#i just... can't figure out what the hell it is

[sceletaflores]

KILLING ME ANY WAY BUT SOFTLY...

|| masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader x Tommy Miller

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 5.5k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, DDDNE W/ NON-CON & DUB-CON THEMES, no outbreak au, some pov switching, smoking, drinking, large age gap, unspecified but still brought up, joel and tommy are NOT good men, drugging, somnophilia, fingering, oral sex (f/m!receiving), nat writing a blowjob scene? the world must be ending, dacryphilia, more finger sucking (i can't stop…), p in v, unprotected sex, hair pulling, biting, blood, pain kink, creampie, mentions of prior assault, it's just super gross and super perverted yk, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT’S NOTE: i thought of this like halfway through my frankie fic but i was good and didn't start it until i was finished writing. be very proud of me because that never happens...anyway i've never written a dark fic before so this was very interesting slash fun in like the most morbid way possible. this was also partially inspired by angel @pedgito! PLAYTHING altered my brain chemistry so badly that i needed to partake in the depravity or i would die, like it was medical. everyone go read it and shower her with so much praise and love! once again please please please heed the tags and take your own personal triggers into account before reading. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! special shoutout to @iamasaddie for the icons!

you spend a night with the miller brothers…

You're too pretty to be at a place like this. Too soft. Too young.

That's what Joel Miller thinks the second he sees you.

All done up in short little cutoffs, sipping at something fruity and colorful out of a sweaty glass. Your legs are crossed neatly in front of you like you’re pretending to be grown, pretty white teeth idly chewing on the plastic straw as your eyes bounce around the room curiously.

This bar is too old, too dirty, too mean. The kind of place with dark, sticky floors and crude words carved into the tabletops. Joel’s probably been coming here since before you were born, since before you could walk, talk. 

You’re the youngest in the room by well over a decade—and that’s not lost on anyone. Not on the bartender who checked your ID twice, not on the group of bikers throwing dirty leers your way from the pool table, and sure as hell not on the two men at each end of the bar.

Tommy would call you jailbait, all dewy cheeks and big dumb eyes. Joel clocks you as one of those college girls from the next town over, still clinging onto that teenage naivety and misplaced hope that the real world won’t chew you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

The kind of girl who lies about her age to older men because the attention makes her feel special. The kind who doesn't even realize she’s being hunted until it’s too late.

You're still sweet, Joel thinks. Sweet and soft and stupid.

And he’s right, he always is.

You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.

But Joel? Joel knows exactly what he’s doing.

He catches Tommy’s eye from across the way, jerks his head in your direction discreetly. Tommy follows his eyeline, his face sparking with interest at the look of you. Hungry eyes rake over the expanse of your body with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast, lingering on the soft swell of your breasts through that flimsy top and the bare skin of your thighs.

Tommy cuts his eyes back to Joel after a good long look, brows raised in obvious approval. He nods once, a winner, before his gaze wanders back to you and he’s shifting impatiently in his seat. A moth to a flame.

Joel huffs over the rim of his glass, unamused. He should’ve figured, they haven’t found one as pretty as you in a while. His brother’s bound to get a little rowdy, a little eager.

Out of the two of them, Tommy’s always been the more excitable one. That’s why it’s Joel’s job to set the bait. Tommy’s certainly prettier than Joel, he’s got a safer look to him. He’s just too damn trigger happy, comes on too strong too quick. It can raise red flags.

Joel’s better at playing it down, at taking it slow. He can butter girls like you up and still feign just the right amount of disinterest to keep them wanting his attention. He can tell you’re one of those types, one that’ll preen under anything he gives you. You want someone like him to come over and fawn over you.

You want to feel mature. Powerful. Sexy.

You’re practically begging to be used. He sees it in the way your thighs squeeze together, in the way your glossy lips leave smudges along the rim of your glass.

Joel smiles to himself. 

If you only knew.

Joel waits until you finish off your second drink. He sips at his whiskey and watches the way your tongue swipes along your bottom lip to chase a drop of syrupy liquid. You’re tipsy now, giggling at something the bartender says, the dazed glow of your eyes giving away just how sweetly warm you feel.

You’re still in your right mind, not drunk enough to be sloppy, not yet. That’s how he wants you—pliable, loose, thinking you’re the one still in control. 

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, the familiar burn coating his throat and settling in his chest as he slides off his stool. It takes nothing to make his way over, a few long strides and he’s leaning up next to you. Not too close, just close enough to smell the perfume you’re wearing—something bright and sugary that has his cock stirring behind his fly.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice as deep as molasses and twice as slow, Southern charm oozing from every word.

You turn, blinking up at him, pupils a little too blown to be from two drinks alone. It makes him grin. You’re sensitive, easy. This might be a hell of a lot simpler than he thought.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you chirp, voice sugarcoated, a little too bold for your own good. “A place like this seems kinda…grungy for someone wearing flannel.”

That bright little smile of yours is like a hook in the roof of his mouth, tugging something dark and mean loose behind his teeth.

Joel chuckles low in his chest. “You sayin’ I look outta place?”

You shrug, all coy-like, swirling the last few sips of your drink. “A little.”

Joel leans in then, just enough for it to mean something. His eyes pin you down like a thumb over the belly of a butterfly, giving you a little once over that has your breath hitching. Your lips part, showing off the teasing pink of your tongue. Joel thinks about pushing into that sweet little mouth, getting that gloss all messy on his cock. 

“Maybe I was waitin’ on somethin’ worth comin’ out for,” he says, voice gone low and smoky.

You giggle, that tipsy, flirtatious little sound. You don’t notice the way Joel signals the bartender with two fingers and a single nod. He already knows what he’s ordering—something that’ll go down smooth but hit you fast. A new drink is slid in front of you before you can blink, warm amber liquid swirling in a clear tumbler.

You look confused. “I didn’t—”

“On me,” Joel says, voice slick. “Try it.”

You hesitate for just a second before bringing it to your lips, eager to please. Eager to prove you can keep up. You make a face when the smell hits you, strong and punchy. Joel just grins, already amused by the way you wrinkle your nose like it’s cute to be difficult.

“C’mon now, can’t drink that sweet shit all night,” he drawls, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Gotta learn how to hold your liquor, baby.”

You giggle again, your fingers dainty around the tumbler as you mimic his movement. He watches you sip and watches your throat bob as you swallow. Watches the little wince, the tremble in your lips as it hits your system.

“Good girl.” Joel smiles around the rim of his own drink, eyes wandering over to where Tommy was sitting. He’s long gone now, a few bills shoved under the empty glass sitting on the bartop.

Joel turns back to you, clueless and sipping slowly at your whiskey. He drops his hand from the bar, lets his fingers brush against the soft skin of your thigh. You don’t flinch, hardly even bat an eye. You just smile up at him, lashes low and lazy against your cheeks, body heat rising with the alcohol laced through your bloodstream.

Your thigh twitches under his knuckles, but you don’t move away. If anything, you lean in a little, nudging your shoulder against his arm. Your shirt slips down a few inches, showing off the lacy trim of your bra snug over your breasts. Joel sets his drink down, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip at the sight.

“You always this friendly with strangers?” he murmurs, voice quiet enough that only you can hear it, eyes dragging up to your face.

Your lips part again, catching the low bar light. “Only when they’re buying my drinks.”

Joel laughs—deep, rich with something secret. 

And he orders another round.

It takes almost nothing for Joel to get you off your stool and obediently following him out of the bar. A few sweet words and lingering touches is all you needed, liquor clouding your good judgement when you agree to come home with him.

It’s still warm, even with the sun long gone and the moon casting a white shine over the two of you. Crickets sing in the grass as you walk together, Joel’s hand splayed out across the small of your back, thumb slipped up under the hem of your shirt to rub soft circles over the notches of your spine as he gently steers you towards his truck.

The drive to his house isn’t long, a little less than ten minutes. Joel’s knee bounces impatiently as he watches the road, window rolled down so he can flick the ash of his cigarette out. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to chew on before he can get at what he really wants.

You’re sitting pretty in the passenger seat, giddy as you swipe even more sticky gloss on in the truck mirror, asking dumb questions like “Is that your guitar in the back?” and “You live all the way out here?” 

Joel grins around the filter and exhales slow, smoke curling through the cab like a warning.  “Mhm. I like it quiet.”

You laugh, all honeyed sunshine, no idea that you’re being carted out into the woods like a lamb prepped for slaughter.

His house is tucked back further in the trees, down a road so far out it turns from asphalt to dirt. Not a neighbor in sight, nothing but grass and dark skies for miles. The porch light is already on when he pulls in, gravel crunching under his tires loud in the quiet. Another truck takes up the space next to his, red with the paint peeling like a nasty sunburn.

You peer up at the place with shiny, awed eyes like you’re some damn princess and this is your castle. It makes him want to ruin you even more.

The truck’s barely in park before Joel’s out and striding over to your side, opening the door for you to keep up his Southern gentleman act. You thank him with a bold little kiss on the cheek before making your way to the door. Joel rubs at the sticky mark you left behind with his thumb, flicking the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

He tosses the keys on the counter after you step inside, booted feet dragging heavy across the floor as he watches you wander around, fingers trailing over worn furniture and sun-bleached curtains. It’s not much, but you look impressed anyway.

“Cute,” you hum, bending over to peek down the hallway. He can see the way your shorts ride up the curve of your ass, lace peeking out just like before. Your turn to him, arms crossed behind your back as you sway on the balls of your feet. “This isn’t the part where you murder me, right?”

It’s light, teasing. An innocent joke.

Joel’s smile is tight as he walks to the kitchen. “Not unless you ask me real nice.”

You laugh again, that breathy little sound, and Joel listens for the faintest edge of unease. He’s gotten good at that—spotting the cracks before they show, gauging how much of a fight this might be.

You’ve been good since the bar, and Joel hopes it stays that way. He wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face because you tried acting out.

Joel busies himself in the kitchen, back turned as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a couple glasses. He grabs some things out of the fridge, well aware that you can’t see the little silver tin hiding in his armful of honey and bourbon.

“You like it sweet, right?” he calls over his shoulder, masking the rasp in his voice. “Figured you’d need a chaser after that whiskey.”

“Aw,” you say from your spot on his couch, clearly drunk on attention, “you’re taking such good care of me.”

