

“i don’t kiss and tell.” you say with a smirk. “but also with the help of your mom.”

laughing, he grunts as he lays to rest his head on your stomach, your hands finding way into his wavy hair. “i’m so in love with you.” he mumbles, grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it.

best. birthday. ever.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @moncherriis @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @raysmayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @tworosesblackthorn @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hearrtsturns @freshsturns @etershine @sukiipjs @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @ivyyyyyysposts @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @thesturniolos @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @hrt-attack @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog @meerkatzthings @bernardsbendystraws @hoes4matthew @deareststurns @starz4star

[arbitrarykiwi]

IF YOURE OPEN TO IT MAYBE STREAMER SE-MI X FEM!READER!!!! I LOVED UR NAMGYU AND THANOS ONES AS WELL

Now Streaming...

Se-Mi Version

IF IM OPEN TO IT?!? WHEW BABY AM I?!?! I LOVE MY WIFE!!!!! hope you enjoy :333 I hope you like it !!!!!!!

Warnings: none, sfw, fluff, despite being sfw this blog is 18+

“I’m gonna go live, baby..”

You smile, bare feet pattering against the wooden floor of the apartment as you jog down the hallway. “‘M coming!! Wait for me!!” You call out, giggling and rushing into the office.

“Never would start without you.” Se-Mi says, turning around in her desk chair to face you, “wouldn’t be a good stream if you weren’t sitting all pretty on the couch behind me”

She’s opening her arms, beckoning you over. Never one to deny your girlfriend, you’re striding over to the space between her legs and wrapping your arms around her.

Instantly, Se-Mi is tightening her arms around your waist and pushing her face into your stomach, nuzzling into you like she’s trying to get into your skin, “mmm, you smell so good..” She hums, hands trailing down your back to grasp at your ass, pulling you into her even more, “good enough to eat~”

She bites playfully at your ribs, right under your bra, her teeth clenching around the fabric. In a fit of giggles you’re pushing away from her, grabbing her chin and shaking her head back and forth playfully.

Your thumb gently brushes over her bottom lip, playing with the sliver ring that rests against her pink, pillowy lips. “Ya got a stream to start soon, you can’t keep them waiting.”

“Mm, I suppose you’re right.” She responds playfully, lips puckering to place a kiss on the pad of your thumb. Tapping lightly on your ass, she’s spinning back around to face the monitor. “Go get comfy, beautiful.”

You’re walking over to the small couch against the wall, it’s out of frame but allows you to sit and watch both Se-Mi, the computer monitor with chat and whatever else she was doing for her thousands of subscribers and viewers.

“Annnnddd we’re good?” Your girlfriend’s voice echos out through the room, talking to the stream that eventually fills will with comments saying the stream was running well.

“Hell yeah, alright, it’s Thursday so we’re listening to music you guys send in to review it. I think we got some stuff already in queue-“

She does it effortlessly, attracting more viewers by the second and laughing along with the mass amounts of comments supporting her. This is one of the reasons why you always insist on watching her stream- the way she does it like it’s second nature to her, entertaining and engaging the viewers while having the widest smile possible. It’s adorable.

It’s odd, you think, maybe a trick of the blue light of the computer and the golden yellow hue of the ring light, but Se-Mi always looks so good. Her sharp features are accentuated by the light, her dark eyes shimmering every time she laughs with a wide smile at some comment by the chat, it even practically spotlights every time she plays with the lip ring that hugs her plush bottom lip.

Safe to say, she looks so fucking good. It’s a beauty that has your heart skipping a beat every time you watch her stream. Happy, laughing, completely in her element- it was such a good look on her.

And the chat always thought so too…but it seemed like this stream, with sleeveless shirt she had on that showed off the bandeau top she wore under ever so slightly when she raised her arms or turned to the side- the chat wasn’t nearly as tame as usual.

You couldn’t even fault them for it. She did look so good. The black choker she usually wears sitting so prettily on her neck, the silver jewelry in her nose and on her lip sparkling every time she turned her face, her outfit that showed off her waist and arms, and her hair that fell in her face just the slightest bit- oh yeah. You wanted to worship her then and there. So of course the devoted viewers thought so too.

But she was streaming- reviewing music that was submitted by the same chatters who are sending borderline obscene comments in the chat.

“Ohhh shit~” Se-Mi coos, nodding along to the beat of the submission someone had sent, “this is so good, I’m definitely adding it to my playlist.”

‘It should be !!our!! playlist’

‘Thinking bout that song and kissing her <3’

‘Omg her liking this song just makes her so much hotter’

You frown, just slightly as you watch the comments roll in from your spot on the couch, you’re used to it really- your girlfriend is hot- people are going to try and flirt. Normally, it made you proud. That was your girl!! The chatters could flirt all they want but at the end of the day you were the one riding her face- so jokes on them.

But something about the comments talking about song playlists with her and making out with your girlfriend to some song that doesn’t even come close to the handful of playlists you’ve made for her- it’s making something inside you tick with annoyance.

“Ohhhhh~ this reminds me of this artist I really like. Hold on, do you guys know this one?!” Se-Mi says excitedly, paying no mind to the comments or missing them completely (you weren’t sure). She’s leaning forward, face closer to the camera as she clicks through her shared Spotify screen.

She’s pulling up a band you showed her, a song that was your song. Your heart flutters. Even if Se-Mi wasn’t boisterous about your relationship with her, she always made sure to do something on stream that was for you, just for you. A slight nod to her favorite girl in the world, you.

Your frown is replaced with a small smile when the soft thrum of the song you know all too well begins to leak from the headphones she has on. Se-Mi turns a bit in the chair, looking over to you and smiling wide. She winks, a subtle motion that isn’t picked up on her face cam with the angle she was in- it was only seen by you- only for you.

You laugh silently to yourself and blow a dramatic kiss her way before she turns back to the computer set up. Goofy, wide smile on her face, Se-Mi goes back to reading the chat.

‘Omg stfu, she’s so cute.’

‘She’s so hot for knowing this band’

‘She definitely saw my DM recommending this! Ugh I knew I had a chance.’

Your face sours again, it was annoying that someone else seemed to think they showed your girlfriend the song you showed her.

“See I knew you guys would fuck with this one…” Se-Mi responds to the chat, “my girlfriend showed me this band when we first started dating.”

The way she says it, it flows so easily. Anytime you hear Se-Mi call you her girlfriend you feel like you’re being confessed to all over again. And for her to do it on stream and after someone thought they had even the slightest chance- Your smile is widening and your heart is skipping a beat.

Your eyes flick back to the chat, it’s instinctive at this point, you wanna know what the viewers are saying to your precious girlfriend.

‘She has a gf?!? Ugh rip.’

‘All the pretty ones are taken :(‘

‘Omg yall didn’t know she had a gf?! She’s literally so pretty, se mi deadass posted on her ig.’

The frown that was forming once more turns back into a smile seeing the most recent comment (given it’s removed from view seconds later with more chatters), seeing it makes you so happy. You two were public but private- so it made sense that some of the newer viewers that came from her popularity boom recently had no idea who you were.

Se-Mi chuckles, nodding in agreement to the comment you were happy about. She never paid attention to the flirting or the attempts at trying to get with her- she was more than happy with you and no comment from some random faceless (viewer or anything for that matter) could take her eyes away from you. She was completely and utterly devoted to you.

“My baby is so pretty isn’t she? She literally is so beaut- OHHHH MY LOORDDD! Guys, she bought me the signed, handwritten, lyric sheet from that artist I mentioned, you know the one I did a whole album review on last week- yeah! That artist!” Se-Mi cuts herself off, unintentionally, to boast about you.

“I mean like…I don’t even know how she found it, but it’s handwritten lyrics from my favorite song signed by the artist! She’s the fuckin’ best.”

You’re sat on the couch, smile so big your cheeks are hurting. It’s not often she talks about her private life or you so openly, she prefers to keep her private life her private life…but she can’t help herself sometimes. So every so often on streams, like now she’s ranting about her love for you and how great you are!

“Oh! Damn, my bad guys, the song ended…I’ll give that one probably a 6/10- like its good but compared to the first one of the album it wasn’t as good. Plus we still have 5 songs to get through so I don’t wanna get a head of myself.”

And just like that, she’s falling back into line with her music reviewing. It was cute- anytime she ranted about something she was passionate about, be that you or music, she gets this adorable smile on her face and her eyes light up, she starts talking with her hands too- it makes your heart melt.

“Next song!” She’s cheering, clicking play and sitting back in her chair to listen intently.

You curl up on the couch, pulling the blanket over you body and settling in much like her, leaning back and listening to the soft echo of the song out of her headphones and the sweet sound of her voice commenting on the songs.

Every so often your eyes drift back to the monitor, catching the chats responses. And for the most part, they’re friendly supportive comments that make you happy she has such a great community.

But with being an online personality…not all comments are just friendly.

‘I’m telling you let this one land and you’ll like it, the intro is just weird’

‘I can’t believe you gave the last song a 6 :( rip’

‘Your gf is so cute for that gift omg. Talk about soul mates.’

‘What gf? I looked at her ig and there’s not a pic of her’

‘Oh I found it….so far down. Must not be serious….sooo heyyy ;)’

Your eyebrows furrow, your breath hitches, you try not to be upset- you’re painfully aware that this random person has no chance with your girlfriend but reading it still doesn’t feel good. It also makes you mad for her…she’s trying to do what she loves and she’s being practically objectified by random commenters.

Se-Mi doesn’t even intend to read that message, she just happens to catch it. It’s a reaction that’s engraved in her. She’s immediately pausing the music on stream and spinning her chair to the side to face you.

“C’mere.”

You look to her confused but she’s beckoning you over with her hand, “C’mon!! Wanna show you off for a minute, humor me.”

She’s smiling at you so wide, eyes shining with an admiration you could never get tired of seeing- you have no option but to oblige. You’re standing up from the couch and walking over to her chair. Se-Mi wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, making sure you’re in frame- then she’s pulling you to sit on her lap, arms wrapping around your waist and squeezing you.

“So yeah! She’s literally the best! I don’t know how she knew what song to get me the lyric sheet of, I swear I’ve never told her-“

“You play it all the time Mi-Mi. Of course I know it’s your favorite without you telling me directly” You giggle, saying the nickname that she only allows you to call her, her cheeks flushing a soft pink like they always do when she hears it.

Se-Mi is groaning playfully and hiding behind your back, knowing she’s about to get teased by her chat for being so soft for her pretty lil’ girlfriend.

“Awhhh come onnnn~” she’s groaning playfully nuzzling her face into your back before pulling away and reappearing in frame when she’s leans back to the side. Her eyes flick through the chat- making sure no one is saying anything mean about her baby.

‘Lolllllll!! Is it still ‘not serious’ now?! Omg ban that one chatter plz.’

Se-Mi laughs and nods in agreement with the commenter, “yeah funny they should even try to say it’s ‘not serious’ when I have a tattoo of her lips somewhere on me that I can’t show you all per twitches terms of service.”

You’re pushing her playfully, squealing and covering her mouth, “Shhh, ohmygod, you guys didn’t hear that.” You say looking into the camera with a pleading look.

Se-Mi shakes free from your grip and places a soft kiss on your fingers before taking your hand in her own, “so yes, it’s very serious, always has been and definitely always will be.” She says to the chat but she’s looking up at you with the most lovestruck grin on her face.

Taglist: @namsgyu @nuttybeans @namgyucat @g1rlonth3intern3t @reilapse @yuuumeee

[shadowybananabread]

If Weak Hero is renewed for season 3 and it is declared the final season… why do I feel like the climax will be Sieun almost dying? And Suho holding him, quietly begging him to stay alive because he can’t handle the thought of life without him?

Then queue a dream sequence in which Sieun almost crosses the path to heaven, only to turn around and regain the will to live because he can’t bear to leave his friends and Suho behind.

Sigh it wasn’t supposed to be this serious, how did I get this far 😭

[gloomwitchwrites]

Video Game

John "Soap" MacTavish x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: oral sex (male receiving), swearing, brief spanking, hand job, cum swallowing

Word Count: 1.4k

You test Johnny’s concentration while on a game with the boys.

ao3 // main masterlist // summer 2024 masterlist

The ceiling fan turns slowly.

You lay on your back, staring up at it, wishing that it had a faster speed. There is a slight stickiness to your skin from the humidity. It’s too early for a shower. You’ll only become gross again, and there’s no point in wasting water.

Sighing, you roll out of bed and head toward the kitchen, seeking a cold drink.

“They’re over there. Yeah. Up top.”

Johnny’s on a game. It’s amusing to you how he comes home from work only to play video games of the same vein. It’s his whole life even when at rest.

Pouring a lemonade for yourself, you causally stroll into the living room. Placing your drink on the side table, you settle into the couch next to him, tucking your feet under you. Johnny briefly glances at you, giving you his best smile before returning his attention to the game.

You watch for a bit. Listen. He usually plays with Kyle and Simon, two men you’ve only met briefly but know Johnny works with on a regular basis.

You place your hand on Johnny’s large, muscled thigh. The corner of his mouth quirks when you touch him but he doesn’t glance at you. His eyes are on the screen and his fingers are a whirlwind across the controller.

Squeezing his thigh, you settle closer to him.

“I’m not taking an L, Lt,” he says into the mic, his focus intense.

Your gaze falls to the timer on the screen. There are seconds left, and it’s clear they’re losing.

The timer goes off. Flashes. And then red lettering appears across the screen, showing Johnny’s loss. A bunch of stats appear that mean nothing to you, and then a little montage follows it.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he mutters at no one in particular.

You pat his thigh and he reaches out to squeeze your hand.

“We can’t go out on a loss,” he says. “Another round.”

Johnny glances in your direction and you smile at him, nodding. Another game isn’t a big deal. He could play several more and you really wouldn’t care. On summer evenings like this, sitting next to Johnny on the sofa is nice.

Johnny queues up another game and you decide right then that you’d like to see if he can really go out on a win.

“This is it. Last one,” says Johnny as the screen changes, his avatar operator dropping from the sky and onto a building.

You rub your hand over his thigh again, moving closer to his groin with every pass. Johnny doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he’s not showing it. Gently, you slide down to his inner thigh, squeezing him just beside the prize you’ll eventually seek.

This snags his attention.

Johnny shoots you a quick, cheeky grin before returning his focus to the screen. It’s not enough for him to lose concentration, and from what you can tell, his team is winning. It’s too bad you might shake the potential win out from under him.

Slowly, you lean forward, shifting slightly to slide to your knees next to him. Johnny’s gaze darts from you to the screen and then back again like he’s trying to figure you out without completely tearing his attention away.

He’s shirtless right now, still a little glossy with sweat from his workout. Johnny has that delicious, masculine scent that clings to him. The one that always makes you feral when he walks through the door after hard labor. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and the outline of his cock is apparent.

You adjust on your knees, settling yourself between his spread legs, hands on his thighs. With back bent slightly, you go under the controller. Johnny’s gaze drops to you and then back to the screen. Keeping the controller in one hand, Johnny gently cups the side of your face before returning it to the controller.

“What are you doing?” he whispers. His gaze narrows. Glancing up, he swears. “Fuck. Bastard’s on my tail.”