Joel laughs as he rounds the corner, handing you a glass. “Only fair, since you’re bein’ so good for me.”

“I’m already in your house, Joel. You don’t need to lay it on so thick anymore.” You take the drink with a smile, clinking it against his own before bringing it to your lips.

He watches the slow press of your lips to the rim, the way your throat moves when you swallow, how you down half the glass in one long pull. It has him shifting in place, his cock straining against the rough denim of his jeans. He sets his glass down on the coffee table, untouched, and leans back against the cushions. 

You turn to him, your gaze languidly roaming over his body. Over where his shirt is stretched tight across his chest, where his arms rest on the back of the couch, where his legs are spread wide. Your eyes are hungry, pupils blown wide and dark as midnight.

Joel lets you look, waits until you make it back up to his eyes to jerk his head in an obvious invitation. “C’mere, baby.”

You bite your lip, setting your glass down next to his and crawling over to him without another word. Your arms loop around his neck, knees on either side of him as you settle in his lap. His hands fall to your hips, thumbs sliding up and down the waistband of your cutoffs.

Your lips part under his like they were made to, your soft sigh swallowed up by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses you hard, slow and deep, like he’s been starving for it. You taste like lemon and honey, the sharp bite of his bourbon buried somewhere beneath all the sweetness.

Joel’s hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer as he nips at your plush bottom lip. “Feels good, doesn't it, sugar?”

You nod, moaning as you bury your hands in his hair. Your lips part easily for his tongue, letting him claim your mouth. Joel groans, pressing the hard line of his cock over your clothed cunt, chuckling darkly at the high whine you breathe into the space between you both.

He lets you have your fun, necks with you on his couch like a couple of horny teenagers while he waits. 

Sure enough, after a while, he can feel the first few signs trickling in. Your grip on his hair goes slack, your lips grow lazy and slow against his own, your posture slips into something more relaxed and hunched over, leaning on him heavily.

Joel pulls back, a single strand of spit connecting your lips before it dips and breaks under the weight of gravity. You’re panting, mouth slick and swollen as your chest heaves with every breath. Your chin is red and raw, scratched up from his beard. 

It takes a second for you to open your eyes, blinking at him sluggishly. You look nice and fucked, pupils so big he can hardly see the color around them anymore, glassy and unfocused in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol filling up the half empty glass on his coffee table.

“Joel…” It’s hardly a whisper, so soft and breathy. “Feels funny…tired…”

“Poor thing,” he tuts, squeezing your hips once. “Let’s get you on your back.”

You go easy enough, let him push your shoulders down until you’re splayed out across the couch. Your eyes slip shut again, your breath evening out as it finally sinks its claws in you.

Joel grins, wastes no time before he’s on his feet and sliding his arms under you. You don’t make a sound as he lifts you, your body completely pliant, head lolling to rest on his chest.

He starts down the hallway to his bedroom, the light on and bleeding through the bottom of the door to shine dimly over the carpet.

And like a ship being led safely to port by the fiery orange glow of an old light house, Joel walks, and he whistles as he goes.

You feel like you're floating, mind groggy and filled with the cloudy haze of sleep. The bourbon must have hit you harder than you thought.

The air is cold but your skin is so warm. Your limbs are heavy when you try to move, like you’re suspended in a thick, syrupy water.

Your fingers twitch against something soft. Sheets. You’re in a bed now. That much registers. You can feel the give of the mattress beneath you, the press of a pillow behind your head, the way your legs are bare.

Were you wearing shorts earlier?

Were you?

You pry your eyes open, barely having enough energy to. The world is warped, stretched at the edges like a funhouse mirror. Your vision swims, and all you can make out is light—the orange cast of a bedside lamp. The bulb buzzes faintly in your ear, the sound low and persistent, like it’s drilling into your brain.

That’s when you feel it, featherlight pressure making its way down your bare stomach. It’s soft, almost ticklish.

It takes your mind a few long seconds to catch up, to realize what’s happening.

There are hands on your body.

A slow, possessive drag over your thigh. Calloused fingers part your legs, thumb dipping just beneath the hem of your panties. You try to shift, try to close your legs, but you barely twitch.

You stir, a soft sound pushing out of your parted lips as you grip the sheets harder than before. 

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, pressing wet kisses down your neck. “You were beggin’ for it all night, remember?”

Joel. 

It comes flooding back to you in stages. The bar. The whiskey. The truck. 

It goes fuzzy after that, you can’t remember anything past sliding onto Joel’s lap. 

You whimper, body moving sluggishly under him. You try to twist away but it’s useless—he’s strong, and you’re dizzy and weak and pinned.

“You said I could fuck you,” he whispers, calloused fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Said you wanted it bad. Don’t back out now, sweetheart. That’d be real mean.”

You sob, but your body betrays you—hips rocking forward against his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his touch. Your eyes screw shut, tears burning hot and wet in your waterline. 

Joel hums, fingers spreading you open like he’s flipping through pages of a well-loved book. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “Fuckin’ leaking through these sweet little panties. This sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be filled.”

You don’t hear the footsteps at first.

Not until the floorboards creak by the door.

A new voice filters in from somewhere far away, piercing through the cotton in your ears. It’s different from Joel’s, that same Southern twang but just a little lighter. A little smoother, like honey laced with iron.

“Thought I heard you gettin’ started without me.”

Your eyes snap open.

There’s a man in the doorway.

He’s shorter than Joel by a few inches, leaner too but just as broad in the shoulders. Another strong, blue collar looking type—a man that works with his hands.

Joel lifts his head with a lazy grin, glancing over his shoulder. “Not my fault you took your sweet fuckin’ time, Tommy.”

You try to move, try to push at Joel’s chest, but your arms are still too heavy to listen. “I don’t—” you start, but he hushes you again, thick fingers still sliding up and down the wet seam of your pussy over your panties. 

“I know, sugar,” he murmurs, all mock sympathy. “S’too much to think about, huh? Why don’t you let us help you feel instead.”

The bed dips behind you, and a new warm breath ghosts over your neck. You flinch at the sudden weight pressing beside you, and when you tilt your head, you finally see his face—Tommy, lit in the glow of the bedside lamp.

He looks at you like you’re a gift. Something precious and shiny, wrapped up just for him.

“She’s pretty,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the sweat beading on your brow with a touch gentler than it should be. “Damn, Joel. You always know how to pick ’em.”

“Wait—” Your voice is hoarse, small and cracked. You start to sit up, but Joel stops it with a heavy hand to your chest, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

He leans in close, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers against your skin. “Don’t be rude, babygirl. You’re gonna be real nice to my brother, ain’t you?”

Brother.

Brother.

Your stomach lurches and you’re shaking your head before you even realize it. “No,” you whisper. “No, please—”

“Easy now,” Tommy coos. His hand is warm as it strokes over your cheek. “Ain’t no need to fight. We’ll be real good to you, sugar.”

Joel leans back, peeling your panties down your legs with a reverence that would almost be sweet—if you could move. If you could say no. If you weren’t so dizzy that you can’t tell if the ache building in your core is from fear or the sick twist of arousal.

The cool air hitting your core is a shock to your system, you gasp as it nips at the skin of your thighs, slick and gleaming. Your legs twitch, trying in vain to snap shut, but Joel holds you spread open with wide palms.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to your bare pussy. His thumb runs along the seam of you, his touch slow and light. “Look at that.”

“Please,” you gasp, even as your hips twitch up off the bed. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Tommy asks, dragging his lips down your neck. “Didn’t mean to make us hard? Didn’t mean to spread your legs the second Joel smiled at you all sweet? Don’t play innocent now, babydoll. You knew exactly what you were doin’, didn't you?”

“She knew good and well.” Joel says, sliding off the mattress, big hands keeping you pinned as he settles on his knees near the edge of the bed. He shoulders his way between your thighs, dipping his head down to blow cool air over the expanse of your pussy.

“So damn pretty down here,” he mutters, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips. “Bet you taste as good as you look.”

Then his mouth is on you.

He dives in with a hunger that knocks the breath from your lungs. His tongue is practiced and hot as it drags through your folds, the groan ripped from his chest as you flood his tongue is more animal than man.

The sound vibrates through you, and your spine arches off the mattress, another tear sliding hot and fast down your temple.

Tommy brushes it off your cheek, but instead of wiping it away, he licks it from his fingertip. His eyes flick down to yours, and his smile is soft. Mocking. “Aw,” he coos. “She’s cryin’ already, Joel. Thought we’d have to work harder than that.”

“She’s fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans, nosing at you like a man starved. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, coaxing—then he seals his mouth around it and sucks. Hard.

Your hands fist the sheets beneath you so tight you can hear the distinct sounds of seams ripping under your nails. It’s an onslaught of pleasure, an attack. There’s nothing kind about the dull scrape of his teeth against your sensitive clit, but it has your thighs clenching around his head all the same.

Joel’s fingers slide into you without warning—two of them, thick and rough and curling just right as he keeps his mouth working on your clit. The stretch punches a sound from your chest, a high, keening noise that has both brothers groaning in tandem.

“Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Joel grits out, dragging his fingers in and out lazily. “You’re gonna milk my cock just like this, huh?”

You couldn’t answer him if you tried, pure ecstasy racking your brain in all the wrong ways—burning through your veins like kerosine—too garbled and confusing for you to even think of speaking. You can only whimper, a pathetically desperate noise that’s drowned out by Joel fucking his fingers into you impossible faster.

The sound of it is loud, the wet slap of his palm and the dirty, slick sounds of your pussy sucking him in bouncing off the walls to echo back at you mockingly. 

Your hips shift helplessly, held down by Joel’s strong forearm as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. You can feel your own slick mixing with his spit start dripping down between your legs, soaking the sheets, and he groans like he loves it, nose bumping your clit as he moans into your cunt.

Tommy’s fingers start to trace the outline of your lips, dragging down to your chin before forcing them into your mouth. You choke, gag a little, but he doesn’t flinch—just presses them deeper, twisting his wrist slowly as he watches your throat bob.

“Pretty mouth,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your tastebuds. “Bet you give real sweet head, huh?”

You cry out around his fingers, your pussy fluttering around Joel’s tongue. Before you can think, you sink your teeth into Tommy’s thumb, hard. Hard enough that you feel the skin break under it, the unmistakable taste of iron spreading across your tongue. Maybe it’s a last ditch attempt to make him stop, maybe it’s a sick way of making him stay.

“Fuck.” Tommy groans like he’s been shot, chin dropping to his chest. His eyes go dark, something wicked swimming in the brown of his irises. His mouth slips open, soft pants falling from between his slick lips.

Joel chuckles darkly from between your legs, he raises head to catch your bleary gaze. The whole bottom half of his face is drenched, beard wet with your slick. “Biting won’t do you any good, honey. Tommy likes that shit.”

Tommy hums in agreement, low and vicious, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop. “Look what you did, darlin’,” he murmurs, holding it up for you to see, blood dripping down his skin in a thin stream of red. He drags it across your lips to smear it along them like warpaint. “So mean. That’s alright, sweet thing. Joel and I like 'em a little mean, it’s more fun to put you in your place that way.

He leans down and kisses you, soft at first, then deep—tongue sweeping over the inside of your mouth, sucking his own blood off your tongue. His fingers grip your chin hard enough to bruise as he keeps you still, mouth moving hungrily against yours until you whimper, struggling to breathe around the heat of it.

Joel still hasn’t stopped.

His fingers keep dragging against that spot deep inside you, stretching and curling until you’re clenching around him. His mouth sucks another bruise onto your thigh before pulling away with a low moan.

“She’s close,” he growls, sitting back on his haunches. “C’mon, Tommy. Let her mouth do some of the work.”

Tommy pulls back without another word, and reaches for his belt. Silver clinks softly as he undoes the flashy buckle with nimble fingers, never taking his eyes off you. He pops the button of his jeans, pulls his zipper down slowly, making sure you see every inch of it slipping open.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed an angry red at the tip. He takes it in his hand, pumping himself in the tight grip of fist—once, twice—before he’s tracing the drooling head along your lips. “Open up for me, beautiful.”

Joel chooses that moment to curl his fingers again, pressing right against the swollen spot inside of you, and your body reacts on instinct.

Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and Tommy takes the invitation, pushing inside until your lips are stretched tight around the thick head. He doesn’t ease in—he sets a rhythm fast, shallow thrusts that drag over your tongue, just enough to make you choke a little. 

Joel chuckles at the sound, giving your ass a quick swat before he’s standing. His jeans are already undone, his own cock just as hard and straining against his stomach. It’s flushed and leaking, veins bulging, too big for someone as stretched as thin and soft as you feel right now.

He takes your ankles in one hand, the other wrapped tight around the base as he drags the sticky head through your spit soaked pussy to rub it over your clit torturously slow.

You can’t even protest as he lines himself up to your clenching hole, Tommy filling your mouth so much you can only let out a broken whine around him, your legs straining in Joel’s firm grip.

Joel hushes you gently, like a lullaby. “It’s too late for all that, baby. You’re already open for me.”

And then he pushes in.

The stretch is sharp and immediate, your back arching as your walls struggle to take him. There’s no patience, no easing in—he feeds you inch after inch, his hips not stopping until they’re pressed flush to yours, his cock buried deep.

You sob, overwhelmed by the burn, the pressure, the way your body is forced to accept every bit of him.

“Christ,” Joel groans. “She’s grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice. Could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

You can feel every throb, every twitch. The way he shifts slightly just to feel you react—your body spasming around him. The rhythm he sets is savage from the start. Rough, unrelenting thrusts that slap your skin raw where his hips meet yours. 

“Shhh,” Joel soothes as you mewl, bending low to press a kiss to your cheek. “You're takin’ it. You’re takin’ me so good, baby. Feels like you were made for this cock.”

The bite of sharp teeth nip their way down to your sternum, his mouth moving along the skin of your chest, sucking until deep bruises bloom. His hands wrap around your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed as he fucks into you harder, groaning with every wet slap of skin against skin.

Tommy isn’t gentle either. He fucks your mouth with slow precision, moaning every time your throat flutters around him. One hand strokes your cheek, the other twisted in your hair, tugging hard enough to make your scalp burn.

Your eyes roll back, spit running down your chin, tears streaking your cheeks—and they moan at the sight.

Every thrust is a jolt, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as Joel fucks you deeper, each stroke driving the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping over your sensitive clit. The pace is brutal, all the more suffocating with Tommy fucking your mouth in tandem, the obscene sounds of spit and slick filling the room.

“Jesus,” Tommy laughs, breathless and mean. “She’s perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Joel fucks you harder, one hand slipping around your throat to pin you in place. “Gonna pump you so full, babygirl,” he pants. “You’ll be drippin’ for days.”

You feel it building, that terrible, traitorous heat pooling deep in your belly, curling tight like a fist.

You're caught between them, nothing but a warm, wet hole for them to use—your body split open, trembling and full.

“You’re ours now, honey,” Tommy pants. “Say it.”

You can’t. You choke, mouth stuffed full, brain scrambled.

Tommy pulls out, stroking himself fast. “C’mon, sugar,” he murmurs. “Tell us. Tell us you’re ours.”

Joel hammers into you, hand on your belly to press down and feel the outline of his cock. “Say it.”

You sob, the words tumbling out broken and wrecked. “Yours. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

Joel groans loud, hips slamming forward one last time as he spills inside you, hot and thick. You feel it fill you, warm and endless, leaking out around his cock.

Tommy’s not far behind, fisting his cock roughly until hot spurts of come stripe across your cheeks, your lips, your tongue. He lets out a ragged groan, hand still tight in your hair.

It’s too much, the dual sensations finally snapping the fragile rubber band of sanity that held you together. You shatter—mind blanking out under the weight of it all, pleasure and pain entwined so tightly there’s no telling one from the other.

Both men stay still for a long while after they’re done, suspended in the aftermath.

Tommy’s hunched over you, chest heaving as he rubs his come into your skin like a filthy sacrament. His voice is wrecked, as soft as you’ve heard it all night. “Pretty girl.”

Joel doesn’t move off your spent body, his softening cock twitching in your abused pussy as he presses his face into your sweaty throat, breathing hard.

Then he leans back, watches his cum slowly drip from your abused cunt. “You took us so good, babygirl.”

Tommy brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, gaze soft again. “Think she’s got one more in her?”

Joel chuckles darkly. “Only one way to find out.”

MINI NAT'S NOTE: it's literally seven in the morning. i'm posting this and then i'm passing the fuck out. thank you to chronic insomnia but mainly to my geek bar and addison rae's new song drop for giving me the energy to power through this. also ofc thank you to baby @ebodebo (cause she was mad i wasn’t going to mention her and threatened to hit me...someone save me...call 911…) for listening to me complain about this and not telling me to shut up even though i probably deserved it. most of all, thank YOU so much for reading! love you, mwah <3

[deedjre]

honestly it'll be forever until i get around to drawing these guys if ever (currently working on a longer art project) so i might as well just say these now and get them out of my notes

Voice of the Storyteller - haven't nailed down a concrete personality, but i picture them as being covered in blood. due to the angst. this guy's the core, like hero Voice of the Bystander - funnily enough i had this guy on standby. someone who feels they cannot do anything and tries to distance themselves from a situation they can't be distanced from. Voice of the Exhausted - i also had this one on standby. someone who is simply tired of dealing with everything. Voice of the Swayed - very easily swayed. can be convinced into believing most things with very few concrete beliefs and opinions they would stand their ground on. Voice of the Justified - okay so take cheated. and make him worse. they excuse their behavior and blame others for actions they have committed, justifying it by any means. Voice of the Petrified - an overly anxious idiot who overthinks and is scared to the point of stunning themselves. Voice of the Crybaby - just the emotional core. cries easily. complains a lot. they all complain a lot, though. will definitely let themself cry if they know it means getting out of a situation. Voice of the Unyielding - take stubborn. and just make him more overtly self destructive. though also make him weak as all hell. and you get this fucking thing. yeah just "i didn't hear no bell" achievement, basically. Voice of the Roseate - hopeful and patient to a fault. will do little to try and improve a situation, simply hoping it to be better very soon. also a gambling addict. Voice of the Runner - really wants out of situations. avoids them like the plague. and also with humor sometimes. the runner thing can be figurative it's just like an avoidance thing. Voice of the Wiseacre - overly confident smartass who will leak say what their thinking if someone around them is dumb enough to infuriate them. they are also fairly smart, they're just pretentious about it.

A challenge for our Slay The Princess community on Tumblr: Make your own versions of The Voices! Like, choose 11 key traits of yourself [Or use the ones from canon] and figure out who they are! Draw them, even, if you're artistic!

Reblog this with whatever you come up with! I wanna see the creativity of this community!

[lizaintheduster]

Oh my god, the idea that God keeps bringing Cas back because he thinks Dean moping around the bunker is boring is so funny. Like the first two times God brings him back, he does it right away cause he's like, "This freaky lil Angel is pretty interesting to have around. Let's throw him back into the mix." But then when he betrays Dean and dies in season 6/7, at first Chuck is just sipping Mojitos and luxuriating in the man pain, but then the man pain just. doesn't. stop. And fuck that's boring, Dean just won't stop moping.

So fuck it, let's give Cas amnesia and some weird wife, he won't have to be plot relevant anyway cause obviously he'll take on Sam's hell trauma, boom two birds, one stone. Now we can get back to the brothers brothering. Except fuck, somehow Cas has wound up going to purgatory with Dean, ugh lame. Well, let's just give Cas a few nightmares that really play into his self-loathing, that should be enough to get him to stay behind, the self-deprecating sad sack. But shit, didn't think this through, Dean's out and he's already looking pretty mopy.

No worries, just gotta push Naomi in the right direction, just a little nudge, there we go. Cas is back, but with a tasty little twist of Heaven mind control to keep him out of the narrative. Excellent. Screw it. Maybe Naomi could even get him to turn on Dean? Dean could kill him, that would be awesome. Wait, why the hell isn't Dean fighting back? Get off your knees! Cas can't kill Dean, that's lame, I'll have to think of some way to bring him back... wait, wait what? Did he just snap out of Angel programmed mind control? Oh for fuck sake, this is gonna be such a pain in the ass.

Blah blah, several more seasons of trying to keep Dean and Cas apart including having Gadreel fall near the hospital, retconing how Reapers work so one can try to take out Cas, pointing that weird pink Goo Angel in a Cas shaped direction, having it so that stolen grace is a thing that drains away, but nothing is God Damn Taking. The Angel is still up and kicking, and for some reason, Dean seems hung up on the broken little thing.