Your fingers curl around the band of his sweatpants. They’re already so low. All it needs is a small tug and then you can take Johnny in hand.

Johnny reaches out again, this time grasping the side of your neck. A warning, and one you completely ignore.

His hand disappears and you slide the band down just enough to wrap your hand around him. Johnny stifles a groan and continues on like you’re doing nothing at all. With his headset on, you cannot hear what’s happening on the television. You cannot see anything either, which means you don’t know how long you have.

Can you get him off before the game is done? Or are you wasting time?

Better to be aggressive. Make this a competition. Test Johnny’s resolve.

You squeeze gently and slide up, the pad of your thumb stroking over the underside of the head. Johnny squirms but says nothing to you. He doesn’t even glance down. You won’t go all in just yet. It’s good to tease first. Make him writhe a bit.

With another stroke of your hand, you lightly run your tongue across the head, the tip parting the small slit. Johnny’s hips twitch and his jaw clenches, but he remains focused. It’s not enough, which means you need to do more.

Running your tongue over the head again, you use your hold on Johnny’s cock to slide his cock across your tongue, in and out of your mouth without closing around him. His nostrils flare as he aggressively smashes the buttons on the controller.

This time you close your lips around him, sucking hard on the head.

Johnny groans loudly and then coughs. “I’m good,” he breathes, talking to someone in his headset. “Close call.”

You smile inwardly, and hold this position, allowing your saliva to collect while also stroking him with your hand. Johnny’s gaze darts downward and pauses. His fingers freeze on the controller.

You stare into his eyes and then throat him entirely, stopping when your lips meet your hand. Johnny’s eyelids flutter, and his lips part. Repeating the motion has him falling back against the sofa. His bare chest heaves as his fingers begin moving across the controller again. There is a slowness though. A sluggishness.

In his eyes you see the haze forming. Johnny’s concentration is slipping even as he desperately clings to control. This is your chance to seize this win from him.

Shifting your hand away from the base of his cock, you slide beneath the band of his sweatpants to cup his balls. Squeezing gently, you take him entirely into your mouth, lips almost meeting his pelvis.

You set a pace, making sure to breath through your nose. Johnny is all grunts. He’s hardly speaking into the mic anymore.

This tastes of victory.

Other than Johnny’s grunts, you can hear the click of the buttons on the controller. He’s still trying to focus, even as you feel him swelling in your palm. He’s fucking close, and you’re going to take all of it.

Hollowing your cheeks, you slide up, swirling your tongue around the head.

“Fuck,” groans Johnny, elongating the vowel.

There is a pause—an absence of clicking buttons—and you go for another pass.

Johnny chokes, grabs the back of your head, and draws you flush against him. His cheeks are flushed, mouth open slightly, gaze focused on your face. In his other hand is the controller. He’s hardly holding on to it, one side aimed directly toward the ground.

His flavor explodes on your tongue, and you drink him down. Johnny’s hold on the back of your head eases, and you slowly slide off him, revealing your empty mouth to him. The corner of his mouth twitches, and the smirk on his face startles you.

It’s self-satisfied, as if he meant for all this to happen.

Johnny laughs, gaze returning to the television screen. “Great win. Same time tomorrow?” Johnny chuckles. “Fuck off. Both of you.”

He tears off his headset and tosses it to the side. You turn around and notice the bright green lettering above the stats.

They won.

Johnny grabs your chin and guides your gaze back to him. “That was naughty.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip and your tongue darts out for a taste.

“Fucking hell, love,” mutters Johnny. “Come here.” He draws you into his lap, claiming your mouth in a fierce kiss.

Johnny’s hands fall to your ass, he squeezes, and then comes down with a sharp slap to your ass. You yelp, but it’s smothered by Johnny’s mouth on yours.

“Bedroom,” he growls. “Now.”

[rrrrinmaru]

call me by my name (xavier x mc)

wc: 2058 rating: T

It was just something you had seen online. Call your lover by their name instead of the pet name that had almost become second nature to you—the reactions from the boyfriends and husbands of Linkon City were always so amusing. The more you watch these videos, scrolling idly through your phone as you lounged on the sofa on one of your rare off days, the more you want to test it on Xavier. 

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You can barely remember when the last time you called Xavier by his name—somewhere along the lines, maybe a few months into dating, you accidentally called him baby. 

You remember how it happened, even if you can’t place the exact date. The both of you were strolling down the streets of Linkon City, on the way to one of the cafes another Hunter had recommended to you. You remember the weight of his hand on your waist, gently guiding you along as you focused on the navigation panel on your phone, trying to suss out what exit you had to take in order to take the shortest path there. 

“You okay there?” Xavier murmured, a smile audible in his voice as he pulled you out of the way of some passer-by. “You’re squinting at the phone.”

“No, I got it,” you told him, even as you continued to furrow your brows at the screen and attempt the tried and tested method of lifting it up to the sky to get better signal, as if that would help your case. “Just give me a second, I think we need to turn somewhere up ahead, just—” you spoke, without really thinking it through, the words tumbling out of your mouth while your higher brain functions were wholly focused on reading the damn map, “—give me a sec, baby, I got it. We turn left in a bit, like—”

The fingers on your waist flexed. You looked up at him, barely registering the dilation in his pupils and the way his lips were parted, but you remember noticing the dazed look in his eyes. 

“Xavier? You okay?” 

“Hm,” He hummed, blinking out of his daze. “I’m good. No need to worry about me, just let me know when to turn.” 

And then he smiled at you, so disarmingly that you almost missed your turn.

Regardless, after that incident, Xavier teased you about the pet name until you gave in and repeated it in a quiet, shameful voice. Again, and again, until Xavier hooked you in by his arms around your waist and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you stupid. 

From that day on, you didn’t really call him by his name. Which is why the thought of switching it up excites you. It’s so enticing that you even get up to hunt for your old phone, setting it up in a discrete location near the living room to record his reaction. You won’t publish it, not when the both of you are such private individuals, but you look forward to saving his reaction for future reference, and maybe even future blackmail. 

You wait in anticipation, instinctively checking the clock every few minutes to count down to Xavier’s return. As time passes, you get distracted by the latest novel on your phone and you’ve almost forgotten about your grand plan until you hear the familiar sound of a key turning in your lock.

Immediately, you fly to your hidden phone to click record, and then rush back to the sofa. Your heart rate spikes a little from excitement, and you struggle to tamp down the smile that threatens to surface. 

The door pushes open, and you’re greeted by the gorgeous sight of Xavier stepping through your door, groceries in hand. 

Gods help me, you think, fondness bursting from your heart so vividly at the domestic sight that you think you might drown, I love you.

“The queue was long,” Xavier says, a touch of complaint in his voice. He closes the door behind him, slipping the keys into his pocket as he toes his shoes off. “There was a problem with the self-checkout machines, so everyone had to wait in line at the normal cashiers.”

The pet name almost slips off your tongue. It’s so easy to say it, when he’s acting a little whiny like this—when he gets in the mood to be just a little, tiny little bit like he wants to be babied. 

“Aw,” you say in a commiserating tone. “Do you want any help with putting those away?”

Xavier looks at the bag in his hand, then looks at the way you’re curled up on the couch. “No. Stay there; you look comfortable. I’ll come join you once I’ve placed them away.” 

He lifts the bag, peering in as if to check the contents again. “I’ll be quick, so make sure there’s space for me once I’m done.”

“Okay,” you reply, fighting the urge to smile when Xavier lifts his gaze to look inquisitively at you. Usually, there would be a pet name trailing on the end of that sentence. You think Xavier can tell something’s a little off, but he can’t place his finger on it quite yet. 

He wanders to your kitchen—the groceries he bought, sitting in your kitchen so the both of you can cook in your kitchen later, before he takes a shower in your bathroom and changes into his clothes that take up half of your wardrobe. 

Everytime you’re reminded of how much he’s carved out a space for himself in your life, his presence so steady and solid that you’re almost surprised when he isn’t in your house, as if you’ve forgotten the both of you aren’t cohabitating. Yet. 

Xavier hums to himself as he puts the groceries away. His voice is light, like stardust carrying on the wind as it trickles over to where you are on the sofa. You sit up, eyes bright as you peek over the back of the couch to see him bustling about in your kitchen. He opens cabinets to set things aside, so sure of where things are that it makes your heart kick in your chest.

To be known so dearly, so deeply—you don’t think anyone’s ever known you like this, so certainly that it feels like he’s always been a part of your mind rather than someone you met a few years ago. 

“Xav,” you call out, folding your arms on the back of the sofa and pressing your face into your forearms to hide your smile, “could you help me get a drink?”

Xavier pauses. His back is to you, shirt riding up slightly as he stretches up to place a sack of flour in the cabinet above your countertop. You see him slowly move to push the flour further in, the bend of his long fingers as he ensures there’s no chance of the flour falling out when you open the cabinet later. 

Once he’s done, he turns around to face you. There’s a blank look on his face as he leans back, hip against the countertop while he folds his arms across his chest. 

“Xav?” He asks, brows furrowing. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name, princess.”

You have to smother your smile or it’ll show on your face. Going from the way Xavier’s lips are curving up of their own accord, though, you don’t think you’re doing a very good job. “It’s your name, Xav. Xavier. Could you help get me a drink from the fridge?”

“Hm.” Xavier drags the sound out, rolling it on his tongue. He gives you a long, contemplative look. “No, princess,” he says mildly, looking faintly amused. “I can’t. I don’t know who you’re talking to.”

“Xavier,” you repeat, tilting your head as you blink up at him. “A drink, please?”

He chuckles, Xavier moves in this slow, languid way as he unfurls his arms and walks over. His eyes are a little dark, lips upturned in a knowing smile as he makes his way to the sofa. There’s this look in his gaze, this knowing look that makes you feel transparent with how he sees right through you. As he nears you, you take your arms off the back of the couch and lean back.

You can’t help it. The way he looks at you is filled with such intent that it takes your breath away. Your heart thumps in your chest, like you’re nothing more than a prey animal confronted by its natural predator. A little bunny’s heart jackhammering away in your chest. 

And then he places the flat of his palms against the back of his couch, far apart enough that he can brace himself against it as he leans down, enough for the collar of his shirt to droop and for you to get a good look at the slant of his clavicle. He’s so close, leaning over you as you sit there on the couch, and you swear you can feel the puff of his breath against your lips.

You can’t focus on just one thing. The flutter of his eyelashes as he looks at you, the softness of his cheeks, the half-moon curve of his parted lips—and his eyes, as blue as the sky, glittering with a promise as he stares down at you.

“That’s not my name, princess,” Xavier breathes out. “You know what my name is in this household.”

In the back of your mind, you wonder what you look like right now. Your eyes must be dilated. Your mouth is open from shock, and your fingers are trembling from where they are clutched around the pillow in your lap. Your heart trips over itself, throbbing so violently that you feel lightheaded. 

If you leaned up, just a little, you would be able to press your lips against his. You know you could. The distance between your lips is almost negligible, so close you think you can feel the skate of his lips against yours. 

It’s a tease. You know he’s teasing you right now, the way you teased him, and you can’t help but fall headfirst into his trap. You walk right into it, eyes wide open and conscious as you let yourself get tied up, as you let yourself drown in that swallowing, all-encompassing gaze. 

“What is it?” Your eyes drop to his lips before crawling back up to meet his gaze. 

“I only answer to baby,” Xavier murmurs, mouth curving in a smile. “That’s what you call me, princess.”

You smile, eyes crinkling as you peer up at him. “Baby.”

Xavier lets out a low laugh that sends your insides tumbling. “That’s my girl,” he says, and leans down right as you reach up to press your lips together.

You sigh, eyes closing as you sink into the kiss, and he swallows the sound with relish. One hand reaches up to cup your jaw, pulling you in so he can fit his mouth to yours, tongue slipping between your lips. His thumb presses against your skin, gently stroking the underside of your jaw, and you instinctively reach up to curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt. 

“C’mere,” you say in between kisses, gasping for breath. “There’s space—here, on the couch.”

“Mmhmm.” Xavier glances down, eyeing the space between your legs, the obstructive cushion on your lap, and steadies one hand on the back of the couch. “A little tight, but we’ll make it fit.”

He lets his gaze wander back up to you, and gives you a knowing smile. “We always make it fit, don’t we, princess?”

You get the sense he isn’t really talking about the sofa, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks as he vaults over the couch to settle between your thighs. The cushion is removed, flung away from the sofa with a vengeance you didn’t know Xavier possessed, and then he presses his weight down on you, one hand on your waist with the other curving around the back of your neck to hold you in place as he noses along your cheek, and you stop getting distracted by irrelevant things like where your cushion is, or whether he put away all the groceries that need to be refrigerated, at the very least. 

And an hour later, when you’re both out of breath, it occurs to you that your phone’s still recording. 

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[lordprettyflackotara]

dollhouse || jeff the killer || part four

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: breeding kink, size kink, possession kink if you squint, squirting, overstimulation, the tiniest wee bit of blood (you scratch jeff’s back a lil too hard), non con for five seconds if you squint VERY hard. use of y/n bc i can’t avoid it for forever guys im sorry :(🚨🚨🚨PLOT PLOT PLOT. WE HAVE A PLOT. SMUT WITH PLOT🚨🚨🚨

Jeff hated what he had done.

It had been two weeks since the last time he saw you. Properly at least. You now avoided him like the plague and when he did see you, Ben or Masky accompanied you. Jeff never truly got a chance to be alone with you. Not to fuck necessarily but to say anything to you at all. Nina was also becoming quite the pest, the fan girl practically sewed to his hip. You had the same expression on your face everytime Jeff saw you. An odd one consisting of concentration and betrayal.

Jeff didn’t understand. Why did you look that way? You two weren’t together. You didn’t even like each other. He didn’t like your smile, laugh, or killing style. Or the way you twirled your hair when you were reading. He didn’t like the way you dressed or the way you smelled like vanilla. He began to see less and less of you and one day, you didn’t seem to be there at all.

The pale killer didn’t want to ask. Why would he show anyone he cared? But your absence at breakfast was noted. As was your absence during training, dinner, even Sally’s weekly tea parties. You wouldn’t seriously miss Sally’s tea parties over him, right? Your absence led the pale killer to your bedroom door, rising his fist to softly knock. He stood there nervously, knocking on the door as gentle as he could.

“Y/n?”

He heard nothing on the other side, not even a shuffle. Jeff sighed, gripping the doorknob. He was surprised to find it unlocked, his eyebrows raising. He pushed open the door, to find your room abandoned. All of your posters, trinkets, furniture. Everything that made the room yours was gone. Jeff had only had the privilege of seeing it when he used to walk by, the two of you commonly giving each other the middle finger. But now the room was empty besides one small twin bed. There was no sign you had ever been there to begin with.

Jeff ran down the hall, his feet carrying him down the stairs and into the living room. He jumped over the railing, thudding into the main room. “Where is she?” Jeff panted to Ben. The blonde seemed unamused, his fingers fiddling with his xbox controller. “Who?” He asked. Jeff narrowed his eyes. “You know who. Y/n. Where the fuck is she?” He questioned. Ben shrugged, letting his play of the game play on screen. He reached for his bong, Jeff quick to slap it out of his hands. The murky water spilled on the carpet, an offended scoff leaving Ben’s lips. He grabbed handfuls of Ben’s army green sweatshirt. “Tell me where the fuck she is or I swear to fuck I will smash your beloved bong,” Jeff threatened.