Right, time for mental warfare. If just the right digs are made at just the right times, maybe, maybe the Angels self esteem will drop low enough to... that's it. There it is. Say yes to Lucifer. Another betrayal, right, Dean? Right, Dean? Dean? Oh for crying out loud he's not even dead! Dean get over it, he said yes to Lucifer, he sucks Dean, why do you care? Ugh fine, let's say Amara's juice blasts Lucifer out of Cas, happy now? Fuck he's so boring when he's worried about what? A defective Angel?

Whatever, let's just throw some random side quests at them for a while. Surely, Dean will just lose interest eventually. Oh! Idea! Trap Dean and Sam in a government facility and then sabotage every attempt the Angel makes to save them. Again, two birds, one stone. Cas will feel useless and pathetic for failing to save Dean, and Dean will surely realise what a useless waste of celestial intent Cas is.

Okay, at this point, I should have seen this coming. Oh, thank me, Lucifer kebabed him. Light show, big burnt out wings for dramatic effect. This time, let's just wait it out. Dean can't stay single minded, drunk and hung up on Cas forever. Eventually, he'll realise he needs to step up to the plate and start parenting the Angel kid, I have some amazing Abraham and Issac stuff lined up, so we need to get moving with the bonding. Any minute now. Any minute now. Come on Dean, he's not even that strong anymore, why do you care? Jesus Christ Dean, you know your mom is also dead, right?

Screw it. Let's say Jack's powers can reach the empty. Shit does this mean I need to figure out how the empty works? I never got round to writing any of that. Okay, wow that was a choice, maybe I'll retcon the accent later... let's just focus on getting Cas back to earth, so Dean... aaaaand Dean has it wearing a fucking cowboy hat. How, out of all my universes did this glitch wind up infecting the original. Should have let the Angel just stay dead that first time, would have made my life so much easier.

Well, it's the final hour, might as well get one last hit in. Let's kill off the alternate universe people first, that should be just the right push to... perfect, yep, Dean blames death, and of course, Cas will follow. Hook line and sinker. I'll just let Death kill Cas, and then I'll have Death's weird poison thing wipe her out at the last second so Dean's still around for the end game. Oh? Oh, no way? You have got to be kidding me. This is priceless. He's actually saying it? That's the money shot right there. Wow. I need a margarita. Oh, but wait. Idea! Wouldn't it be perfect, just perfect, if Dean's childhood selective mutism were to make the briefest reappearance. Just for a second. Ahhh. You have outdone yourself, Chuck. No more revivals, Dean. I'm already bored.

[ravcnism]

CHLORINATED KISSES. — BOB REYNOLDS x GN!READER

Summary: Swimming is an essential survival skill—one Bob didn’t have. Which, you should have known, as you had been dating him for a total of five months now. But it had taken one startling kayaking incident for you to figure it out for yourself. You, of course, had to ensure it wouldn't happen again.

# # TAGS: Fluff with Some Plot, Established relationship, Soft Boyfriend Bob Reynolds, Soft confessions, Bob Deserves Nice Things

# # WARNINGS: I can't think of any. This is the softest thing I've written in ages. I guess some caution for the drowning bit in the middle, but it's nothing too bad.

Notes: If you'd noticed, yes, this is based on a scene from Lessons in Chemistry; and speaking of which, I might start writing for Calvin Evans too. But anyway, here's some fluff for now. (Reader's gender and pronouns are not mentioned, no use of Y/N, suitable for all identities.)

Being with Bob was a gentle sort of thing. He had told you once that you were dating a newer version of himself; a man that he didn't recognize sometimes. It was a good change, of course. But it was change nonetheless, and it took some adjusting to. Like a mistreated grocery store goldfish acclimating to the warm water of a much bigger tank. The ‘New Bob’ was a free bird, still hesitant to leave the open gate of his rusty cage. You weren't exactly certain what he meant. You didn't know him as anyone else. Only as the Bob you had met and loved.

You had met under—as you liked to call it—uncommon circumstances. But you supposed that depended on how uncommon it was to walk away with wrong prescriptions; each other's prescriptions.

You knew who he was. Barely, but just enough to know that he lived at the New Avengers compound. You were a backstage act, someone who worked the lights. An ex-SHIELD technician that Valentina plucked from the server racks and tossed into the circus. Now, you were in charge of the things that people often overlooked. You kept the servers running, maintained the logs, renamed files so the less tech-savvy Avengers didn't feel embarrassed. ("Walker_USAGENT_ShieldV2_FINALREALFINALACTUAL.png" became "USAGENT_Shield2.stk") And of course you reset the Wi-Fi every once in a while, or when Alexei came knocking on your office door like he was about to reign Hell upon you.

You didn't know much about Bob. You didn't know much about anyone period, but Bob was even more faded than the rest. You barely saw him. You hardly cared. You were desensitised to the world of aliens and heroes. New York getting blown apart? Must be Monday. If anything, this new ragtag team felt all the more ordinary as they only seemed to punch and shoot. A good change of pace, you decided.

But then there was that fateful afternoon. A bad cold, and a rushed trip to the company pharmacy. It was a private sort of thing—an exclusive outlet for anyone associated with either the CIA, or (recently) Valentina's shiny new Avengers. It sourced free medication as a healthcare benefit for lower-ranked employees. And, because why not, medication for unstable experimental heroes.

You were swaddled in the warmest clothes you owned, a scratchy scarf lifted all the way up your nose. Your sinuses were somehow clogged and runny at the same time and you had a lovely ear-ringing headache to pair it with. Your throat itched with the dryness of a thousand deserts and you were certain that your left eye was pink enough to pass for a tulip. You were sick—horridly so. If you had that kind of sickness around 200 years ago, it would have killed you on the spot. Today, however, it was nothing a few bottles of pills wouldn't solve.

You were dazed and distracted, simultaneously hot and cold. The pharmacist dropped two bags on the counter and didn't bother announcing whose was whose. You hardly noticed that you grabbed the wrong bag when you walked away. Bob would later on admit that he had his assumptions, but had been too anxious to follow you out the door.

You were back in your office, annoyed at the world. The barrier between your death and salvation was a wrinkled paper bag. You dug your fist in and felt for the bottle. Without much thought, you popped the cap open and tossed two pills into your mouth. It was only after you paused to breathe that you realized—the label.

REYNOLDS, ROBERT.

30 MG — V-17 (INHIBITOR)

DO NOT exceed prescribed dosage.

In event of skipped dose, evacuate vicinity and alert emergency contacts listed under Class-7.

May cause: dissociation, blackouts, tremors, visual distortions, or memory loss.

DO NOT COMBINE with stimulants, depressants, or enhanced physiology.

You hummed, inquisitively, like you had done something as small as grabbing the wrong brand of salt from the grocery store. Then you blinked. Hard. That definitely wasn't right, and it definitely wasn't good. The pill bottle felt heavier, somehow, like reading about it solidified its existence. Your hand closed around the bottle, slowly, as though one wrong move might cause it to explode—like you might explode. You looked up, stared at your wall, and whispered a sharp, irritated, “Fuck.”

Bob would hear you knocking on the compound's living room door about 10 minutes later. He'd open it to find you leaning against the doorframe, pale, sweating, and on the verge of throwing up. “Hey, buddy,” you said. “Question. On a scale from ibuprofen to 'unleash the apocalyptic void creature within', how bad would it be if I accidentally took your meds?”

There was a beat. Then two.

Then you collapsed, face-first on the cold, tiled floor. Bob screamed.

You woke up in the infirmary, next to a basket of fruits with a balloon tied to its handle, decorated with the words ‘I'm Sorry’. And when you regained the rest of your senses, he entered the room, with eyes sadder than a guilty dog's. “I think they fired the pharmacist.”

The nurses told you he kept coming back—anxiously pacing the hallways as he waited for you to wake up.

You had loved him ever since.

It was a charmingly odd, and unconventional beginning to something you—eventually—wouldn't be able to live without. Falling in love with Bob had been easy. And staying in love was even more so. It was watching him stammer and blush at every gift you'd given him, carefully reaching for his pinky to hold the rest of his hand, feeling his breath against your neck when he hid his face from scary movies. You bought him flowers every weekend, and he kept them alive for as long as he could. You'd take him on dates after therapy, show him places he'd never seen, make him feel things he'd never felt.

It was heaven, being with him. Even if he didn't seem to think so. Because Bob, for all the light he brought into your life, carried a quiet kind of guilt behind his eyes. Like he was borrowing time he didn’t believe belonged to him. Like every kiss might be his last, and every morning he woke up in your bed was a fluke the universe would eventually correct.

And perhaps that was what kept the both of you from telling each other ‘I love you’; which, shouldn't be that big of a deal. Five months was a lot of time to be dating, but it was different for every couple. And the last thing you wanted to do was make Bob do something he wasn't ready for. There was no pressure nor need for him to say the words. You needed nothing else than what he already gave. He made your life brighter, happier. And for that, you'd give him the world.

You'd catch him sometimes, staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out. As if touching you too long might leave a mark. As if he might leave a mark. And you knew he didn’t mean it in the way you did. Not in the forever way, but in a fearful way. Like he was afraid he'd stain you with whatever he thought lived underneath his skin. Some days, he'd wake up trembling and you’d hold him until the sun rose. No questions. No pressure. Just arms and warmth and a steady heartbeat against his ear, grounding him in something real.

Other days, he’d smile—really smile—and ramble about a new book he found, or ask if you could go grocery shopping together, like that was the most intimate thing two people could do. And you always said yes, because it was. To him, it was.

And thus, we are taken to one of your dates: an unconventional trip for an unconventional couple.

In your defense, it looked really fun on the catalogue. You had memories of kayaking with your family as a kid.

Bob was looking up at you from his bed, shirtless with the sheets (and his hair) still messy from a night well-spent. “I'm not sure,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I've never really… done that.”

“Hence the reason we're doing it.” You pressed a kiss on his forehead, a small and useless act to satiate the perpetual aggression that you had for his softness.

You looked so excited. There was no way he would have ever said no. Bob hardly denied you to begin with. He blinked up at you with that dazed, love-dumb look he wore so often in your presence—half stunned, half terrified, like he still couldn’t believe you were real and he was allowed to touch you. His hands, which had been resting on his bare stomach, slowly moved to grip the sheets, the way he always did when he was nervous.

“Like, in a lake?” he asked, voice still husky from sleep.

You grinned. “Yes, Bob. Not on a Disneyland ride. With actual water and actual paddles.” There was a small, excited tremor in your fingers. “Then we get to spend the night at a cabin there. Super relaxing stuff.”

It took little to no convincing at all. His answer would have been “Okay” regardless of what you said. He nodded at you, his smile reaching his eyes. You punched the air in victory. Playfully, Bob groaned, flopping onto his back like a man who'd been shot. “Why do I let you talk me into things?”

You leaned down and whispered, “Because you’re wildly in love with me and a little bit obsessed.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled. “That checks out.”

You had almost killed yourself by grabbing the wrong prescription once, and still that kayaking trip was one of the worst decisions you'd ever made in your life. It outranked your prescription swap by a whole tier.

It began plainly enough. The warm, subtly salty breeze in your hair, Bob’s hand in yours. There was an instructor and everything but yours and Bob’s kayak was separate from everyone else. You had your own little spot, a pocket of water surrounded by pine trees. The view was stunningly scenic, mountain ranges as far as the eye could see. Bob made a joke that it would be a good place to die in. You wouldn't be laughing about it later.

He was fidgety from the start, paddle gripped like a weapon, eyes darting from tree to tree like they might leap at him. You made him sit in front of you. “This is nice,” he said. “Really nice. Love the—air. And the sky. Is it supposed to wobble this much?”

“It’s floating. That’s kind of its whole thing.” He had told you that he had never done this before, so you made sure not to do anything extreme. No river currents, no sudden falls. All you had to do was float in a bright-orange kayak.

“Right,” he muttered, nodding so vigorously the boat tilted slightly. “Right. Floating. Not drowning.”

That had been the first warning.

The second one didn't announce itself so loudly. It made itself known only by the boat's increasing wobbling. Ignorable at first, but then noticeably dangerous. “Babe,” you said. And when you looked up you had caught him panicking. “Baby, wait–”

The kayak lurched hard to the side. His weight tipped you both in one fell swoop, but in your head, it was slow—a theatrical sort of disaster, like fate was giving you time to make peace with it.

Then came the splash, cold and icy. Unforgiving.

You swam up with a gasp, sputtering, grinning at first, half-expecting that to have happened. But then you realized you came up alone. The water was still around you, save for the ripples from your treading and the floating of the kayak. “Bob?”

Nothing.

Just water, and the worst silence you had ever heard in your life.

“Jesus- Bob!” you shouted, panicking.

You dove under—fueled by sheer horror and adrenaline—and somehow managed to pull him back up with only one arm. Next thing Bob knew, he was dragged back to the surface and clinging onto the side of your capsized boat.

The trip back to the dock was immediate. You were bombarding him with questions and asking him if he was alright, but Bob could only focus on his breathing at that moment.

The afternoon stretched on. The sun sank itself behind the trees and painted the sky in a warm pink-yellow gradient; as if it was sorry to have seen an even sorrier sight. Bob was wrapped in a towel now, sitting on the edge of the dock with a second towel (meant to be yours) draped over his head like a sad, soggy saint. His wet shirt clung to him, and his sneakers squelched with every movement. You were sitting beside him, looking like you had your tail tucked between your legs—shirtless, drenched, and visibly fighting the urge to spiral into the lake and never return.

“I’m an idiot,” you muttered for the third time in as many minutes. “I’m a frickin’ idiot. I should’ve known. I shouldn't have booked this stupid trip.”

Bob, still mildly shivering, turned his head towards you. “You also forgot sunscreen,” he offered, voice a little raw.

You looked up and stared at him. Sunscreen, he said. “You almost drowned, Bob.”

“I didn’t, though.”

“But you could have.” You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, towelless and dripping. “Jesus, you could’ve died and it would’ve been my fault. I dragged you out there like a fricken’—golden retriever.”

“Your golden retriever impression is weirdly accurate,” Bob mumbled, hugging himself tighter. “It’s kind of cute, honestly. In a panicked, flailing sort of way.” The towel on his head fell back, revealing a cluster of wet, messy curls. Bob looked at you, or, tried to look at you, but he could only see the top of your carefully drying hair. “Baby,” he muttered.

You didn't face him. You felt like you couldn't.

Bob tried again, coaxing you to meet his eyes by pressing his lips upon your head. “Hey.”

You looked up, finally, brows furrowed, lips pouted ever so slightly. “I suck,” you whispered.

Bob laughed—quiet and hoarse, but genuine. Then there was a pause, and he said, softly, “I should have told you I couldn't swim.”

“You're damn right you should have!” Your eyes widened, but he was smiling even more. “Why didn't you?”

“You said we'd be on a boat. Boat means you're not in the water. I thought we'd paddle around, look at ducks. I didn't think we'd tip over.”

You groaned, burying your face into your hands. Bob, despite his shaken state, was watching you with amusement.

He kissed you again, missing your lips. “I'm sorry,” he said, looking up at you with those eyes of his. “You looked so excited. I didn't want to say no. I want to do everything with you—everything you love. I was worried I’d disappoint you.”

Your expression softened, shoulders slumping. “Bob,” you said quietly, “You wouldn't have disappointed me. I just—” You sighed, finding your words. “I wanted to put you out there. I want you to have fun and experience things, especially the ones you've never done before. I just want you to enjoy yourself, you know? I don't want you holding yourself back from that just because you think you're not worth it.”

He nodded his head, curling into you so that he was leaning against your shoulder this time.

“That doesn't mean you can't say no to me,” you continued. “I only want to do the things we both want to do.”

He reached out, pinky hooking into yours. The towel smelled like lake water and soap, and underneath all that, like him. “I did have fun,” he murmured. “Until I was dying.”

You laughed, finally, and Bob felt as though he had broken through you. “Yeah. Me too.”

That night, the cabin was quiet—except for the gentle hum of crickets and the faint creak of wood as it settled around you both. The lake was still outside the window, moonlight painting silver lines across its surface, soft and harmless now, like it was apologizing. From the bed, Bob stirred. His arm reached blindly toward your chair, half-asleep. “C’mere,” he mumbled. “S’cold.”

You stood, closed your laptop, and slipped under the covers beside him. He pressed his nose into your shoulder with a contented sigh.

You kissed his hair. “Next date’s on me again,” you whispered.

He giggled, soft and slurred. “As long as it’s not a lake.”

You smiled. “It's not a lake.”

Bob was staring at the edge of the public pool like it had personally wronged him.

The sun was high, the pool mostly empty—just a couple of old ladies doing synchronized aerobics on the far end, and a lifeguard who looked half-asleep behind her sunglasses. The water would barely reach Bob’s waist if he stood, but you’d think it was a gaping void into the unknown with how frozen his legs were. You were already in, casually leaning your arms on the tiled edge. Almost like you’d been born there. “Babe,” you said, squinting up at him. “You look like you’re about to fight God.”

“I just—” Bob’s voice cracked. He looked down at the pool. “It’s deeper than I thought.”

“It’s literally not. I'm standing.”

“People drown in tepid water,” he muttered.

A sound between a scoff and a laugh left your lips. You grinned at him. “Baby, you're okay. I'm right here. Would I let you drown a second time?”

He shook his head, curls bouncing.

“Exactly.” You floated back a little, as if to give him space to jump in. “What's wrong?”

“I guess it's just so much scarier now that I know what it's like to drown.”

You grimaced at the memory and bit back another apology. “You won't drown in this water,” you tried. “Not when I'm here.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You've been in a kayak.”

“That capsized,” he added.

“And lived!” You raised a victorious fist for him. “There's nothing to worry about, Bobby.”

He gave you a suspicious look. “That’s what people always say in survival movies. Right before they die.”

You held out your hand, the gesture of a promise. “This isn't a survival movie. Just you, me, and that weird little Band-Aid over there.”

Bob glanced at the stray Band-Aid drifting near a filter and made a strangled sound.

“Oh come on—you live with 3 Super Soldiers plus Yelena and Ava. You can handle anything.”

“What's that got to do with swimming?”

It took a good long while. For a second there you thought you might give up with him, but eventually—after some aggressive coaxing, dramatic sighs, and one accidental toe dip that made him recoil like the water was lava—Bob sat on the edge, dipped both legs in, and slid in slowly, holding onto your arms like the world depended on it.

You whistled. “Atta boy. Not so bad, see?”

He nodded his head, curls already sticking to his forehead. Bob was clinging to you like you were a life raft and he was Jack from Titanic—except there was no iceberg, no orchestra, and no tragic ending in sight. Just the two of you in waist-deep water under the lazy glow of late afternoon sun, your fingertips brushing his hips, gently guiding him forward.

“You’re doing great,” you said, voice warm with encouragement.

“I haven’t moved.”

“And yet, look at you—still alive. That's progress.”

Bob gave you a flat, soggy look, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You tricked me. You said this date wasn’t gonna involve a lake.”

You gasped, eyes wide with furrowed brows, looking like you'd been accused of murder. “And where is the lake?” You raised a hand and gestured around, the dramatic flailing movement splashing water upon Bob’s cheek. He wrinkled his nose with a small giggle. “Is this a lake, Reynolds? Is there a lake in sight? Where. I don't see it.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

You were gradually leading him away from the edge, his hands still clinging to your arms. He seemed to be too distracted to have noticed that the water was rising as the pool dipped. But only a little. Just above his chest. “This is important,” you said. “You can punch a helicopter out of the sky but if someone threw you into a puddle, you're toast?”

He frowned. “That's dramatic.”

“Let's do a backflip.”

“What!”

“Kidding! I'm kidding.” You hardly kept yourself from chuckling. “No, let's blow some bubbles. That's how you get rid of that fear. We need you under the water, nice and comfortable.”

Bob sighed. He gave you a long, deeply skeptical look—the kind reserved for used car salesmen and suspiciously enthusiastic swim instructors. “You just want to drown me.”

“You caught me,” you deadpanned, hands gently sliding to rest on his waist under the water. “I’ve spent all this time falling in love with you just to orchestrate your murder. Via public pool.”

That got him to crack a smile, small and grudging. “You're lucky I think you're cute.”

You grinned. “I am lucky. Now sink to your knees, handsome.”

He obeyed, only partially. He made a small gasp and mumbled, “Gee, scandalous.”