Ben crossed his arms, used to Jeff’s dramatic antics. “Thats a collectors piece,” He argued. Jeff rolled his eyes, grabbing the glass and holding it up mockingly. “I’m aware. Now spit it out,” Jeff said plainly. Ben sighed, shoving Jeff off of him.

“She moved out, alright?”

Jeff’s heart stopped, releasing Ben’s collar and setting his bong down.

“Where did she go?” Jeff questioned. Ben readjusted his shirt, leaving the queue for his game. “Your guess is as good as mine,” Ben answered honestly. Jeff sat on the couch, feeling defeat. He raked his fingers through his hair, his head feeling like it was spinning. “You know maybe if you cared about her this much when she was actually here she wouldn’t have left,” Ben murmured. Jeff gritted his teeth, storming out of the room without another word. He didn’t need you. He didn’t want you. He knew he liked your cunt and that was that. He didn’t need you to get laid, he had Nina.

Yet, you were like a plague. One that had it embedded itself in the cracks and crevices of his mind. You had woven your web of infatuation, one that Jeff couldn’t shake. It’s what led him to casually try to find you. EJ was clueless, as he expected. He knew better than to bother Slender with such trivial things. Toby was so focused on catching a fly, Jeff didn’t even think he actually heard the question. Asking Jane anything at all was always a risk, her eyebrows quick to raise. She slammed the door in his face, the pale killer left alone in the hallway. Jeff was out of options, his attention turning to the proxies.

They were in the training hall, being in tip top shape a core part of being a proxy. There was always a bit of a strain between Jeff and the proxies, due to Jeff being too insane to be converted into one of them. He knew what the thought process was. The duo were slightly bitter that it hadn’t gone the way Slender had originally wanted. If it had, he would’ve had no purpose for them. They would’ve had the privilege of pursuing normal lives and not even having the slightest idea any supernatural entities existed.

Hoodie lifted an axe, throwing it at the target’s Clockwork had made ages ago. The paint was beginning to fade, the wood chipped and shredded from hours of practice. “Masky. Hoodie,” Jeff greeted blandly. The axe landed on the bulls eye, the dirty blonde stepping behind Masky to allow him to throw. “What do you want?” Masky huffed. Jeff stood there awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. Asking human proxies for help was as painful as walking on hot coals to him.

“Where did Y/n go?” Jeff asked point blank. Masky’s aim was lethal, the axe landing dead center on top of Hoodie’s. Masky huffed as he shrugged off his mask, wiping his forehead. “Ask Google, you’ll have better luck there,” He replied. The two watched Hoodie collect the axes from the wooden board. “Very funny. I don’t believe for a second no one in this mansion knows where she went. She’s lived here for years,” Jeff argued. He crossed his arms sassily, Masky’s face was stone cold and hardening with each passing second. “Maybe you should consider that everyone knows, but no one is going to tell you,” Masky retorted. Jeff raised his eyebrows.

“Why wouldn’t anyone tell me?” He questioned.

Masky took his axe from Hoodie, giving him a quick nod. “Because you’re a pale slimeball who would stick his dick in a cactus if it came down to it,” Masky spat. Jeff went to launch himself at the brunette, his partner quick to stand in front of him. Hoodie towered over both Masky and Jeff, his height and leanness his main attributes in combat. Jeff gritted his teeth, clenching his teeth. “Yeah? Fuck you! Human piece of shit,” Jeff exclaimed, stomping out of the training room. He found himself wondering around the mansion, out of people to ask.

Forcing himself into the backyard to tend to Smile, he ran into Sally. She sat on the back porch, her attention centered on her dollhouse. Jeff slumped into one of the rocking chairs on the back porch, watching Smile tauntingly play with a rabbit. His obsidian eyes wondered over to Sally’s dollhouse, the dolls in her hands resembling the mansions residents. He leaned over, an obvious Ben doll and Jane doll in her hands. “Whatcha got going on Sal?” Jeff asked curiously. Sally shrugged, playing with the Ben doll and guiding it up the toy staircase. “Playing with my dolls,” She responded. Her tattered teddy bear sat beside her, but Jeff knew better than to look in his direction.

“Are those supposed to be us?” Jeff asked her. He never really knew how to talk to kids. Minus the fact you couldn’t yell or insult them. “Yeah,” Sally hummed, setting Bens doll aside and picking up Toby’s. They were all freakishly life like, Jeff’s eyes narrowing. “Where’s my doll?” He asked. Sally pointed to the top room of the dollhouse. A replica of Jeff was lying on the floor, his painted eyes staring at the ceiling. “Why am I up there?” Jeff questioned. He had never thought twice about Sally playing with toys. After all, she was just a kid. But there seemed to be a double meaning going on here.

“You’re sad about Y/n leaving, aren’t you?” She asked. Her big green eyes met his, the killer uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “I uh, well, I guess so,” Jeff stumbled out, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He looked around the dollhouse for your doll, noticing its absence. “Hey Sal where did you get these dolls from?” Jeff asked. Sally pointed at Mr.Bear, her long time psychotic supernatural teddy bear companion. Jeff’s eyes narrowed, realizing his thought process was a long shot from being true. “Where’s Y/n’s doll?” Jeff questioned. Sally pointed at the woods, leafs rustling and falling from the trees.

Jeff quickly rose from his seat, patting Sally’s hair. “Thanks kiddo,” He said sincerely, dashing into the woods. Slenderman’s forest was always risky to travel through, The Rake an uncontrollable force that was to be reckoned with. During the day it was typically asleep, the sunlight beaming on Jeff’s pale skin. Even with that being said, it was never a good idea to go into the forest alone. It was apart of the reason EJ moved back inside of the mansion after an unfortunate run in outside of his remote cabin. It suddenly made sense to Jeff. You were staying in the same cabin Jack once did. It was the only one out here. It was the only place nearby you’d be able to stay.

The pale killer couldn’t get to you fast enough, his lungs desperately inhaling gulps of air as he got to the cabins front porch. He noted the porch being freshly swept, as well as patio furniture decorating it. Jack was never one for decoration. This alone was a sign you were here. Jeff knocked on the door, straightening out his spine and clearing his throat. He stood there anxiously as you opened the door, your eyes widening in surprise. You went to shut the door, Jeff’s foot blocking it from closing. “Wait!” He exclaimed. You slowly pulled open the door, raising your eyebrows.

“I only opened this door because I thought you were Masky bringing me food. What do you want Jeff?” You questioned harshly. Jeff didn’t know how to explain it. The weird sensation that sparked in his chest when he was around you. Or thought about you. The way he couldn’t escape wondering what you were doing or how you were. “I-I think I love you, or something,” Jeff stuttered. You looked at your tall enemy, folding your arms. “You think? Were you thinking that when you stuck your dick into Nina?” You hissed. Jeff rubbed his temple, as if his head was hurting. “It’s not like that okay? That was a complete accident,” Jeff answered.

“Oh okay, so she tripped and fell and landed on your dick?”

You went to close the door again, this time Jeff’s hand stopping it. His slender fingers attempted to grip the wood like his life depended on it.

“You are the first person I think of when I wake up. You are the last person I think about before I go to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t fucking understand it. I miss bickering with you. I miss fighting with you. I miss your witty comebacks and smart ass remarks. Fucking hell, do you have any idea what you do to me?” Jeff rambled. He ran his fingers through his hair, shoving it out of his face. “I hate, no, I despise the idea of you being with anyone else. I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t stand the idea of someone else touching what’s mine,” Jeff continued. He cleared his throat, his obsidian eyes finally meeting yours. “I hate the way you make me feel, I hate you,” He said softly. He couldn’t bring himself to say he loved you again.

He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.

He awaited your response, your folded arms falling.

“I hate you too Jeffrey,” You replied gently. You tugged on the collar of his hoodie, pulling his lips to yours. His kisses were rough and uncontrolled, the pale killer having a hard time keeping his lips off of yours. He didn’t want to take a breath, nor did he want to let you breathe. Jeff grabbed the door, awkwardly shutting it behind him. You guided him towards the couch, your knees buckling as you hit the side. His large hands wondered down to your waist, gripping the flesh. You groaned hungrily into his mouth, his hands slithering downwards and massaging your ass.

He pushed you downwards, your back hitting the cushions of the couch. Jeff was on you in an instant, his lips straying from yours. “Gotta let everyone know you’re mine,” Jeff grumbled. He nibbled at your neck, before sucking harshly at your sweet spot. Your hips bucked upwards, your teeth biting your bottom lip. “Go on, be as loud as you want doll. No one can hear ya,” Jeff snickered, dragging his tongue up the side of your neck. He shoved your dress towards your torso, your bare cunt on display. “No panties? Fuck, you’re a dirty whore,” Jeff observed. He took his index and middle finger, teasingly dragging them up your slick.

“And you’re this wet for me? I’ve hardly even touched you,” Jeff mused. He smirked as he lowered himself between your thighs, shoving those same two fingers into your cunt. Your gummy walls squeezed his digits tightly, his name falling off of your lips like a mantra. “There she is. There’s my filthy slut,” Jeff chuckled darkly. He curled his fingers inside of you, relishing in the sound of you moaning his name. “I bet Ben couldn’t make you feel like this. Could he doll?” Jeff purred. You whined as he slowed his fingers down. Aggravated he removed his fingers, delivering a sharp slap to your folds before shoving them back inside of you.

“You’ll answer my questions when I ask them bitch.”

“Only you- fuck- you make me feel so-” You slurred, stumbling over every other word. Jeff attached his lips to your needy clit, satisfied as you grinded your cunt against his face pathetically. You were so desperate to get off. To have him get you off. It only made his cock harder. He lapped at your juices like a starving man, his fingers never slowing for a second. He adored being like this, head buried between your thighs and fingers buried inside of you. You felt your stomach begin to tighten, your core throbbing. “F-f-fuck right fucking there! Fuck, Jeff!” You moaned, grinding your hips against his face as you came.

Jeff emerged from your thighs with a cocky grin, crawling upwards towards you. You gripped his hoodie, flipping the two of you. Jeff’s back hit the couch, his obsidian eyes watching you curiously. He put his hands behind his head, his pupils blown with lust as he watched you fiddle with his belt. “There’s not a better view in the world than this,” Jeff muttered. You found his words sweet and endearing, heat dashing across your cheeks as you shoved his jeans down his legs. “Shut up,” You mumbled. You hovered yourself over Jeff’s thick cock, giving it a few pumps. The man underneath you nearly whimpered, your lips curling up into a smile.

You felt so awkward, despite having been in this position with Jeff countless times before. But this time was different. He didn’t look at you with hatred, but with something else. His large hands guided your hips, guiding you down on his cock. You threw your head back, whimpering. “So tight f’me,” Jeff grumbled. He could feel your walls spasming around him, struggling to accommodate to his size. He lifted up your dress, pride washing over him as he saw the outline of his cock through your stomach. “Look at that doll, look at how deep I am,” Jeff told you. He helped you lift your dress over your head, your fingertips tracing over the shape of his cock. Jeff guided your hips to roll against his, pleasantly surprised with your submission.

“Next time i’ll make sure we can see it through your throat too. But for now I need to fuck you stupid,” Jeff purred. You gripped his shoulders as you began to move, bouncing up and down on his cock. The sight of you falling apart on top of him was sending the pale killer into a frenzy. Your eyes were screwed shut, your bottom tip tucked in between your teeth. Jeff glanced down at his shaft, noticing your arousal coating his cock. “My my, such a filthy whore. Making a mess on my cock like this,” Jeff panted. In a flash he flipped the two of you over, shoving your legs over his shoulders.

With your ankles dangling beside his head he smirked, leaning forward. “Look at me as I fuck you doll. You’re mine. Understand?” Jeff huffed. You forced your eyes to open, his cock ramming into you mercilessly. His fingers gripped your thighs so tightly you swore you’d have bruises in the shape of his fingers in the morning. You slid your hands under his hoodie, digging your nails into his back. “And you’re mine,” You babbled, dragging them down his back.

He groaned at the painful sensation, his cock abusing your g spot. You could feel your legs burn as he slammed into you, both of you moaning messes. His shaggy jet black hair stuck to his forehead with each thrust, muttering strings of curses under his breath. You could feel your final orgasm coming, your legs trembling. Jeff relished in the sight of them trembling by his head, a cocky smirk dancing across his lips. “Go on doll, make a mess on my cock,” He chuckled. He leaned forward, his breath hot against your ear. His hips were unstoppable, whimpers escaping your lips.

“Just know if you cum on my cock i’m going to fill you to the fucking brim,” Jeff grunted. He nibbled on your earlobe, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “F-f-fuck Jeff,” You whimpered. Jeff could feel your walls squeezing him, your thighs squeezing his waist. “Go on doll, I know you want it,” He whispered. It was then the cord inside of you came undone, your mouth running dry as you came around his cock. Your legs shook violently, your juices coating his lower half. “I just made you squirt for the first time huh? Let’s see if I can make you do it again,” Jeff chuckled darkly. You whined as he slithered his hand to your clit, drawing fast circles around the swollen bud.

“O-oh! Fuck! It’s too much,” You cried. Jeff could feel the beads of blood you were extracting from his back as you held on for dear life. His thrust had never stopped, his hips never failing to snap into yours. “You’re doing so good for me doll, just one more,” Jeff huffed. You felt your vision growing hazy, your sinful noises babbles of curses and Jeff’s name. You then came again, squirting around his cock. Jeff’s thrust came to a sudden halt, his cock twitching keep inside of you. You could feel his warm cum flooding your cunt, your thighs trembling as he took them off of his shoulders.

He removed his cock from you, watching his seed spill out of your abused hole. With two fingers he pushed his cum back inside of you, your whimpers music to his ears. “Can’t have that going anywhere now can we?” Jeff purred. In a swift motion he picked you up bridal style, carrying you further into the cabin. “What are you doing?” You asked softly. You laid your head against his chest, the killer carrying you as if you were as light as a feather.

“To get you cleaned up doll face. You’re mine now, and I’m going to treat you like it.”

[djpepitaqueenforpresident]

𐦍༘⋆ Mnemonics - B.Barnes

‘The air could not be filled with Winters vocals, but his ears worked better than fine, and instead of hearing someone he could not remember the name of beg in his skull, he listened to you.’

Summary: In which Bucky walks the path of regaining his memories, and he has to figure out wether you are real or just an apparition of hope his own mind conjured up to help him push through the hard ways of Winter.

Warnings: Ptsd, blood, violence, guns, swearing, murder, sad Bucky

A/N: first time posting my writing in tumblr kinda nervous.

English is not my first language!:)

This’ll be a short fic because I honestly started this without even really thinking every thing through. I only really wrote it for real to satisfy my own melancholia. As its stated in the summary, this story mainly revolves around the time Bucky was still the Winter Soldier and how he found a sliver of peace inside your presence.

Teehee

I

Grocery shopping was, Bucky found out, not something made for him.