You scoffed. “You joke but once you get this shit down, there's a few things I might wanna try.”

He sputtered out a few unintelligible words, maybe some flustered statement of protest. You wouldn't be able to know, as your hand was already on his shoulder, gently pushing him downward. His back stiffened like he thought you were going to dunk him the second he wasn’t looking. “Wait, wait.” He clung onto your wrist. “What if I breathe in the water?”

“You won't. You just have to blow air out of your mouth, get your face in, your hair wet.” You shrugged, showing him that you weren't scared; that you were confident nothing bad would happen. “I'm right here. I won't even let you go, see? Just dunk yourself in.”

Bob hesitated, lips pressed tight, brows drawn together. You didn’t rush him. You just kept your hands steady and your voice low. “You’re safe. It’s just water. You’ve survived worse.”

He stared at you for a moment, then nodded, more to himself than to you. “Okay. Okay.” He took a breath and dipped his mouth below the surface. Then, a moment later: bloop bloop bloop—a string of nervous bubbles rose, followed by a triumphant gasp when he came up.

You grinned so hard it hurt. “There you go! That’s my guy.”

Bob wiped his face with both hands. “That was so dumb.”

“That was incredible,” you countered. “Also adorable, I don't make the rules.”

He turned pink at that. If it were due to the sun or you, he wouldn't admit. “How did- how did you learn to swim, anyway?” His brows knitted together. “Why are you so good at it?”

“Ah, psh.” You shrugged again, feigning a bragging expression. “M’grandad used to toss me into the deep end and hope for the best.”

His eyes widened, horrified. “Really?”

“...Actually, yeah.”

“Baby..”

“I know. Tragic.” You lifted his arms and hooked them over your shoulders. “He was a crazy man. Ran around naked in his house every Sunday. He made a mean pot of sirloin though. And thanks to him I managed to save my boyfriend from drowning–” you cut yourself off with a gasp. “You sly dog, you got me monologuing. You think you can talk your way outta’ lessons?”

He shook his head, innocently.

“Alright,” you said. “Come on, more bubbles. I'll go in with you this time.”

Bob mumbled something about wanting to go home, but he didn’t let go of you. Not even when you gently pulled him down again, both of you crouching low with your heads above the water. The surface curled around your chests and shoulders, warm and sun-dappled.

“Good,” you said softly. “On three. We go under, blow bubbles, come back up. That’s it.”

He gave you a slow nod. “Together.”

You counted down, voice low. “One, two, three.”

The two of you sank just beneath the surface, and for the briefest moment, the world hushed. No noise but the gentle gurgle of your breath, the rippling of water folding around your faces. You opened your eyes, chlorine be damned. You knew he was making a cute face, and you were right. Bob’s eyes were squeezed shut, cheeks puffed slightly as he blew an enthusiastic stream of bubbles—one hand still clinging to yours under the water like he was sure you’d disappear otherwise.

When you came back up, he gasped, erasing the distance between the two of you even more. “Okay, that's—” he heaved. “Not so bad.”

Water dripped down your forehead. “Yeah, see?”

The afternoon drifted forward. The sun moved gently across the sky, golden light bending through the clear water, making patterns that danced over your arms and Bob’s shoulders. The chatter of distant children echoed across the pool deck, faint and unobtrusive, like background music to your private, oddly romantic lesson. Bob stayed close, never letting go of you for long—no longer out of fear, but out of something softer, less urgent. His fingers toyed absently with yours between drills, and you let him, offering him the quiet assurance of your touch each time he looked uncertain.

You practiced blowing bubbles again, and again, until he no longer hesitated. Once or twice he even dunked his whole self in by himself, hair flopping forward in a mop when he surfaced, eyes wide and triumphant. You watched each little victory bloom across his face: like the lift of his brows when he realized he hadn’t swallowed any water this time.

When he got the hang of that, you moved onto floating. You had no intention of teaching him anything complicated, just enough to make sure he stayed afloat for an unforseen next time.

He didn't like the idea of leaning backwards. He was worried he'd get water up his nose. But your hands never left him, and you had promised not to let go as many times as it took to make him believe it. And when he finally beat his fear, he gave you a determined nod and leaned. He was stiffened at first, shoulders high, legs tense. You rubbed slow circles onto his back and counted quietly under your breath. “See? That’s it. You’re not going anywhere.”

Bob blinked up at the open sky, his whole body held afloat by your arms and the strange, miraculous science of surface tension. “Huh,” he said, voice small. “This is… kind of nice.”

You smiled. “You’re doing it, Bob.”

“I’m doing it,” he whispered, as if afraid he might jinx it.

For a moment, there was nothing but the gentle lapping of water and the quiet awe on his face. You watched him fall in love with the feeling of floating the way you'd already fallen for him—utterly, helplessly, completely.

He glanced at you sideways. “You're staring.”

“Sue me, Reynolds.”

At one point, you caught him staring at you, too. He watched you as you floated on your back in a lazy sprawl, arms stretched, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of your breath. His gaze was soft in silent admiration, a look that told you he was imagining a thousand more activities for a thousand more dates. You dipped beneath the water with a grin and popped up beside him, flicking a little splash at his face before he could pretend otherwise.

Eventually, the sun slanted low, turning everything amber. The pool had begun to empty, lifeguards wandering around with towels and clipboards, parents gathering children who’d turned raisin-wrinkled and sleepy. You and Bob lingered. Neither of you said it out loud, but there was something special in these last moments—something worth stretching out.

He rested his arms on the pool’s edge, head tilted back to soak up the final warmth of the day. You stayed beside him, water up to your neck, your shoulder just brushing his. For a while, there was no need to speak. You both simply floated, half-drowsy, your legs occasionally nudging beneath the surface.

When he finally turned his head, his expression was soft, lips pink and a little chapped from the chlorine. He didn’t say anything. Just nudged his nose against yours and closed his eyes. You kissed him, slow and unhurried, the taste of pool water still faint between you.

“I'm proud of you,” you muttered.

Bob looked at you like he might melt. He blinked at you, eyelashes wet and clumped together, eyes glossy in the fading light. That look—half undone, half stunned—made your chest ache in the best way. For a moment, you thought he might cry, or maybe laugh. He didn’t do either. Instead, he leaned in and kissed you again, his breath warm and a little shaky.

You didn’t break the quiet. You let it wrap around you both like the water still rippling at your shoulders. The pool had nearly emptied. A lifeguard far down the lane blew a sharp, distant whistle that bounced off the tiled walls and then faded. But here, in this shallow corner, time had slowed to a crawl.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You froze. It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping music, no fireworks. Just a breath against your skin. A truth, offered tenderly, like something fragile he’d been holding in his hands for too long. It landed like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud yet, like it had snuck out of his chest before he could stop it. His fingers twitched in yours. He didn’t move otherwise, but you felt him stiffen slightly, like he wasn’t sure what might come next.

Your heart rose to your throat in one quiet rush.

You didn’t say anything at first. You pulled him back a little, hands cradling his face, making him look at you. His cheeks were warm despite the water, and his eyes—nervous, wide, a little red-rimmed—held yours like they were trying to memorize every flicker of your expression.

And then you smiled. “Sorry, water in my ears.”

Bob blinked. “What?”

“Didn't hear you. Say it again?”

He chuckled. His voice cracked, just barely. “I love you.”

And before he could flinch or apologize or make a joke, you kissed him. Deeply, fully, like you were answering before your words. “I love you, too.”

Bob's hand found yours under the surface again. He played with your fingers absentmindedly, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of today yet. Like part of him needed to anchor himself to something real—your hand, your warmth, your voice reminding him he could do hard things. Even if those hard things involved pool noodles and blowing bubbles.

“Do I get a reward for learning how to swim?” His voice was shy but hopeful.

You clicked your tongue. “Tsk. You know how to float, not to swim.”

He pouted slightly.

You kissed him again, quick and chaste. “But we'll get there, Michael Phelps. And, yes—” Under the water, you playfully pinched his thigh, forcing him to flinch with a small undignified sound. “You do get a reward.”

His arms wrapped around you tighter, and his laugh—wet and disbelieving—bubbled up against your cheek as he held you like he never meant to let go.

Bob had been drowning long before the lake ever touched him. And even then, you were the one to haul him out into something that finally felt like air. With you, he surfaced. And for the first time, he was finally breathing.

[ysrjune]

Hi 👋 this is my first ask but I really love your Scott and Sam stories and I was wondering if you could do one of the Monroe twins but them liking the same girl? It’s totally fine if you don’t but I wanted to ask anyway! Ps. You’re a fantastic writer.

# WHATEVER MAKES YOU HAPPY. WHATEVER YOU WANT. //

a/n: thank you babe. I'm glad you like the twinsies 😋😋

Sam likes you because he thinks you're cooler than everyone else. You don't care about popularity or if anyone else approves your appearance or not. You aren't ashamed of your interests. You're unapologetically yourself, and he's into that. You also happen to be really nice to him, unlike a lot of other people. You compliment his makeup and his outfits - sometimes even ask what he's listening to if he has his headphones on. He loves it when you say that you're going to listen to that specific band he likes so you can figure out why he likes them so much.

Scott likes you mostly because you're so pretty and funny. He thinks it's attractive when a girl can take a jab from a guy and then make one back. You always share the treats you make as well. With both of them. Sometimes, you even make stuff specifically for each boy. Brownies (😜 if ykyk) for Sam and Candy for Scott (again, if ykyk.) Scott is such a fatass. He could eat anything and everything. So whenever you hang out with him, it always starts or ends with eating something.

So when the boys found out that they both like you, it wasn't pretty.

"Dude, you only like her because she's pretty. You don't actually like her." Sam gives his brother a dirty look. "Oh my God, no, I don't. She's really nice and she's funny. Not like a lot of other girls, man." Scott scoffs and begins to change into his house clothes. "You ain't shit." Sam mumbles and lays down on his bed, finding a song to play in his headphones. "What the fuck did you just say? I ain't shit? Mother fucker, you ain't shit. You let yourself get bad grades, you're high all the time, and you're fucking stupid."

"I'm working on my grades, you know that!" Sam yells. "And don't act like you don't get high. Don't act like you're better than me. Hell, we're practically the same fucking person except the fact that everyone likes you better because I have a few interests that aren't considered 'normal'!" Sam expresses. "You, your friends, and so many other people that I don't even know make fun of me because I'm not a carbon copy of them! Just because I like to dress differently and like different genres of music doesn't mean I'm weird, but that's how you all treat it! Everyone but her."