He stood and stared at every aisle that held his desired items, contemplating for at least two minutes on what brand to get for every product that he had written down in a messy handwriting onto the crumbled piece of paper.

Overthinking was something he was good at, and the too many choices displayed in front of him only added to his indecisiveness. He didn’t think it was possible to have multiple sorts of apples, or that there was any difference in which country they came from. Didn’t every one of them grow from the same trees and under the same sun?

He dropped the Pink Ladies back into their respectful shelf, not all that interested in the fruits anymore, the frustration of not knowing which ones to pick making him lose his motivation to continue down his shopping list.

But, right now, he only had a dozen of eggs (the biological ones, his heart doing a pathetic flip at the thought of the little innocent birds living the same life he had), one sad bottle of plum juice and one pack of ready-made lasagna staring up at him from the basket hanging from his left lower arm.

So, he strolled further, his eyes skimmed across the peaches and tangerines, searching his tastebuds for what he was craving. Next to the tangerines lay oranges, packed in nets of 4.5 pounds. He halted, blinking down at the round fruits with a sudden increase in appetite. He couldn’t remember the last time he ever had an orange, but the vivid image of drops of sap leaking down onto a black, marble kitchen counter with bitten off orange peels discarded to the side, was enough for him to throw them next to his plum juice.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?”

Yes, he did.

He couldn’t remember how.

The products now present in his cart were not nearly enough to last him even a day, but he ignored the rest of the names sprawled across the paper, stuffing it angrily into the pocket of his leather coat with a furrowed brow. Today had been a good day, with at least 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep and a beautiful sunrise to greet him on his morning walk.

But, just like that, he was pushed back by the cold grip of his past, taking him back to the unknown of Winter’s history. It felt like a dream, those where you run with all your strength and might, with your heart driving through your ribs, but you just can’t seem to move forward.

How a single fruit could push itself in between the folds of his brain to force out moments of his life he wasn’t even conscious of. He was well aware it might have only been a lie. Sometimes, he got his memories wrong. Mixed up or glorified by his own mind to keep him away from the dark pits of his truth.

He didn’t take the change from the cashier behind the checkout, only muttering a ‘have a nice day’ under his breath while the older man continued his actions of scanning the next items in a inhumanly slow fashion, creating a domino effect of frustration on the queue behind Bucky.

The walk back to his single bedroom apartment was a long one, but this was the only supermarket away from the crowds and the only one that had employees just, if not more, grumpy than him, allowing him to get lost in the crevices of his thoughts without having to be conscious enough to paint a forced smile on his face. It always resembled more of a grimace, anyways.

The sun was relentless with it’s warmth, cooking Bucky alive in his dark clothes, the fabrics sticking to his skin. The light reflected off the buildings, blinding him even through his sunglasses, like some merciless god was putting in extra work to annoy the super soldier. He could step out of the way of a faux fur coat just in time, or he would most definitely have gotten a Guess handbag to his head.

The only thing that greeted him once he lazily kicked the door shut of his sleeping place, was a lonely Chinese Money plant, its round leaves (turning yellow, which Bucky tried to fix by giving an extra cup of water, resulting in even more discoloration) hanging pathetically off the side of the windowsill, lower than he knew they should hang. He got it as a gift from Sam, because nothing said ‘I forgive you for trying to kill me and my friends’ like a plant that looked like little pancakes and still had the price tag on it.

Bucky clung to it like its his own heart.

His fridge was as empty as the rest of the room, even with the newly bought products. He left the net of oranges abandoned on the counter, after doing a 360 turn, looking for any kind of bowl or dish he could put them in, but realizing he had absolutely nothing.

This temporary stay was getting to be more and more permanent, six months being by far the longest he stayed in the same place, and it scared him. It was a taunt, a fever dream that made him dizzy and he could not shake himself out of. The small sliver of hope and promise that came unvoluntarily with it crawled across his skin like a centipede, every little leg pushing into his skin, urging him to get out, to run away again.

It was still as lucid as it had been six months ago.

Taking a shower helped with the insistent nerves, and by the time the third episode of The Real Housewifes started playing, he was back in a semi-peaceful state of mind, the previous black kitchen countertop now only an incessant bug in his mind.

The slightly burned lasagna had been devoured within minutes, and Bucky was still hungry.

He was too indolent to make himself eggs, and so he settled on the round fruits instead, knife in hand gripped unnecessarily tight.

He stared with narrowed eyes down at the food, willing another flash of whatever his mind was trying to provoke out of him.

He cut off the front and behind, before slicing the knife right through the middel. The smell alone was enough to get him to close his eyes, a nostalgic sensation washing over him without a real direction. For a moment, he was gone, swimming in the sweet scent while his tongue was dancing with it’s sap. A taste of the sun, which seeped through the thick skin and glowed in its center, now gliding down Bucky’s throat.

He cut off one slice, eagerly setting it between his teeth, ripping the flesh off its peel in one clean motion. A drop of sap escaped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin, landing onto the cheap, brown countertop in a perfect drop.

Nails made crescent shapes into its orange husk, only a hairs breath away from the serrated knife. The wooden cutting board now held a large stain, the slight force which the fruit was held down with making its sap leak away. Despite the dim lit room, he could still make out the pair of defeated eyes across from him, liquid honey consisting of a warmth he could not ever begin to comprehend.

An outstretched hand held out a slice for him.

He ignored it.

He forced down another slice with a grimace, like every piece was another segment of his memory, despite the protest his throat was giving him.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?” The voice was quiet and melodic, like the juices of it’s core had sweetened their vocal chords, playing his cochlea like a perfectly tuned violin.

He gave no response, but his companion didn’t seem indignant at carrying the one sided interaction.

“It was created from two other fruits, somewhere in Asia, I think. It’s a modified berry, actually.”

Slice after slice went up into their mouth, the meat ripped off with force, until all that was left was the skin, now laying forsaken beside the white plate.

Excess sap was wiped off their face with their sleeve, unable to stop the few meandering drops from escaping in time, that now rested like fallen stars on the black marble.

He couldn’t see the face, like he was staring at a ghost, his eyes refusing to focus. The only memorabilia he could take with him from this quick gaze into his past, was the feeling of serenity enveloping his entire being.

He dropped the half eaten orange into the trashbin, his tastebuds not experiencing the same, unfamiliar glorification of the fruit that his mind was convincing him of.

Real or not, he basked in this strange presence, holding it close to his heart with utter devotion.

☆

Walking the same streets up and down almost everyday should have made him tired, but routine was exactly what Bucky needed.

It diminished his social anxiety to only a dull ache across his chest. Tiresome, but manageable.

Steve told him it would get easier.

That was four months ago.

But, he had a place to sleep - one he didn’t have to leave again after a few weeks -, his childhood best friend back, and the terrorist organization who previously held Bucky’s live and future in their hands, were now only present in his dreams.

Yes, his soul was still scattered across the earth, taken apart piece by piece by every person who’s stared into the barrel of his gun or who’s breaths fogged up his knife in their throaths. But that wasn’t him, not really.

He was starting to see that now. And with every name crossed out, he felt he was slowly replacing those gaping holes in his heart. He would never be James Buchanan Barnes again.

But, maybe, he could just be Bucky.

And right now, Bucky needed some much needed vitamin D. Socialization was also a requirement to the road of rediscovering his identity (something Bucky responded to with many grumbles and much defiance), but the only reason he had agreed to meet up with Steve and Sam, was because Bucky’s kitchen was pathetically vacant, and they promised to pay for the food.

He rounded the corner, stepping over the protruding tile three tiles left of where the grey, cemented road started. He ignored the flyer pushed in his face, ‘Jezus loves you!’ printed in bold yellow letters on the cover while the long haired blond stayed persistent with his yelling, even after Bucky’s third month of walking past the fanatic.

Another left, his eyes greeting the texas shaped crack in between the two dark red bricks about two feet away from the advertising board, this week showcasing a shirtless man who looked to come straight out of Ancient Greek, riding a beautiful palomino horse on the beach. Bucky didn’t know what he was advertising.

The redhead nodded at Bucky as he passed while she placed two cappuccino’s and one cheesecake with two forks down on the table, conversing with the same elderly couple who spend their every single morning at that café.

He always let his features soften ever so slightly when he passed the shop window of Pets&Co, the same grey British shorthair that had been there since Bucky started this routine still occupying the space on the windowsill, it’s fur flattened against the glass. It didn’t look up when he passed, busy licking its paw clean with lazy strokes.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

When things would change again, when something would come crawling out of his own shadows to snuff out even the littlest sparks he had experienced since his return. Dr. Raynor says it’s paranoia, but Bucky would be a fool to believe a past the magnitude of his own would stay hidden and quiet.

Six months of roaming Brooklyn like a forgotten phantom, without consequences, was far too long to be real.

How was it, that he had marked his fists with the blood of his brother no more than three years ago, and he was now on his way to dine with said man and his friend, like nothing had happened?

He hoped Sam had brought beer

-

He stepped over the protruding tile and ignored the flyer smashed against his chest, shaking off the man’s hand on his shoulder with something that could only be described as a growl.

Texas was still there to greet him in between the red bricks, like it was every day.

The advertising board had changed its poster from the palomino horse and Greek god, to the newest Iphone, with four different colors to choose from and an one time only sale for new members.

The redhead nodded as he passed. So did the elderly couple, their cheesecake halfway gone.

The british shorthair blinked up at him, exhibiting a row of sharp teeth with its left upper canine missing when it yawned. It immediately closed its eyes again and went back to sleep.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

-

Step over the tile and duck out of the way from the unabating believer.

Texas was not Texas anymore, an extra crack directly beside it made it deformed, forcing a wave of annoyance through Bucky.

A new poster took the place of the previous one.

He nodded back at the redhead.

Its grey fur was rolled up into a little ball, not even poking its head out to regard the young girl in front of its cage trying to catch its attention. Bucky wondered if maybe he should take the cat with him, just to get it away from all the prying eyes and-

He halted.

Beside the feline was another enclosure, this one new, housing a white ball of fur with two large ears poking up into the air.

His heart gave a tug as two bright red marbles stared back at him. It twitched its nose, hopping one step forward, closer to the glass separating the two of them. Bucky could almost see the blue waistcoat around its small body, its paw disappearing into the pocket to take out a golden pocket watch.

“You know the story?”

Silence.

“I hope you don’t, or else I’ll just be reciting.”

Bucky cocked his head to the side, the picture disappearing from his retina like a puff of smoke, taking the deep and hot feeling of longing with it, like it hadn’t been there in the first place.

He turned to his initial goal of the day again, walking under the brown sunshade (pondering when the last time the fabric had seen the inside of a washing machine, like he did every day) as the little wave of Mr. Takemoto wiped the frown from his face, previous state of mind forgotten.

-

Step over tile.

What day was it again? Friday?

Avoid flyer guy. Bucky seriously considered taking another route just to evade the man.

Greet Texas- No, not Texas anymore.

Another perfume ad.

Redhead wasn’t in today, because she’s always off on Sundays. Right, it’s Sunday today.

The old couple is, and he nods.

The grey feline still there, nose turned away from its white, next door neighbor. Bucky believed the cat should really try and be more open, since it is stuck in a 3 by 3 feet cage and didn’t really have that many choices for socializations.

He understood, though.

-

Tile. Flyer. Not Texas. Ad. Redhead with two cappuccinos and a cheesecake. White furball.

Bucky hadn’t even noticed when grey turned into white, but as he was at the end of yet another week gone by, and he had step to the left to let some pretend rich man slide past, he spotted the empty right cage for the first time.

And he felt disappointed, because it was yet another part of his well structured routine that was now gone. First Texas, and now grey cat.

It had been a sad looking little thing, with more attitude than should be possible to hone in such a small body, but, now that it was gone, it was like a missed opportunity.

Not that he would have ever bought it, but still. The choice was there, and now it wasn’t.

The other animal, the one taking Bucky in with a thorough inspection, as if now he was suddenly the one on sale, looked extra lonely without his unbothered friend beside him.

He’d love Chimney, Bucky guessed, since Nat’s incessant orange tomcat could not have been more demanding. A shrill, whining sound - it can not be called meowing - coming from the back of it’s throat like it had the world on its tiny, uneven shoulders and he was the president commanding his people.

Natasha was a loyal citizen of its world, of course, worsening its already spoiled behavior by meeting every demand of her president.

He could bring it with him whenever he and the ex-widow would meet for training, so that it didn’t have to feel lonely. Not like he- it, did now.

Or not.

No. No, definitely not.

He could barely take care of his Money plant, he’d didn’t want to imagine the damage he would do to an actual living thing.

He didn’t need to imagine it.

-

The steam rolling off his fresh coffee helped him turn inwards.

The older, - technically, younger - red lipped waitress sweetening Bucky up with a roll of her tongue. ‘You tell me if you need anything, Sugar’

It always took a good moment of staring blankly ahead, watching a couple display an uncomfortable amount of pda right across from his booth, to make his thoughts set straight.

He knew by now he was a regular customer in the coffee joint, every waiter that worked here knew his order by heart.

Medium black coffee.

He didn’t even like it.

But, it kept him going enough, the bitter taste shocking his nerve system like he was swallowing poison. Might as well.

It was a hoax. Something that should come with a warning sign. The stark black liquid did not live up to the immaculate smell of its original form. It made you think you had discovered a new world wonder. Standing in a field under the trees, watching the flowers work and feel the wind singing with a reclaimed love for oneself and life.

The drink tastes like unnecessary ache.

The leather scratched his fingertips as he opened the overly used notebook, turning to the page he last worked on, pointedly ignoring the sentences he wrote on the left page.

His coffee was his company.

It grew cold and untouched.

[causenessus]

try again

part 0.11. HERE TO STAY

“on the other side of the wall, she’s listening to her client with a smile on her face. she’s a professional; she’s been trained to multitask and take notes while still listening and providing feedback to her clients. right now, she’s clicking off a tab back to the one filled with bullet points on things her client has said. she always knows when he arrives. she hears the left door open, which she knows because it squeaks more than the one on the right. he always uses the left door (she thinks it has something to do with the fact that more people touch the handle of the right door on their way in) and his paces are always steady down the creaky hallway. her last sign that he's here is the chair he sits in every time, the one right next to the door into her rooms. the legs are the slightest bit uneven and the back of the chair will lightly tap against the wall as its way of letting her know of her welcome guest. she already has her queue of songs up. she’s always hated her thin walls until he started coming in. a lot has changed in her life since he's come back, hasn't it?"

content warnings: the big finale which isn't that dramatic! i'm sorry for my bad writing! y/n dad reveal! breaking news: her dad is an asshole! tad bit of violence, one mention of blood and also just cursing and abusive fathers </3

he insists on paying and she doesn’t argue with him about it for long; she’ll have countless more opportunities to steal the check from him, she hopes.

she feels better when she's finally eaten after a day of nervous nausea and time spent anxiously bouncing her knee. on top of that, she’d been with him for the majority of the day, distracting her from what had happened in the morning. he even listened to her issues, and she’s finally starting to believe the promise that he’s here to stay. 

they’ve just stepped off the train, and her apartment building is only a few minutes away. he walks alongside her the entire time, their arms brushing each other ever so often. whether it’s on purpose or not, neither of them will fess up.

he’s only distracted from his time spent mindlessly reaching his arm out just the slightest bit more to hit hers ever so often when he feels a buzz in his pocket. he slips out his phone quickly to check its screen:

akaashi’s a moment too late, because they’ve just made it up the stairs to her floor.

she’s already seen him, and he’s already seen her.

she wants to puke. 

he’s there, arguing with iwaizumi outside their door. his sunken eyes and gaunt face make her stomach twist with guilt, but a brush from omi’s knuckles reminds her where she is again. it’s not her job to take care of him. it never was, and it never will be.

"you," the man is pointing a finger towards her, stumbling forward and she immediately shrinks back like a shriveling flower, losing her confidence. omi's already standing in front of her without even thinking about it, putting a barrier between the two.

the old man keeps talking as if he can see right through him, though “you’re a disrespectful worthless piece of shit, you know that? can’t ever in your life put even a single person about yourself. here you are living with a bunch of boys. what are you, a whore? do you suck them off so they’ll keep the bad guys away? they’re doing a shit job at it. i’m standing here after, all, aren’t i?”

“it’s not like that,” her voice is quiet and weak, and she’s not even sure it makes it to the man’s ears.

“you can’t think about anyone else. you're too selfish. you won’t even answer your own father’s calls much less say anything to him at all–”

“i told you to back off!” her voice comes out loud this time, louder than she means for it to, “i’ve told you to back off so many times but you just don’t listen,” she steps out from behind omi, standing next to him instead while the man in front of them stops at the sound of her voice, “these are my roommates and my closest friends. i'm living with them because they genuinely care about me and aren't using me for any purpose, something you can't even dream about. the only reason you’re still standing here is that they have enough self-control and respect for me that they won't beat up the man i regrettably call my father.”

omi’s gaze slides over to hers, trying to see if she’ll meet his eyes. he’s simultaneously trying to communicate how proud of her he is and let her know that he'll support her no matter what happens. 

“take that back,” her father spits, starting to curl his fingers into a fist. she stays silent, and his face begins to flush an angry red. “you’re only proving my point. you’re just an ungreatful little girl who thinks she no longer has to care about anyone else because she's older. i took care of you your whole life and i will not have you ignoring me for the rest of my fucking life!” the smell of beer invades her senses as he steps closer.

“you did jackshit in my life! you never helped me with anything I asked you to. never bought me anything i needed, you've never cared about me. i’ve grown up and moved out. i can do whatever i damn please and i told you to leave me alone. maybe if you respected me i wouldn't ignore you, but that's impossible for you,” she retorts, standing her ground.

“don’t you fucking talk to me like that–” he nears her, only a few steps between them and she starts to feel the panic in her chest, “your stubbornness is the reason your mother left–”

“my stubbornness?” she can’t help but fight back. that’s what separates her from her past self. her younger self ran away, left home as soon as she could to live on her own, but now she’s grown into who she is today, and she won’t let him ruin that. “you treated your wife like shit and refused to change no matter how many times she screamed and argued with you right in front of me about how horrible you were. you've never fixed anything because you’re so stuck up and think you’re so high and mighty that she decided to pack up her bags and leave–”

“then why did she leave you behind too?” 

it’s like her heart stops beating for a second. her blood runs cold before her vision is a blur and the face of the man is crushed right in front of her, sending him to the ground groaning. his hand is covering his nose, preventing her from seeing how badly damaged it is, but she can’t find it in her to care.

“don’t blame her for your faults. grow up and take responsibility for your shit. she deserved better than either of you,” omi is talking down on the man now, and she looks up from her father’s body to the fist of the boy beside her, bruised and a little red.

he’s been by her side since day one, and maybe he disappeared for a section of it, but now he’s back. they're back together, and she stands proudly beside him, “she left me too, but i can’t be mad at her for being sick of you. or us. whatever it is, you’re both selfish and her absence nor yours is something i’m mourning over. i’m happy to have left you too and for the last time, i never want to see you again”

iwaizumi has joined them, standing above the man, no trace of sympathy in his eyes despite the blood that's streaking down her father's face. he tries to get up, only for iwaizumi to keep him down on the ground with a foot on his shoulder, “you heard her. don’t ever show your fucking face around here again. i’ll kill you the moment i lay eyes on you.” iwaizumi’s olive eyes move from the ground to meet hers, slightly softening when he sees her, “are you done with him? i’ll make sure he gets out of here and stays away for good.”

omi’s words from the diner rush back to her head, and she doesn’t feel so bad for relying on her friend. she believes he's willing to help her, and she won’t let her father’s words get to her head. she’s cared for others, unlike him, and developed relationships that she’s earned by giving out her own love. “yeah, i’m done,” her voice is quiet again as she keeps looking at her friend, searching his eyes for any sort of annoyance. but she can’t find any, and she smiles, walking towards him, wrapping her arms around him. “thank you, iwaizumi.”

he has an arm around her shoulders, his foot still resting on her father. “always,” he replies simply before she leaves him embrace, gesturing for omi to follow her. “i’m going to take care of his fist, now.”

iwaizumi only nods, turning his attention back to the man on the ground omi following his gaze as he passes by. iwaizumi will do more than a good enough job at keeping his word, he knows that, but he feels like he should have some part in taking care of the man whose plagued the girl in front of him for her entire life.

but she hasn’t asked him to take care of the man in front of her, and he knows its not his place. she knows she does not resent the man to the point that she wishes harm upon him, she simply wishes that he would leave her alone. and iwaizumi will make sure that wish is honored, and omi should be satisfied with the hit he landed on the man’s nose.

before her hand can even reach the knob of the door, it swings open and she’s pulled inside by the arms of a black-haired man who he recognizes to be akaashi. kita is standing beside him, a hand on [y/n]’s shoulder as they both check on her for any injuries or harm.

he hasn’t seen kita since his days in high school when he was the captain of inarizaki; atsumu told him he had moved out to the countryside but he must have come back after some time. he feels like a weight is lifted off his chest at the sight of her in the arms of his roomates, and he knows that she is cared for. that she has found her people, just like he told her earlier that night, and he hopes that she’s starting to accept his words as the truth.

he’s happy just watching her from afar, but she breaks apart from akaashi’s hug to gesture him in, and kita shuts the door behind him. “omi, this way,” she says with a smile on her face, beckoning him with a hand.

it’s the first time she’s called him by that old name since high school, and he thinks he’s falling even harder for her if that’s possible. she makes him sit on a stool in the kitchen while she searches her cabinets and a nearby closet for medical supplies. she’s begun to apply an ointment to his hand when he opens his mouth, “i can’t believe you think your roomates would ever leave you. look at how they all came to make sure you were okay. mine are one fight away from starting to vote people to kick out of the apartment nearly every week.”

she laughs at his comment, unwrapping a roll of bandages, “i’m sure no one would ever vote for you if that happened, but i guess you’re right, they’re pretty good, aren’t they?”

he nods, watching her face while she’s focused on his hand, “are you doing okay?”

she hums back in response, “yeah. the thing about my mom leaving me behind too kind of stung, but i don’t think life would’ve been any better with her, so it shouldn’t really hurt that bad. i’ll be okay. what you said at the diner really helped, you know. i feel like I can trust myself to say what i'm thinking rather than being scared i'm wrong or selfish. i can trust that it's not egotistical to believe my roomates don’t actually hate me. and that you don’t hate me. so i feel like i’ve finally escaped the weight of my dad’s words always crushing me and playing down anything i do.”

he reaches a hand up with his uninjured hand to wipe away tears from her face she didn't even realize were falling. and then he keeps his hand there, caressing the side of her face. “i don’t hate you, i never have. this entire time…how i feel about you is quite the opposite,” the words are slightly too intimate for him and as soon as they escape his mouth, it becomes hard to swallow and his face feels a little hot, but he doesn’t remove the hand from her cheek. he opts to say something more neutral next, “you did well, talking back down to him. i think you could’ve taken him down yourself.”

she chuckles at that, tying a knot to finish his bandage, “that’s what you think, but i’m sure i’d break my thumb or something. and if i have a hot man to defend me? i’m not lifting a finger.”

“you think i’m hot?” he says with a smile.

her cheeks grow warm under his hand, but she can’t look or move away from him, “i’m pretty sure thousands of people think so. it’s like a fact; newspapers can make money off of just having your face on the front page even if they barely mention you or don’t focus on sports at all.”

“well none of that matters,” he’s smiling softly now, and she’s still looking into his dark-colored eyes, hands holding his wrapped hand, “it just matters what you think.”

“what i think?” she repeats. and maybe it’s the adrenaline from the encounter they just had, or his boldness rubbing off on her in this current moment, but her next words come out clear and confident, “i think i love you, and i have for years. even when you left, i never stopped loving you.”

“i’m gonna make up for those years, you know,” he whispers back, pulling her by the sides to stand between his legs, bringing her closer. “i know i love you. i’d be a fool not to. and i loved you back then in high school too, even if i didn’t know it. i swear, losing you made me realize how much i took you for granted and everything became clear. letting you disappear was the worst mistake i ever made. i’ll make up for that lost time. make it up to you to the the point that you’re sick of me and you forget we were ever even separated for a time in our lives.”

“oh? and how are you gonna do that?” there’s a breathless feeling growing inside of her chest, where her heart beating fast with his confession and the way she's allowing him to pull her face close to this.

“starting with this,” his breath is hot against her lips before he closes the gap between them, and she’s kissing him back. she doesn't mourn or wish for the past, or for anything to change. he's come back and that's all that matters. she's happy with the word again. she likes it better than a phrase like "we fell in love at first sight." instead, she can say, "we met again. we fell in love again.

"we tried again."

it sounds like a story that reminds people endings aren't set in stone. she likes it.

.

.

.

“by the way, have you been playing songs for me in your lounge room when i’m waiting for you?”

“oh, you noticed?”

.

.

.

"the more you love your friends the more their features start to blur until all you remember is a pair of warm, welcoming eyes and laughter that feels like home."

prev. | m.list

extras <3

this is the end! thank you for reading try again <3

that last little quote is something i should've included like two chapters ago but it got lost in my gallery so here it is now <3

y/n's a good therapist i swear!!! she takes like one second to hit a play on a spotify playlist she's not playing games on her computer for entire sessions 😭

this is all i have tbh! i hope you enjoyed a little bit of this story <3 thank you so so much for being along on this ride w me!!

taglist: @eggyrocks @wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @strawberryuri @violetesensou @kakeru-eem @glmge @heytheredemonsss @mollyrolls @bemebiu @daszy @snail-squasher @0moonii @thiisisntlovely @todorokiskitten @rory-cakes @iiwaijime @iatethemochi @yuminako @savemebrazilhinata @kismyscars @bokutoko @nobodybutnnoorr @wolffmaiden @daisy-room @softpia @lees-chaotic-brain @v3nusplanetofluv @crispchocolates @phoenix-eclipses @hhoneyhan @encrypta @rockleeisbaeeee @cr4yolaas @zombriesworld @localgaytrainwreck @moucheslove @hibernatinghamster @notverymarley @certaindreampost @akaakeis @ciderscape @lucien-luna @strawbrinkofdeath @wave2mia @samuel1004 @01trickster10 @dazqa @cosmiicdust @chemiru

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 25﹕✦﹕┈・୧

-> event masterlist

wriothesley x f!reader -> degradation

a/n: kekeke this is the first time ive written wrio 🙇🏻‍♀️ his grace sama, i had fun playing around this and i promise this is the last prompt for the day :3 it’s just not everytime i get the time & the writing juice 🧃 yanno?? to finish works left n’ right!! i also don’t wanna queue them bc they were supposed to be finished w kinktober but i picked up the future prompts bc inspo. ❤️‍🔥🥹💋 wrio fuckers get ya mans

warnings: cockwarmie, degradation!!ofc ofc, wrio is a meanie but we’ve begged him for it ‼️👀

“please, your grace.” you squealed out when wriothesley spanked your needy clit for clenching around him too tight. sipping at his tea languidly and humming in ignorance. “can’t do anything but act like the little slut you are, huh? can’t live without cock?”

it hurts your heart but spasms your cunt when wrio uses words like these, uses you— for his own pleasure. like right now, using you as his personal little cock warmer. “my pathetic little cocksleeve.” he chants and hums, reading through entrance papers of the new criminals who are to be admitted in fortress of meropide. you know you wanted this in the first place, you’ve practically begged for wriothesley to treat you with the stature of ‘his grace’ and not your boyfriend. and here you are, now slumping against his desk, defeated.

wrio loves how you’re being put in your place right now, it’s adorable really. you’re nothing but his little princess after all. someone who gets away with everything she wants, someone who always gets what she wants. the whole fortress of meropide is at your service including wriothesley. you’re the definition of ‘spoiled’. maybe this is why, he’s ecstatic at your request and wants to show you just how much power he holds on you. how much control he can have on you and the most carnal need of your body, your pleasure.

his hands languidly reached your clit, finally letting your ignored bundle of nerves get some pleasure. rubbing circles on it and smirking when you squealed. “aw? go on, squeal like an animal. maybe i should put the announcement mic up your face so the whole fortress knows how much of a slut their grace’s little girl is.” with the way wriothesley said something so sinful, you whimpered at the sentence alone. the dirty talk shooting right at your core almost painfully turning you on.

“no, your grace. just want you to hear them.” you smirked and answered back, making wriothesley feel special in your own kind of way. “oh, we’re being too good are we? why? scared you’re gonna be punished?” wrio’s hands wrapped around a fistful of your hair, tugging them and making your back arched as he started railing you. cock pistoning against your nastily wet cunt, squelching noises filling up the room which were like music to his ears.

“just- wan- oh god.” you squeaked like a stuffed toy being used and abused oh so right. you waited to feel him moving, you’ve been so good for him. now that he’s rewarding you it’s so hard to keep a check on your aggressively building orgasm. “sir, please- gonna cum so bad.” you cry out, sniffling & sobbing at just how intense it felt. no you weren’t hurt, no you weren’t in pain or feeling bad. it was just the way wriothesley shoved you into feeling small, feeling like your purpose was to be his & only his, that the grateful tears of pleasing your dom & earning a reward erupted from your half-lidded eyes.

“don’t cry,” wriothesley softened a tenfold, hey— you are someone wrio’s whole world revolves around after all. his thrusts continued as he leaned in, rewarding you with your first gentle kiss, shoving his tongue in softly and humming as he ate away at your moans.

oh you’re definitely gonna want this so many times more. and you’ll definitely have to ask him to go a little further ;)

“feels- so good.” you hummed, humping back against his thick cock, pushing both you & your lover off the peak of the orgasm, shattering down below him & convulsing around his girth with a low scream. “that’s it, take it all in, my breedable little bitch in heat.” wriothesley commented, though with the way he rubbed your back and kissed your nape throughout the whole sentence makes you think otherwise. <3

[loverboykirstein]

biting the bullet // kinktober pt. 4/5

sam (sdv) x afab! reader

wc: 7,574

mdni -> warnings: mentions of addiction/neglect/throwing up/mental illness, unprotected sex, breeding, possession

***“go. whatever happened, whatever-“ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “whatever happened, fix it. go-” another sigh, covering up his lack of words. “you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own,”. 

you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own. 

you did break his heart, right? 

you..

a deep breath, the last swig from the bottle that had mixed with the night sky’s tears of solidarity. 

on his feet, another deep breath for the road. 