"What? does she baby talk you and say: It's okay don't worry about them. The way you aren't like everyone else makes you special and unique!" Scott mocks your voice. "Shut up. If you really did like her, then you wouldn't be making fun of the way she sounds." Sam stands up from the bed. "Shut the fuck up, you can't tell me what I do and don't feel." Scott gets close to his brother. "Face it, man. she just feels bad for you. you're a nobody. And you'll always be a nobody."

All of the rage and bickering led to a fist fight. They both had hands on them. Big and strong, so they left each other beat up. Scott had more scratches than bruises since Sam had a few rings on. Their parents were so mad at them. "All this over a girl?!" Their dad yells. "You two are the stupidest boys ever! Scott, I thought you had a girlfriend? That.. that Cindy girl." Scott smirked and shook his head. "No, dad. Cindy is just a girl I make out with." His mom was offended by that. "Just a girl you make out with? I didn't raise you like this! My God.. Both of you are grounded. Forget making this girl you fought over, a girlfriend. I might as well send you boys to boot camp to straighten you up! Or Or.. is it even bootcamp?" She looks over at her husband, but before he could correct her, she yelled. "I DONT KNOW! BUT YOU BOYS ARE GETTING KN MY LAST. NERVE." She says frustratedly and leaves.

"Good grief, you two. Now she's probably going to be mad at me. See what you did?! Keep boot camp in mind cause I oughta be thinking about it." Their father says angrily and leaves the room, slamming the door shut. The boys look at each other with bad looks. "Sleep with one eye open, Scott. I'm gonna kill you." Sam grunts and moves over to his side of the room.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaasxo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far @prettiestmini @amiratheangel

[the-pallid-king]

He snorts. "Is that a promise?" As if Ichigo's ever failed to deliver in the throw down department. "I guess if you promise, I won't ship you off to Ghana myself."

He shoots Ichigo a mild scowl. "Whatever." And takes a drink, before deciding, "if I'm needy, it's nothing new and it doesn't deter you, so you must like it." Ichigo's clearly thinking about this a little too hard. He props an elbow on the table, chin in hand, while he listens. "I mean, that's kinda hot. I could buy you a collar and leash if you want, but I didn't say anything about house arrest. Who said you couldn't leave? I just said you don't have to do dangerous shit and you could stay here." He really does hate people messing with his stuff though.

At first, he just scoffs a mild, semi amused sound, but it bubbles into a laugh that's a little too grim to be true amusement. "I can't just leave. I'd be hunted down by colleagues, by the police. As soon as I step out of this kinda power, I'm a wanted man." Nevermind the addictions and habits and routines. "I had more freedom when I was on the streets. No one woulda noticed me leavin' back then. Just another junkie that disappeared." It's supposed to be a joke when he adds, "Now I'm a notable junkie." But it feels a little too true.

He's not sure if he thinks it's different for Ichigo or not, honestly. Even when apart and trying to hate each other- hell even when Ichigo really did hate him- they seem to be inexplicably drawn to each other. Placeholder feels accurate. Everyone he's tried out, tried on, has felt like a poor fit. A cheap imitation. A fucking joke. He's so distracted ruminating on it that he catches that half assed proposal a beat late and blinks, then frowns.

Yes for sure would fall out of his mouth. It's about to. He opens his mouth to say it, still frowning, but Ichigo cuts in and tells him not to answer. Except he frowns harder. "I'm sober enough to know what I'm saying, jackass. You know how many people try to get me a little too drunk or high to make it easier for them to get what they want? It doesn't work. You get what you want because I want to give it." Wait. That sounds like he's going back on what he said. "But don't ask me right now because I'm mad at you, because you need to be sure, not me. I already know what I want."

He stays leaned over, close, while he waits to see if the phone connects. He wants the girls to be ok too, they're good kids. He won't forget how accepting of him they were the first time he met them, or the random texts after. Then Yuzu answers and a lop sided smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth and he leans back in his chair again, taking a drink from his glass. His attention lifts away from the phone and to Ichigo when Ichigo face plants into his arm like he's hiding.

Fine, his ass. He scoffs into his glass, but doesn't interrupt the conversation. "Glad to hear you're both safe." He says when Karin says hi to him awkwardly. It probably is awkward. They probably never expected to hear from him again. Maybe he should be surprised Yuzu answered at all when his number popped up. But maybe not. Yuzu is kind of a softy like that. She's sweet. He watches Ichigo through the brief conversation, and watches the hurt in him when Yuzu hangs up, the knowing that he just hurt his sisters. "Give it a few days, maybe we can go out there to see them so they don't come here." Because he has no doubt that the girls would at least try to figure out where their brother is.

He shrugs while he finishes off his glass. "Up to you." He's not even entirely sure what Ichigo means to tell them. About them? About his capture? Who knows. "I don't have any experience with siblings, you shouldn't take my advice. I'd tell 'em though."

That sounds crazy, but he wouldn't put it past traffickers to pull something like that off. Half jokingly, "Woulda been a good career for you." Not that there would be any pay involved, so not much of a job.

His brows go up a little tiny bit and he looks over. Obviously he knows Ichigo's not serious. "I mean. Yeah. That sounds like a dream, why're you saying it like it's not a perfect life? What more could you want?" He snorts a dryly amused sound when Ichigo flips the script. "I wish." He doesn't realize how serious he is until he says it. He does wish he could do that, the lounging in Ichigo's bed part, of course, but mostly the quitting part. There's a lot he'd quit if it were that simple. He takes a deep drink from his glass, then snags Ichigo's to refill it.

"Yeesh. Way to make it depressing." But Ichigo's right. "If I have to bury you any time soon-" he doesn't finish, just shakes his head, looking vaguely exasperated, and shoots the rest of his drink like a shot. He pours Ichigo's, slides it to him, then pours himself another. That softer statement makes something sharp slide between his ribs to prick at his lungs. That's what all the partying and drugs and sleeping around is really about; he hates being alone. He even hates his own company more and more. He's not good for himself. "Not just anyone will do." He's tried. He's been trying. Before Ichigo, and now after Ichigo, and no matter who and how many he surrounds himself with, he's still alone.

Ichigo hesitates to accept Shiro's offer and for a second he wonders why. He wonders what must be going through Ichigo's head. Does he think it's some sort of trick? Or is he afraid of getting answers about his sisters? But he takes the phone. Shiro huffs a small laugh. "It's the one I have on me this late." Or early. Or whatever time it is.

He nods while Ichigo talks, recognizing the nervousness there. He wants to offer reassurance, but he's never been one for false promises, and Ichigo got himself mixed up with some really nasty people. His attention shifts down to where Ichigo's fingers tremble, then raise again, seeing the fear in Ichigo's eyes. He reaches over, hesitates a second, then brushes his fingers across Ichigo's as he hits the call button, then the speaker phone button. They can do this together.

[endofradio]

Below the cut is a quick little scene draft of my Sinners OC’s first meeting with Remmick (Sinners is my newest film hyperfixation LMAO). At some point I plan on writing a full-length fic for them but that probably won’t be for a while yet. This isn’t really much of a proper oneshot/fic for me, just something quick I drafted up to get my thoughts out, so I apologize if it’s not the best!

And of course a warning for mentions of white people being, well, white people lmao.

"HELP! Somebody, please! Help me!"

Salma was in the depths of a peaceful slumber (never an early riser, after all) when she was disturbed by the sudden loud noise of knocking on the wooden door of her grandmother's house.

"What the hell…?"

It was desperate knocking, and just based on the voice alone, she could tell there was a white man at the door.

Immediately, she was suspicious.

Her father had taught her to be kind towards anybody in need, being hospitality was an important value in his family.

But this was 1932, the era of Jim Crow, and this was the South. Her mama was Black, her daddy Indian, the South Asian sort. These days, it was dangerous to treat whites with the same level of kindness. That was what her mama had taught her. Even if a white person appeared friendly and vulnerable, there was always the chance it was all merely a façade, that they had an ulterior motive of some kind. Her mama had taught her that suspicion wasn't cruelty. It was merely a way to protect yourself.

And in this day and age, you had to.

So when Salma got out of bed, she immediately went to grab her granddaddy's rifle from the living room where it was situated in a corner near the fireplace. She looked like a bit of a mess as she hurried towards the front door, barefoot in her white nightgown and her feathery black hair slightly messed up. She opened the door, instinctively pointing the rifle at the man standing there.

Just as she'd figured, he was white, but she'd certainly be a liar if his incredibly pathetic appearance didn't tug at her heartstrings just a little. He wore a dingy and tattered wifebeater, his pale skin blistering and looking like it was on the verge of falling apart. One blue eye was open, the other forced shut and swollen. He genuinely did look to be in need of help.

But right now, she was vulnerable. Alone. The rest of her family were asleep. It was six in the morning, after all. Who would bother willingly waking up at this time?

So, Salma was most definitely guarded.

"What the hell do you want?" She demanded, her brown eyes narrowed and her tone no-nonsense. In a way, she was trying to assert some kind of dominance. A defensive strategy.

You can't let a white man know you're scared.

Whites rarely bothered with colored folk unless they had ulterior motives.

The pathetic man whimpered, raising up his hands in surrender. "Ma'am, please. You… you gotta help me. Please."

Salma was unconvinced, and just like her mama, she had a sharp tongue and a foul mouth. "And why should I help you? How do I know you're not one of those Klan fucks tryin' to play some tricks on me so you can just saunter on in, rape me, and then slaughter my family?"

When white men were kinder towards Salma, it was mostly if not always because of her South Asian side. Even though her skin wasn't fair, she was perceived as more attractive. Her dark skin was lighter, her hair luscious and silky, her face round, her eyes big and brown. White men found her more desirable compared to the "ugliness" they believed Black people exhibited. Salma, to them, was "exotic," and it didn't feel like a compliment. It felt backhanded. Really, it was just objectification. To them, she was nothing but a fetish.

So, why should she trust this white man, as polite as he was being? As far as she knew, he could've tried to hurt some poor Black folk, they rightfully didn't take shit from him and fought back, and now he was coming to her doorstep to gain some sympathy and only staying because she had a "pretty face." If he saw the rest of her family, he'd probably run the other way or drop the woe-is-me façade and fight.