“samson, go,”.***

the mismatched pattering of his heartbeat in his ears began to close his throat, chest cavity torn apart by the weight of a passing phrase. 

“can we do tomorrow? i’m taking them to the look-out on my bike tonight,”. 

what..? 

it was happening again. he let his guard down for just a moment, a fraction of a second, and his lungs and heart and every nerve ending were spilling out of his ripped apart being, invisible to all but him. 

you..seb..? of course you want seb. everyone does. we each have a role, right? just like mom? like dad? 

is there something that wrong with me? how do i atone for my sins in my past life to mediate the bullshit i’ve drug into this one? that’s the only explanation, right? 

it followed him everywhere, a sick joke that didn’t even have a punchline. in its wake, it simply stole his soul away, piece by piece, a sick treasure hunt of trying to rebuild and rebuild and rebuild. 

for what cause? to sit up and stare at his ceiling, snapping the rubber band on his wrist over and over and over again, a piss-poor attempt to calm himself down that never seemed to work. 

what was he supposed to do? he hadn’t even been handed the short end of the stick, simply tempted with it like a dumb dog and locked in a collar for the rest of time as punishment for his greed. 

the desperate, aching, bruising desire for a life. 

to be more than a secondary, to figure out who he was. 

to fall in love and not get hurt. 

to begin to trust without losing his joints in the process, left a brittle mess of grinding bones at the end of it all. 

to make the decision to live for himself, not for the need of the image of others. 

to make it out of a war-torn cage, to never follow in his fathers footsteps. 

to build a family that was wanted, unlike his. 

he wanted that with you. 

he never knew why he existed, or what the point was. 

then he heard your laugh for the first time, handing him an extra maple bar you had made and he nearly collapsed at the life that made his fingers numb and filled his lungs instantaneously. 

but now,  quiet trembles rustled through his bloodied fingers, too busy taking out anything he could on anything he could. 

near the edge of the valley, beyond leah’s quaint home lied a hidden little cave, behind bushes and trees and the occasional critter or two. 

his blood stained parts of the exposed rock, the only thing he could hit without feeling bad. far enough away, no one ever finding him out there. 

for no one to hear his violent sobs, his screams out to whoever was behind all of this, why, why, why. over and over and over, prayers for a reason as to why things had to be this way. 

but if he wasn’t home to set the table, his mother would lose her temper before the oven timer even rang. the sun finding its way back to the never-ending horizon was her queue, the so-called ‘acceptable’ time of day to numb the sorrow crawling near, pushing it onto the son she never wanted in the first place. 

which left vincent to his own devices, luckily not alone, but he knew he wasn’t doing well, penny not focused enough on teaching, more on playing, as she glued herself to the novel of the day, explicit enough to be banned from the library entirely. in front of the kids? really? 

so he would swallow his heartbeat, coughing up a stable voice through his constricted windpipe that built a facade good enough to fool just about everyone. 

he sat on his floor for hours. the hum of the washing machine was echoing through the paper thin walls. 

everything was else felt silent, felt quiet. 

except the unrelenting grave digging itself wide open in the middle of his messy bedroom. 

because things weren’t quiet. dad was fighting for god knows what, narrowly missing shrapnel with each breath. 

mom was mixing pills and booze, manic-depressive in nature and waiting until the very edge before it was too late. 

but the worst was knowing that you and seb weren’t being quiet. you weren’t asleep in your bed, cuddled up with your cat under a quilt and your childhood blanket held close. 

you were clinging onto him, body pressed against his. sharing a spot of the world that he had only seen once, seeing the city ahead of him that he could barely remember being a part of. 

the most he could remember was his childhood therapist, the only one who saw past his so-called laxidasical disposition and class-clown behavior. struggling with reading, a common case of adhd and anxiety all jumbled up inside of a first grader. 

a hint of dyslexia, and the guilt of his mothers cries he could hear against the locked doors, mourning a life without children. 

nothing a child should have to bear, tiptoeing as to not crack the paper thin ice that made up his floorboards. 

craving attention from the ones who created him, from the one who carried him in her womb. 

father rarely around, making up for the lack of stability in the form of a paycheck and health insurance. 

reprimand after reprimand, the only way to get his mother to look him in the eyes. 

acting out as a cry for help, at validation, at fucking anything. 

from the comedy covered pain,  he learned to always know how to make someone laugh. to make sure they could exhale a little bit of whatever was holding them back, even if it meant that he had to let it settle in his lungs so it wouldn’t fall back into theirs one day. 

he promised himself that he would never open up the small little lock on his exterior for anyone. ever. 

maybe he didn’t notice, or maybe you tripped the wires first, but the alarm bells never rang. no emergency protocol, no swot team to barricade his entire being shut. 

you left the door open, not even bothering to worry about the heat being on, letting all the cold air in. 

or maybe you didn’t even know, the key hidden in the corner of your room, under your bed mixed with dust and other lost memories. 

how was he supposed to face you again? he had planned on inviting you to the band’s first show, your excitement bouncing off the walls at the thought, when he mentioned the idea. 

even though they only had a few songs, rough drafts at best, poor attempts at writing lyrics in an attempt to give abi and seb the spotlight. 

also in fear, knowing someone would put the pieces together, that someone would connect the dots. that they would see the unrepairable shattered glass of his being behind it all. 

that you would figure it out, never looking at him the same way again. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

weeks flew by in aching stretches, avoiding contact with anyone,  his only bandaid over the wound. declining invitations that could maybe bring you close, making your laugh ring in his ears or the smell of your perfume that would replace his train of thought. 

all his time spent sleeping, the sun becoming his worst enemy. 

braving the light only upon vincent’s summertime pleas, just to lie and say that dad was okay, that there was nothing to worry about. 

flickering his eyes between his brother and the beach entrance, hoping, praying, you wouldn’t appear behind him, or anyone for that matter. not strong enough to explain his absence, to explain the proverbial last straw that chewed up and spit out his barricaded soul. 

you would stop by, questioning his mother on his wordless disappearance. she didn’t have an honest answer, blaming it on music school? 

weeks turned to months, watching the seasons pass by. he couldn’t figure out why it hurt so goddamn bad. 

trying to process two decades worth of grief, wrapped up in his dna as he grew inside his mothers unwanting body. 

every effort, every last ditch grasp with a mildly politically incorrect joke, another brick laid on his wall of lies. 

why did this become his downfall? the dramatic, be all end all suffocating downfall. 

what did his subconscious craft while he wasn’t fixing up the cracks? too busy lost in your stories that filled him with a mix of worry and thrill all at the same time, the small scrunch of your nose, and the way you bit your lip when you lost your train of thought. 

two weeks after the attempt harvey made to check up on him, to ‘have a talk’, a government letter arrived through the mail slot on the door. 

kent was coming home. dad is coming home. dad is coming… home..? 

arriving in a week, realizing he had a week to build the wall back up. 

to rid his eyes of the rubbed-raw corners, saltwater leaving a red hue around his lashes. 

to cover up his sullen cheeks, too fucked to get up and take care of himself beyond the minimum. 

the hole in his chest mirrored the grave he had to step around when he got the courage to move, too deep and vacant to see the bottom. 

he couldn’t figure out why you were the one to kick all of this off, you weren’t even that close? sure, friends who saw each other all the time, near habitual meetings that would worry the other when routines changed. 

but you weren’t together, did he even have the right to blame you? 

you didn’t cause every ounce of pain he had endured through the fabric of his life, you didn’t stitch pain into the pattern of his fingerprints. 

but every goddamn thought came back to you. you, you, you. 

all he fucking wanted was you. 

it was pathetic, a childlike reaction to not getting something he made no effort to get. to try and make, to try and prove himself to you. 

you were probably waiting for the next rain by now, already modifying your cabin to accommodate your soon to be husband. 

FUCK. 

the 7 letters managed to make him ill, rushing past the all consuming ending cornering him against his wall. 

knees melting the cold tile, reaching to turn on the sink and the fan so that no one could hear him try and expel the hell of that idea. 

that he would get to sleep next to you every night, he would want love songs about you, he would get the chance to see the most intimate parts of you and so much more. 

everything sam wanted, gone. stripped away. 

but it was never his to begin with, was it? 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

a blur of days meshed together, world now sideways as a version of his mother he had never seen cleaned every corner of the house, paint chips repaired, hiding every dark secret she tucked away in his absence. 

the dread made him want to hurl, want to really disappear. how was he supposed to face a version of his father he didn’t know at all? 

two bags in hand at the doorstep, his mother and vincent sobbing in unison at their reunion. but he saw it. the visions in his eyes, the forced image of being alive was like looking in a mirror. 

he didn’t know what to do. he was stripped of anything he ever knew. any hopes of his life ahead. 

except his was lost in a real war, fighting for some sort of cause that came with a paycheck and praise and thank-you’s. 

sam’s was a selfish mess, ruining himself over the idea of something that wasn’t real over a goddamn sentence. 

a look of unblinking eyes, both bloodshot and sad, a nod of mutual understanding but also complete confusion. 

kent wondering what went wrong with his eldest as he was gone, mouth running dry when he recognized the look plastered on his son. 

a hot meal, the first real one kent had eaten without the threat of an air strike in god knows how long, mixed with his favorite beer he could finally share with his eldest. 

despite the distaste, sam took the opportunity to drink, no reprimands on something that would make him feel less. 

but it seemed to do the opposite as he stepped out into the pouring rain, clouds appearing out of nowhere as the sun took its leave. 

letting the cold, wet air settle the heat of panic in his stomach, he jumped half to death when his father tapped his arm with an open beer bottle. 

“take it,” kent tipped the bottle towards him, watching the rain patter on the glass. 

he nodded, nearly losing his grip as he swung back far too heavy of a drink, not wanting to taste it anymore. it tasted like guilt, disappointment. 

“kid, spill it. i didn’t stay alive to see the same look in your eyes,” kent’s demand knocked sam’s brain around in his skull, stunting his breathing and blacking out his vision. 

“what?” he coughed, knowing it wouldn’t work worth a damn on his unhappy father, who seemed to already know what happened, yet equally clueless as he had never asked about sam’s feelings before. 

“samson, c’mon kid. i-” he sighed, eyes tracking the rain on the porch make its way to the sidewalk. “i want to help you. i want to be a father, at least a friend. i realized that, alone out there. i can smell it on you, so talk,”. 

a lingering, sulfur filled silence crushed his passageways, nearly collapsing into his father like a small child after scraping his knee on the playground. 

‘i want to be a father’. 

“look kid, if you don’t wanna talk, that’s fine,” kent leaned up against the painted exterior of what felt like a new home. “just, whatever it is, you can’t run away forever. it doesn’t wor-”

“I DONT KNOW WHATS WRONG WITH ME, DAD,”. 

the first time he had ever spoken up to his father, that he had raised his voice. 

a cracked voice still managed to let the sorrow spill, pooling over his lash line and mixing with the rain. 

“i can’t fucking take it anymore-i-FUCK,”. 

his syllables were broken, caught between desperate gasps for air in his first cry for help. 

paper mache hands disappearing under the diluted salt, crouching down as if to save them. 

“she’s-” his words barely coherent, choking up his pathetic admittance. “she’s probably already gotten that stupid fucking pendant god damn it all,”. 

broken laughter, a mix of every feeling known to man, choked up with gravel and acid. 

“i never fucking did anything about it, either,” running his arthritic bones through his sopping wet hair, he looked up at the man who had just been through the troubles of war. 

real war. 

not the emotional one, the near psychosis-like state of a few months passed. 

“so do something about it,”. kent was cut and dry, the only way he knew how to cover up his heartache. 

his eldest, the one he held the most guilt for, the most agony for. the one he prayed for every night, the one who was his first thought every time a bullet flew past a little too close. 

he didn’t want to break, knowing that if his son watched him collapse at the sight, he would never forgive himself. 

“what?” nothing more than a scoff, but a halt of accidental waterboarding at the gasps for air. 

“go. whatever happened, whatever-“ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “whatever happened, fix it. go-” another sigh, covering up his lack of words. “you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own,”. 

you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own. 

you did break his heart, right? 

you..

a deep breath, the last swig from the bottle that had mixed with the night sky’s tears of solidarity. 

on his feet, another deep breath for the road. 

“samson, go,”. 

his fathers gruff tone, eyes sharp and stern sent his feet moving, running. 

barely able to see in the dark, pouring rain, letting nothing but his burning blood carry his body to the place you called home. 

i have to fix this i have to fix this i have to- 

over and over and over again, repeating like a broken record, the only words left engrained. 

even though you didn’t know that anything needed to be fixed, he needed to fix things for him. he couldn’t look at his father the same if he at least didn’t try. 

soaking wet, hair in his eyes and catching on his tear stained blinks, out of breath and on your front porch. 

the only shield left was your front door, metal handle illuminated from your porch light. 

do it, you already got here, do it. 

scattered shallow breaths from running turned to shaky heavy ones, raising his still-bruised hand to your wooden door. 

two knocks, two seconds, two more. the way he always did before his self-inflicted imprisonment. 

“sam..?” you rubbed your eyes, shocked awake by his unnerving knocks in the dark. “what are you-come in, you’re soaked,”. 

you looked panicked, not bothering to worry about anything other than him being soaking wet and out of breath. 

he took his sopping wet shoes off at your door, leaving them to sit on your porch next to your rain boots.  with less than a passing second, you had disappeared and returned with a towel and a change of clothes. 

“sam what the fuck-are you-” running around in your pajamas, a short pair of flannel shorts and a tshirt that nearly covered them entirely, turning the heat on and running a kettle on the stove, his drying eyes were too focused on you. 

questioning why you weren’t out as late as you used to, knowing marlon had found you passed out cold on one too many occasions. 

“y/n it’s-it’s fine, i uh-” he stood still, shaking his head as if to force himself to blink. 

“go, go change before you freeze half to death in my house,” busy standing on your tip-toes to reach the top cabinet, barely able to grab the box of tea you kept specifically for him. 

peeling his eyes from your strained calves and your ass peeking out of the bottom of your sleepwear, he hurried off the other way towards your bathroom. 

the sight of your overly exposed legs was enough for him to twitch, his mind such a goddamn mess that he couldn’t really even remember what he was going to say. 

suffocating in your perfume that had soaked into your walls, he forced his rain soaked clothes off his shivering body. the purple hue on his lips, aching joints. 

hands on either side of the counter, flushed cheeks and sunken eyes, sam caught his breath, stealing any strength he could from the hardwood holding his hands. 

i have to fix this. don’t be a fucking bitch. suck it the fuck up, you fucking moron. 

hanging his clothes over the bathtub, towel still in hand, he caught sight of you pacing back and forth in your kitchen. 

chewing on your thumbnail, something you only did when you were stressed. brows furrowed, only snapped out of your endless loop by the kettle whistling loud. 

“better?” you asked, back turned to him as you poured him a mug full, adding a bag of his favorite tea from the traveling merchant in to simmer. 

“y-yeah. thank you,” rustling his hair with the towel, worn and faded, trying to rid it of any extra sorrow carried inside. 

“sit, mister,” you pointed at your couch, eyes stern almost like a mothers. 

he did as he was told, slowly caving in on himself as he felt like a bigger burden than ever before. 

“here, i’ll be right back,”. 

gently handing him the warm blue ceramic mug, the one vincent had given you after you spent your afternoons helping him learn to read, the corners of your mouth turned up slightly at the lax in sam’s shoulders once his joints found warm relief. 

grabbing a comb from under the bathroom sink, you came back wordlessly, floorboards creaking below your hurried feet. 

in a matter of minutes, you went from fast asleep on the couch, tv paused  from lack of activity when asked, cuddled up closely to your cat and your blanket, to wide awake and flustered, worried beyond belief. 

you knew that kent had come home, and you had planned to introduce yourself in a few days, allowing him time to settle in. 

rattling your skull was the fear that something horrid had happened, so bad that sam had run in the fucking rain to your cabin of all places after the endless era of radio silence. 

“so,” you sighed standing behind him, a small shadow casting over him as your body blocked the light in your entry way. “you gonna tell me what the hell has been going on?” 

your words were harsher than you wanted them to be, but fuck man, you hadn’t seen him in months, no matter how many attempts you made. 

pulling his head back a little, you began to comb through his incredibly tangled hair, feeling him dissolve under the slightly bit of affection. 

“can-can i ask a question..first?” his eyes were closed, mindlessly rubbing his thumb into his opposite palm. 

“only, if you pinky promise to tell me everything after,”. you stuck out your pinky, and he didn’t hesitate to reach yours. locking in his fate, peeling away the plastic film that was the only bit of his shield still remaining, your fingers crossed and released as the promise was sealed. 

“how are uh, how are you and seb?” it felt like blood came up as he spoke, riddled with sorrow filled expectations of what your response would be. 

“what?” you hands stopped their attempt to comb through his tangled blonde mess, stunned at the question. “were..fine? have you not talked to him recently?” 

huh? 

“no i uh- no i haven’t. i thought you guys were like…” 

“sam, you don’t think we’re dating, do you?” 

you-

“you’re..not?” covering his face with his hands, trying to hold any bit left of him together. 

“no? sam i-”. your breaths were deep, focusing all your downright confusion into releasing the knots through his hair. 

“oh,”. 

oh. 

“alright, now that your speculations on my nonexistent sex life are over can you please explain why you are here right now?” 

a black hole, all consuming, everything everywhere all at the same time. the inside of his skull, spinning, spinning, spinning. 

“i um-fuck, im so sorry, y/n. i’m so sorry,”. leaning his head back, fully into your overworked fingertips, soaking in every ounce of touch he could. 

“why are you sorry? sam you didn’t do anything, other than give me a goddamn heart attack,”. 

how are you not mad? 

how are you so casual about this? 

“i-” 

“if this is because of seb i swear to god i’m going to beat the shit out of you samson,” he could feel you shake your head in disbelief, as if he should have known or as if there was this big sign that was supposed to be placed in front of him that he managed to look right through. 

“y/n, i-”

he couldn’t cough the words he wanted out, embarrassment flooding his entire being, shame mixing in at a searing rate. 

he felt you silently leave, pulling his airways closed the further you went. 

so pathetic, so goddamn fucking pathetic. cant even tell her, what am i doing- 

“sammy, come back from whatever planet you're on please,” you were sat on the coffee table, knees touching his. two shot glasses in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other. 

you set them both on the table, filling them each to the brim. dark amber syrup, so foolishly innocent, burning its way all the way past your lips. 

as if your voice didn’t make him dizzy enough, the liquor you kept on hand was always the strongest, outshining anything else he had ever had before. 

“each shot, we each share something. okay?” 

handing him his glass, clinking them together and kicking it back. 

he winced at the burn, the warmth bubbling in his stomach. 

he watched you drink it far too easily, better than you did the last time you drank together. your eyes, your soul looked tired, gone unnoticed in his own self-pity. 

soon the heater was shut off, both of you warm enough from the poison seeping into mutual bloodstreams. 

shot after shot, losing track in storytelling as he listened to you speak on your adventures in the newly found desert, all of the new weapons you learned to use. 

how he had tried to teach alex to skateboard, his first time getting high, struggling to find any reason to talk about himself when you were sat in front of him, inches away. 

he was simply infatuated, beyond infatuated, soaking up every breath to make up for lost time.

“oh! sammy, sammy,” you nearly whined, placing a hand on either one of his thighs. “will you pleaseee tell me where you’ve been all this time?” 

your slightly jutted lip, flushed cheeks and steadfast grip on his legs froze his surroundings, eyes locked on your pleading heart. 

just fucking bite the damn bullet. 

“i-seb canceled on me, that night he took you to the lookout. and i-” he leaned forward, heaviest sigh blowing fear out of the way. “i realized i couldn’t handle that. i couldn’t handle you being with-”

“sam-”

“i couldn’t handle seeing you with someone else when all i ever wanted was you, i just,”. 

“sam-”. 

“i knew that wasn’t fair to you and i just, i didn’t realize how much i-”

guilt ridden words cut short, your liquor stained lips shutting his. entire body pushed into him, not even enough time for him to fully register what was happening. 

is she..? 

“you’re fucking stupid,” you pulled away for a moments time to mutter that to him, pressing your forehead against his. “it has been you this whole time, idiot”. 

what? 

“what?” his eyes forced rapid blinks, unable to process what you had just said, what you had just done. 

“i-god damn it all sam LISTEN TO ME, i never went with seb that night, i wanted to do that with you,”. 

shock was the only way to think of it, the world frozen on its titled axis as it listened to your confession, to his heart that was on the brink of collapse as it beat so hard it shook the ground. 

a few short stutters, words falling flat. months of self-imposed torture, losing everything he knew, breaking his father’s heart, really was selfish, too scared to do anything. 

if he had swallowed his fear, faced the music, done something, anything. 

don’t let this get away. don’t fuck it up. don’t fuck it up. 

lifting his hands from his awkward side, roughly placed on either side of your hips. 

using a newfound strength, he pulled you from the table, right into his lap. 

falling into his wordless surrender, you let your body collapse into his, legs straddled on either side. 

your clothed cunt immediately rolled against his length, pulling all of the blood from his body to an aching throb under you. 

addicted to the sheer desperation in the air, gravity itself forced your lips back together, making up for months of time apart. 

feverish from the first touch, wildfire to a field of wilted grass, burning oxygen faster than it could be replaced. 

each heavy breath another exposed confession, his grip pushing you into him even harder another apology for leaving you for so long. 

tongues fighting for a chance at forgiveness, soaking up the words that were too hard to exhale. 

he let out a soft whine at your separation, instant drop of his stomach as you pulled away from his bruised lips. 

dropping your head to the side, he shivered under your heated breaths against the side of his neck. heartbeat nearly visible, your swollen lips pressed slow praises down, not leaving an inch untouched. 

opposite hand keeping his jaw turned, you trailed your tongue back up, a smirk hitting your lips at the twitch you felt against your spread legs. 

no permission, no hesitation, just a gasp from his aching lungs as you sucking a mark of sheer possession in the form of broken blood vessels. grazing your teeth along with your vampiric latch, leaving a bruise dark enough no amount of makeup could cover. 

your hips now indented with the lines of his fingerprints, permanently etched into your skeletal structure. 

“bedroom,” you whispered into his ear, sin coating your voice in blatant need. 

body driven by nothing but lust, he stood from the couch as you wrapped your legs around him, one hand cupping your ass while the other was itching to open the door to a new life. 

it was all happening so fucking fast. 

you wanted him. 

this whole time, you wanted him. 

letting your head hit the plush of your bedding, he loomed over you with two devilish sparkles in his eyes. 

one glistening as his broken heart glued itself back together, your touch ensuring that every piece was perfectly aligned. 

the other shimmering in primal greed, suffocating any thought other than possession. to not lose the chance to keep you all to himself. 

a needy look twitched in your jutted-lip pout, a wordless plea for him to take what was his this whole. time. 

now fluid joints, unphased by the ache in his tortured hands, hooked under your shorts, no underwear in between. 

warm fingers against exposed skin, the small bit of decency on the floor with one swift effort. 

cold air hit your already wet cunt, a small trail of your sticky pleads following your clothing to the floor. 

“can i..?” he looked up at you for a moments time, not wanting to lose sight of your glistening slit like his life depended on it. 

you nodded, not letting the small voice of insecurity speak up before your aching heart did, unprepared for intimacy to this degree. 

or intimacy at all for that matter. 

a touchy subject, too used to getting hurt. leaving your life behind in the smog coated city, one night stands back in the poorly painted walls of your studio apartment. 

you thought you knew what love was, the overwhelming panic, the world ending promises to be better, to be prettier, to be someone they wanted. 

forcing the thought out of your mind, each synapse in your aching brain going fuzzy at the first swipe of his hesitant tongue. 

it had been so long since you had been touched, too afraid to ruin a friendship in such a small town. to not overstep your place as the new addition in an already woven community. 

too exhausted to do it yourself most of the time, the thoughts only settling in when it came to him. 

a single brush of your fragile bud make your ears buzz, the sheer ache to feel it again, and again, and again. 

silent prayers answered, waters tested, sam’s tongue writing apologies and months worth of confessions in your pooling slick, feeding him the first meal of his life. 

placing your hand over your mouth, muffled whimpers replaced exhales, sharp inhales through your nose not providing nearly enough oxygen to your racing heart. 

“don’t hide, pretty girl,” his slightly slurred voice stuck like honey, pulling your hand away without a second thought. 

his plea a few octaves deeper, your walls clenching around nothing at all and with his drunken confidence. 

like he would die of hunger if he strayed away any longer, you lost sight of him between your legs, tongue teasing your pleading hole. 

“sammy please,” you couldn’t do anything but whine, a fistful of his hair in your shaking fingertips. 

pushing his flushed face deeper, nose pressed against your clit, shoving his tongue in as far as he could. 

muffled vibrations of his satisfied moans shook your core to near collapse, the slight movement of his nose making your legs quiver against the side of his head. 

thighs increasing their strength, ensuring he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to, the telltale that you were already on the brink of release. 

the first of many, just the beginning to a man who would never forgive himself for leaving you for what felt like an eternity. 

no time for warning, words broken into a mess of jumbled up letters, your salty-sweet slick flooding his overworked taste buds at an alarming rate. 

nerve endings twitching, spine forced to endure repeated bolts of serenity with each spasm. all ten of his fingers bruising your thighs as he held onto them so tightly, a feeble attempt to keep you still until you rode out your first high of the night, your first in so, so long. 

finally able to breathe at the weakening of your hips, legs shakier than you would have liked them to be. wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, more than enough of you on him, and he loved it. 

meeting your blown out eyes, you couldn’t stop the nervous giggle that bubbled over, dragging his long lost smile out of the dark with each little sound. 

both hands covering your face, embarrassed, nervous. 

how a man like him, so gorgeous, so gentle, would want a single thing to do with you, you didn’t understand. 

hiding away your feelings for him for what felt like ages, heart shredded when he took his reclusive leave, without a word on why. 

weeks spent spiraling, wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix what you didn’t even know. 

“nuh-uh, no thank you,” his tsks were so thick, so heavy as he pulled both your hands away from your face, eyes softening just enough at the sight of your embarrassment. 

“do you want to keep going?” question so very gentle, not assuming like you had always known. 

and it was fucking hot. 

a quick nod, a little shy at the urgency in your reaction, but needing him anywhere was all you could think of. 

you watched him stand beside you, a better angle to strip himself of his clothes. 

nearly drooling at the sight, you could have died and gone to the highest bits of heaven, and it wouldn’t compare to the feeling of him looking down at you with his hand on his cock, thumb tracing over his pre-coated pink tip, silver bar glistening. 

oh fuck. 

each scar that covered his arms, each muscle contracting with labored breaths, made a whimper fall out of you, like a bitch in heat. 

“needy girl, aren’t you?” he climbed on top of you, urging you to sit up just a little so he could tear away the fabric hiding the rest of you. “haven’t been touched in so. very. long. huh?” 

usually, patronizing teases would have angered you to the third degree, but it had you melting into his palms like ice cream on a midsummers day. 

feeling his fingertips graze over your whole body, thumbs baaareely drawing circles around your nipples, another guilty whine for more, more of him. 

“think you can take me without stretching ya out?” his demeanor turned a little cocky, nearly pulling a bratty remark out of you, just to run his tongue against your over-sensitive chest. 

palming one tit, mouth fixed on the other, you nodded without thinking. a muffled ‘mhm’ and a handful of hair, pulling his fixated mouth away. 

“tell me if it hurts, okay?” a sliver of seriousness caught in the bubbling excitement pooling inside his blood, you knew he really did mean it. 

length in hand, he lightly traced his leaking head up and down your already swollen cunt, a small attempt at teasing you before he plunged inside your screaming walls, begging to pull him in and not let go. 

both hitching in air through gritted teeth, holding onto the last molecule you could manage as he slid inside, so. goddamn. slow. 

maybe in fear of hurting you, but really trying to gather himself at the sheer grip you had on him, regretting his own choice to not stretch you at least a little before letting his greed take over. 

so warm, so wet, better than any drug he had ever taken, or ever would. 

“s-sam, m-more, please?” you begged, batting your lashes ever so slowly to not give him a choice, but needing him so, so much deeper. 

any sense of restraint lost as your pleading eyes surrendered to him, and who was he to say no? 

he would never say no to you, not after what he did. 

an obedient dog, snapping his hips into you, flush against you. knocking the wind straight out of you, only thing you could feel was him. 

settling in, head dropping as he lost all of his strength, losing it all to restraining his urge to breed you right then and there. 

“fff-fucking hell,” his sputters were whiny, causing a slight spasm around him. the sound of struggling, barely keeping it together drove you fucking. insane. 

feeling full, feeling whole, wanting nothing more than for him to destroy you, molding your walls to the shape of him. 

“sammy, please,” you shifted your hips slightly, pushing against his hip bones, brushing the sweet, sinfully sweet spot you don’t think had ever been reached. 

his blacked out eyes, taking photos of the scene to never forget how goddamn angelic you looked under him, committing a cardinal sin. 

white-knuckle grip on your sides, bruising your bone marrow with his desperate grasp. 

jaw slacked, eyes locked on the mess of slick you coated him in, a slight clench in his jaw. 

free of his chain link leash, a feral animal let free for the first time since its previous carnation, learning to live again. 

focused on nothing else but you, your pleas for him to claim you, to mark up your insides far beyond recognition, begging for him at every breath beyond this moment in time. 

his whimpers mixed with low hums and exhales with each violating thrust, veins pulsing, a sick smirk pulling on his lips as he ruined you. 

instinctually squirming away, the urge of another trip over the edge already settling in, overstimulation hitting you like a bullet train without its lights on. 

feeling the slight quiver of your legs against his hyperactive body, a hand released your side, pulling one of your legs over his shoulder without a falter in rhythm. 

held hostage, you swore you could feel him in your chest as he fucked into you again, and again, and again. 

hypnotized by the furrow of his brow, glossy lips swollen from his hyper focused bite, holding back his own profanities as he tried to hold back his own release, never wanting the moment to end. 

if heaven existed, it was buried deep in your cunt, chest bouncing with each relentless thrust. it was the dig of your nails, grasping on to whatever they could. 

it was your fucked out eyes, watering at the corners in desperate need, in submission to his every want, his every dream. 

since that very first day, you were the thought at hand when he was fucking into it, edging himself for hours as punishment for thinking of you that way. 

but your innocent glances, and hard to read gestures every friday, the time you wore a that dress, dancing along with abi at the flower dance. 

taking the masculine role while dressed in a white skirt, a little too short for such a windy day, excusing himself to the depths of the forest. 

back against an oak tree, knowing seb would come looking for him at any moment, and god did it excite him in such a twisted way. 

he couldn’t fuck his fist hard enough to get the thought of taking you then and there out of his mind, flipping up your skirt and pulling your panties to the side. 

making you carry his cum around all day, slowly dripping out of you as you spoke to his mother. 

but this, the real thing, was better than any fantasy he could ever imagine, the sound of your sopping wet cunt pornograohically loud, each wall of your unpainted cabin holding onto your sobs for more, more, more. 

hiccups caught in your throat, back arched and nails leaving crescent moon cuts in his arms as your second snap pulled him in harder, deeper. 

watching you fall apart was the sweetest thing, spilling out onto your bedding as he refused to let up. 

a dangerous game, knowing he was teetering on his own edge from the start. 

“m-‘ya gotta let me know if this is gonna be-”, his words cut off by the purposeful squeeze of your walls, offering a raised eyebrow and your bottom lip bitten. 

nearly knocking the wind right out of you, he flipped you onto your stomach, forcing you onto your knees. 

“you think it’s funny, huh?” leaning over you to purr in your ear, only focusing on how empty you felt, needing his pierced tip beating the life out of your cunt. 

“mm-no,” you shook your head, face red, pushing your ass into him just a smidge, hoping he would grant you your wordless wish. 

a palm to your ass, red hot and stinging, a startled gasp slipping out as he lined himself up with your dripping hole. 

without a warning, his hips were pressed against your ass, one hand forcing your arch deeper, the other holding your hip to keep you upright as he rammed into you. 

mine, mine, mine. 

over, and over, and over. 

sobs of overwhelming everything spilled out of you, moans nearly cut silent by the permanent bruising to every inch of you. 

sucking him off so well, pulling him back in with a force greater than gravity itself, his jumbled profanities mumbled under his breath only making it that much harder to hold on to reality. 

“wanna-” stuttered breathing, feeling the twitch of his cock buried inside you flash like a warning sign. “wanna fill you up- m-make you mi-mine,”. 

higher pitched, through clenched teeth, you had never heard a man so shattered, so beyond steady that his eyes blurred. 

the most you could offer was the push of your ass against him, too close to your own unraveling again  to remember a single word. 

his hand slid from your hip to your swollen, battered clit, squirming against him as the warm pad of his middle finger matched his sacrilegious pace. 

a matter of seconds is all it took, suffocating his overworked length that much tighter, too lost in your own ecstasy to feel the ropes of sin inside you, met with a loss of rhythm and short gasps for air. 

a weak attempt to catch your breath, feeling him slowly relax inside you, blood making its way back to his shaking hands and overworked core. 

releasing himself from your now relaxed grip, his fingers ran small circles on your back, delicate whispers that slowed your heart rate to normal. 

drained, all the energy stored in the form of internalized anxiety depleted, no control over your emotions anymore. 

a silent sob, tears of everything allowed to flow free at your relaxed inhibitions. 

“shhh-shhh it’s okay, it’s all okay,”. he pulled you up from your knees, gentle fingers moving you to his lap. 

head against his chest like a child, he rocked back and forth ever so slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his own tears at the sight of you upset. 

what happened ? is she okay ? what- 

“never-” your muffled words caught behind a screen of hyperventilation. “never run away like that again,”. 

your heaving body against his, his heart paralyzed at the sheer heartbreak rooted in your syllables. 

so goddamn mad at himself for bringing you to tears, but so fucking relieved that you wanted him to stay. 

“i-” a tear stained hiccup, an attempt to bury yourself inside of him completely, “i thought you left and didn’t say goodbye,”. 

she-she thought i would do that..? 

“shhhh, no no no, i’m not going anywhere,” cradling your face, letting a small stream pool over his lash line. holding his breath enough to mask the sputtering spasms thrashing around in his chest. “i would never, ever, do that to you. i promise,”. 

“pinky promise?” you pulled your face away from his chest, blurry eyes meeting his. raising your fragile hand, awaiting his interlocked promise. 

“pinky promise,”. interlocking without hesitation, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“will you stay tonight?” body running cold, the fear of him leaving settling in your stomach, overtaking the bubbling acid. 

“i will stay with you forever if you asked me to,”. gentle, soft. thumb against your cheek. 

“will you stay forever, then?” 

“anything for you,”. a gentle kiss on the nose, a sigh of relief mutually exhaled. 

tears dissolving, mending two broken hearts as they dried. 

matched breathing, hearts beating in unison. 

anything for you.

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

long time no see! so sorry this was so delayed, i had to work an insane amount of overtime at work and had a massive lyme flare up.

i have an alex fic in the works, who else would you like to see?

lots of love to @justwolosers for being there through all this!

mwuah! ᥫ᭡。

[geordikisser]

brat taming | tanner | 18+

epilogue: you have a horrible potty mouth and tanner doesn’t necessarily miiiiind that, or at all ever! until it’s towards him and he loves a power struggle soo ^_^ he doesn’t mind proving you wrong.

content contains! biting/marking, degrading, power struggle, jealous! tanner ..

⤷ afab anatomy used but gender isn’t specified! sorry ..

petnames used: sugar, honey, babe, baby, hunnybunny, slut, whore

you were live and playing some overwatch on tanners set up. he was downstairs, watching on his laptop. you were on dps and played tracer. you weren’t doing entirely horrible but your team was horrible. ☹️

“yall say hear me out and it’s on a conventionally attractive character bruh shut up.” you say mid laugh as you see the big fat ‘defeat’ on your screen. you felt so tempted to explode something. you join team chat and immediately shit on your team with every diabolical and tos friendly insults you can think of.

something you said made tanners stomach knot up. in a negative way .. the way your other teammate endorsed it sexually made him extremely like .. jealous?? is what he would call it.

bigTstreamingservice: WOAH!!!!!! ❌❌ BAD!!!! DONT SAYTHAT!!!!! 👎

“tanner shut your yap!! i say what i want. bitch.” you imitate a spit sound as you enter the practice range, now bored.

bigTstreamingservice: oh word 🤨

he types in chat as you snort. “on lone. tuh.” you emphasize you smacking your lips.

tanner finds himself getting up and walking to his room shortly after. you were searching on youtube for a subway surfers game footage to entertain your chat as you tell them a story. you’re laughing your ass off as you tell some random ass story.

“my name is larry ‘jamal’ croft winston.. i’m 17 years old.. —“ you quickly were cut off by an unsettling noise behind you.

you hear the door crack behind you, slowly spinning around in the chair. “hellou.” you say calmly. tanner can’t help but laugh his ass off. “THE ENERGY SWITCH??” he screams as you scoff. “WHAT ENERGY SWITCH? I NEVER SWITCH UP.” you say in a specific tone that just adds fuel to the flame of his laughter. “YES YOU DO?” he smiles, exhaling heavily.

he pulls a chair and sits besides you, towering over you slightly. “how’s it cooking, good lookin’.” he smiles at you all goofy. “you tryna find out?” you grumble. “100%. are you muted?” he asks as you double check quickly before giving him a ‘no’.

“bye.” he replied, smiling a bit. “i forgor..” you drool as he takes the mouse and reopens overwatch. “overwatch time!! i’ll coach you.” he huffs confidently. “girl there’s footage of you playing overwatch, i think i’ll be good.” you side eye him as he gives you a dimly look back.

“dude. shut up.” you stammer as he lets out a laugh. you queue up for a game and tanners hand ends up on your inner thigh, squeezing it comfortably. “DON’T TOUCH ME CREEP!!” you exclaim, loud enough for someone next door to hear it. he jumped and slowly turned to you, unhappy.

you begin to get frustrated at overwatch slowly and started slamming your hands on the desk like a little toddler and trying to reason with tanner each time you died or did a terrible play, him smiling and nodding.

“i hate you omg, I HATE FLASHBANG.” you whine as you squirm in your chair. he huffs out a breathy laugh as he fixes his hair, pulling it back. “who could hate this?” he says comically. “ME!” you retort almost instantly.

eventually, stream ends. you wrap it up due to tanners unsettling aura at the moment, you hope what you said didn’t actually upset him.

you turn to him and smile, “hai.” you coo out as he smiles in return. “hey hunnybunny, how are you?” he asks as he reaches for your thigh again, holding it gently. “i’m alright. overwatch sucks without friends..” you sigh out. he grimaced slightly.

tanner recently developed jealously problems that he was self aware of. he never saw himself as a jealous person, he’s really goofy and silly! until he got with you, he never realized how jealous he got over small things anyway, it was mild at the moment. he wishes he could’ve played with you instead of issac. (the person you played with)

“you could’ve played with me y’know.” he grumbled, attempting to hide this feeling. he trusted you and isaac equally, he had no reason not to. but it’s inevitable for him he feels.

you look up at him with a raised brow. he analyzes your expression and scratches the back of his neck. “cuz.. i can carry you.” he smiles awkwardly, his gaze leaving yours. “you sound a little green-eyed there tanner.” you grin.

“stop.” he groans softly as he turns away entirely. “you jealous, baby?” you lean forward. he sits there in a resentful silence.

his brows remain furrowed. “you upset isaac is better at overwatch than you?” you egg on. he slowly turns to you. “the same guy who screams when he isn’t healed in one second. that isaac is better than me.” he said more as a statement that question, laughing slightly.

“does 10-10 ring a bell.” you look away like you’re thinking. he sits up and looks at you with bitterness in his eyes, a cocky grin smeared on his face. “baby.” he started. you hum in response. “don’t start this with me.” his breathing hitched. “what are you gonna do about it, hm?” you raise your brow with a grin.

within a instance, tanners hands were on your waist and pulled you into him, kissing you gently on the lips. his tongue exploding down your throat.

you were taken aback from the sudden action and melted slightly into the kiss. realizing his plan.

you pull away quickly, your hands on his chest. “wait.” you scowl. “i see what you’re doing!!” you jump up, his hands slide down off your waist. he raised his brow confused. “what am i doing, sugar.” his tone laced with confidence. your lip quivers as you feel your face heat up. “tanner..” you huff, quietly. he stands up, towering over you once again. he slowly begins to back you up to the bed as you stumble back onto the bed.

your eyes examine his body, the bulge dented in his pants and the pattern his chest heaved up and down in. he was pent up.

“did you want this, tanner?” you grin as he rolls his eyes. “you can cut this act cuz we both know ill shut it down real quick, honey.” he sits down besides you, turns to face you and leans over. kissing you sweetly. you begin to straddle on top of him and holding his face as the kiss gets more passionate and passionate. the bulge in his pants evident against your own crotch.

tanners breath hitches as you grind against his bulge. he leans back slightly as you continue to grind against him. you smile cockily at him as you kiss his jaw. “you’re so sweet for me, tanner.” you say between kisses on his jaw, lowering to his neck. he lets out a little whimper as he begins to grip your hips slightly after. helping you grind against him.

“fuck..” he pants as you caress his cheek. he tugs at the rim of your sweats and you kiss him one final time and begin slip off your own pants, your underwear remaining.

“good..” he smirks as he pushes your back against the bed, taking you aback. you gasp as he is on top of you. “don’t act cute, such a slut.” he giggles as he slips off your undies. “i’m gonna make you forget your name, sweetheart. :3” he kisses your neck, leaving a very prominent mark on it. he lowers his head & begins to tease your hole. his tongue tickling you perfectly. you gulp and let out a heavy sigh, coming out in a shaky tone.

his hands gripping your things as he licks around your clit. you practically chew down onto your lip as your back arches into his mouth. “tanner..” you pant as you told the back of his head and begin grinding into his mouth. he stops.

“nuh uh, sorry baby.” he lifts his head and removes his hold from your thighs and holds your wrists. “you want me to abuse your sweet clit, right?” he hums. you look away, pride slipping down the drain. “y—yeah..” you huff, your eyes shut tightly. “look. don’t touch.” he removes his grab he had on your wrists previously & slaps the side of your thigh. you yelp, growling lowkey afterwards. he giggles as he begins to tongue fuck you. his attention being to your clit and then fucking you with his tongue simultaneously.

“you like that? you like when i fuck your sweet hole with my tongue?” he drags out as you can only whimper in response. “fuck… you—..” you manage to squeeze out as he pulls away to bite your thigh. “keep it cute, slut.” he spits on your abused cunt and sits up, taking off his pants. you flinch at the impact of the spit.

his hard cock flings out & he begins to stroke himself. he lets a string of spit fall to the tip of his cock and covers his cock with his spit. “you ready, baby?” he smiles at you. you nod in response. “no? awww that’s a shame.. you can watch me stroke my hard cock infront of you then.” he pouts slightly. you furrow your brows. “tanner..” you murmur. he raises his brow, humming as he acknowledges you.

“stop being a dick.” you spat in response. he smacks his lips and shakes his head. “no no no baby, that’s not how you answer.” he lowers down to your collar bone and bites down. you exclaim and he covers your mouth.

”tell me you want this dick, like a good whore would.” he pants as he continues to bite down on you. he lifts his hand from your mouth, “i-i want your cock, tanner.” you sob out as the bite marks begin to hurt more. “such a masochist.” he lifts his head and kisses you gently on the lips. “good slut.”

he puts his tip in slowly as his cock melts inside you completely. he groans out as he begins to thrust immediately, giving you zero time to adjust. you didn’t deserve it in his eyes.

you begin to drool and tear up. tanners thrusting pattern is ingrained into your hole. he begins to tend to your nipples and suck on one and tease the other one with his hand. you were already pretty close due to him teasing your clit previously. “m’close..” you whine out, pathetically. he gives you a cute smile in return. making your stomach knot up. “i love you, t—tanner..” you coo out, drunkenly. your tears staining your cheeks. “love so much..” he cries out, squeezing your eyes shut.

“i love you more, baby.” he smiled at you, kissing your cheek, now your lips. you reach your climax, moaning into the kiss. he smiles into the kiss as he pulls away. panting slightly. he pulls out and places his cock on top of your crotch and his cum drips out all over your stomach.

he lies besides you and kisses your shoulders. cuddling you as you feel woozy, recovering slowly but surely. “my sweet baby, took my cock so good for me.” he mumbles between kisses as you try to cuddle into him. he stops you immediately. “wait wait!! i don’t want my jizz on my bed.. let’s get you cleaned, ‘kay?” he grins awkwardly as you whine. “okay..”you huff as you sit up. your belly covered in cum. “my pretty pretty baby. so gorgeous.” he smiled ear to ear, as he leads you to his bedroom.