The man appeared offended by Salma's accusation, shaking his head and whimpering again, trying to make himself seem all small. "Ma'am, I ain't never done somethin' like that." His voice was unsteady, breaking. "I… I ain't one of those people, I swear!"

Salma still kept the rifle raised, not lowering it for a second.

"I… I ain't gonna hurt ya. Put… put the gun down."

"Not until I know for sure I can trust letting you in here. Why are you really here?"

That was when the man got to his knees in front of Salma, his one open eye actually starting to glisten with tears.

"Please, ma'am. Please. You… you just have to help me. The sun is killin' me. It… it hurts so bad. I can't stay out here any longer."

Salma hesitantly lowered the rifle just a little. "My family'll kill me if they see me helpin' you."

"I… I won't be a bother. I… I promise. Just… I just need a little help, that's all."

"What's your name?" She asked, pursing her lips in thought, her eyes still narrowed.

"Remmick, ma'am."

"Remmick… never heard that one before."

Remmick was beginning to look a little hopeful, showing a hint of a toothy smile. "Will… will you help me? I'll be good, I promise. I… I don't mean any harm. I… I don't even have anythin' on me. See? No guns, no nothin'."

Salma sighed, finally lowering the rifle completely. "Fine. Get your ass in here, then. If you fuck up, I will shoot you."

Remmick breathed a sigh of relief, practically scampering inside as she held the door open for him. "Thank you so much, ma'am. I… I wish I could repay ya, I really do."

Salma scoffed. "You're lucky I didn't shoot your ass right when I saw you. Now, take a seat."

Remmick did as told, sitting at the table near the fireplace. "Nice place you got here, ma'am."

She shrugged. "It ain't anythin' too special." She said, before heading to the bathroom to fetch warm water in a bucket, a rag, and some soap. When she returned, she gestured to Remmick's torn-up wifebeater. "Take that filthy thing off, now. I'm gonna get you cleaned up here."

Once again, Remmick did as told. Salma winced at how blistered his skin was, some pieces seconds away from falling off, revealing raw, red skin underneath. She didn't think sunlight could cause this much damage.

"Yikes. That really must hurt."

Once Salma got to cleaning him up, she grimaced at the way some of his skin literally came off, sticking to the rag. Remmick just kept expressing his gratitude, which honestly added to his patheticness.

"You got any clothes I could steal?" He asked when she finished cleaning his skin. Salma looked down. His pants could definitely be swapped out for something nicer.

"Uh… yeah, sure." She answered, nodding. "Got plenty of clothes we've been meanin' to get rid of, actually. Think they'll fit you. I'll go look."

"You really are too kind, ma'am. I… I'll never forget ya for this."

Salma rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up."

She walked into the dressing room, searching through the drawer containing all the old clothes that needed to go away. She found a pair of clean pants, a button-up, and suspenders.

That should work.

She returned to the living room and handed Remmick the neatly-folded clothes. "Here. Go in the bathroom, then get dressed and go before my family gets down here."

Remmick swallowed. "The… the sun's still out, ma'am."

Salma sighed. "You can't stay here for the night. My family won't approve. My daddy would, but nobody else."

"Y'all got an attic? A basement? I can… I can stay in there 'till it's night and your folks are asleep."

She considered it. "Hmm… we do have an attic. Nobody's gone up there in a while. I… suppose that would be okay. Just… be quiet when you go up there. You're lucky you came here while my family's asleep. My mama would kill you."

Remmick nodded, smiling again. "Thank you, thank you. Y'just saved my life, ma'am. Ain't nobody been so kind to me. Not in my life."

"Really?" Salma asked with a scoff, chuckling. "Ain't you white? You all get much better treatment."

Remmick avoided that topic, which made her start to feel suspicious again. "You're not from 'round here, ain't ya?"

"How can you tell?"

He was right.

"Your accent. It's… unique. Switches up."

"Well, I was born and raised in Chicago. Mama's a Southerner. Daddy grew up in Ireland, but his parents are from India. Both of them moved to Chicago some years ago, that was how they met. I suppose that explains it."

Remmick slowly nodded, clearly intrigued. "So, how'd ya end up here?"

"Visiting my mama's folks. We come here sometimes to see 'em."

There was a period of awkward silence between them, then Remmick stood up.

"Well, I suppose I better get changed, then I'll quit buggin' ya." He chuckled. "Thanks for everythin', again. You've got no idea how much it means to me."

"Well, you won't stop thankin' me, so I'm pretty sure I have at least somewhat of an idea." Salma then smirked. "Now, get the fuck out of my face. My threat still stands, by the way. If you step outta line, you'll be staring down the barrel of a gun in seconds."

Remmick chuckled sheepishly before taking his new set of clothes with him and disappearing from her sight.

"Yes, ma'am."

[iamthatonefangirl]

okay but imagine the winter soldier leaving hickeys and the reader does that thing where you like twirl a whisk on the mark to get it to go like what do u think his reaction would be?

stop I’m actually cackling at this (okay sorry y'all cue me being an idiot again-)

okay but I’m literally already so silly goofy that he’s learned to not question things

jumping around like a dipshit while listening to music that sounds like a fork in a microwave? no questions asked

making weird fucking snorting noises while watching tiktoks? not even gonna bother

randomly speaking in a shitty british accent? nope not happening (don't even get him started on hearing you say "I can't hit my protein" in said accent)

so even though this is a new font of you doing things that confuse the hell out of him, he's not gonna ask, he's just gonna... stare ominously (as he tends to)

"don't look at me like that, this is all your fault," you tell him as you twirl the whisk against your neck. "you're not supposed to be doing this shit where people can see it."

no words, just staring and silently judging

"it's just a trick I saw on tiktok okay? I figured I might as well try it"

more eerie silence

you pull the whisk away from your neck and lean into the mirror to inspect it. "I don't think it's working."

you pull back and try again for another minute

"this shit hurts, you know. beauty is pain, or whatever," you comment, digging the whisk in deeper to see if that'll help

and then he finally decides to do something 🙄

so he walks up behind you and grabs the whisk out of your hand, throwing it behind him

"are you fucking serious?"

"are you implying my marks make you look ugly?" he hisses, bringing his hand to your throat, digging his thumb into the hickey

"you know that's not what I meant, dumbass."

his other hand comes to your waist, pulling you against him

"I'll fucking prove you wrong," he hisses, bringing his mouth to the hickey on your neck and biting on it, already sensitive from the whisk

"goddamnit, James-"

anyways this is literally hilarious anon thank you ily

[quintessenceofdust88]

You... you're glowing." "People always say that when someone is pregnant." "No, you're actually glowing." Bucktommy + preg Evan :3

This prompt kinda reminded me of the little idea that i shared with you days ago haha :3

Congrats one 500 followers

Hiiii darling! Thank you smmmm ♥

Okay, I loved this prompt so much, especially when we talked about that idea of yours! Thank you for letting me use it btw ❤️❤️❤️! I really hope to do it justice!

I hope you enjoy it, sweetheart! I had a lot of fun writing it, and I might make sth bigger out of it because the worlbuilding is just so tempting. I've never tried magical realism before, though, so we shall see!

Anyway, here you go:

-

Growing up, Tommy had always heard Nonna talk about La Luce. The light.

She claimed it ran in their blood, passed down through generations—especially among the women in their family. About this particular gift that made them special. There were stories of a cousin who could heal with just her hands, an aunt who whispered to animals and swore they whispered back, and her great-aunt Alessia, who conjured fireballs in the winter and carried them like candles.

Tommy had never taken it seriously. Nonna didn’t have magic. His mother didn’t either. And as far as he could tell, he was about as magical as a wet sponge.

He’d always figured if magic did exist, it had long since fizzled out in their family.

He was very wrong, as it turns out.

It's supposed to be a normal day. Tommy parks in their garage at exactly six o'clock, having finished his shift and being quite ready for a quiet night in with his pregnant husband, and Nonna's magic stories are the last thing on his mind.

The house is perfectly quiet when he comes in; not even Tara, their cat, comes to greet him, which can only mean one thing. Tommy smiles to himself, ready to enter the living room and be met by the sight of Evan and Tara napping on the couch, a very common one the last few weeks.

What he doesn't expect, however, is the aura of golden light that seems to be radiating from his husband. It's faint, and pulsating, but it's there, and it seems to be stemming from his bump. Evan is peacefully sleeping, his eyelashes gently resting against his cheeks as his chest goes up and down, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

"Oh my God!" Tommy exclaims before he can stop himself, and that, very predictably, wakes his husband up.

Evan sits up on the couch, rubbing sleep off his eyes, and gives Tommy a very pronounced pout. He still hasn't noticed that he seems to be the human equivalent of a flashlight.

"The hell, Tommy? Is that any way to greet your husband?" He complains mid-yawn, and Tommy can't stop looking at him. Evan frowns at him. "Everything alright? Is there something on my face?"

"You're glowing" Tommy says stupidly, and Evan rolls his eyes.

"Seriously? Are you really trying to flatter me with that after waking me up?" Evan complains, and he's running a distracted hand on Tara's fur, trying to calm her protests at being so rudely yanked off their slumber. "People always say that when someone's pregnant, so you have to try har..."

"No, Evan!", Tommy interrupts exasperatedly. "You're actually glowing!"

"Tommy, what the hell are you talking abou..." He starts, and Tommy rushes to the light switch, turning it off so Evan can more easily see what he means. Once he does, Evan very bizarrely becomes the only light source of the living room, and he looks down at himself with widened eyes. "Whoa! What the hell?!"

"I know!" Tommy exclaims, his voice about three octaves higher than usual. "Are you feeling okay?!"

"But you're glowing!" Tommy insists, and Evan raises an eyebrow, but he seems more curious than worried.

Evan looks at him, and then back at himself, and shrugs before nodding.

"I mean... Yes? I'm not feeling anything different." He says, and somehow he's a lot calmer than Tommy.

"...Our baby is making you glow?!" Tommy asks, and Evan shrugs. Tommy has no idea how he can be so calm, and can only assume it has something to do with the aura surrounding him.

As if testing something, he runs a gentle hand on his bump, making soothing noises. The glow instantly brightens a little, and a small smile takes over Evan's face.

"It's not me doing it, babe. It's her"

"Apparently? I mean, she was a bit active before my nap, but just the usual moving and kicking. I don't know what this is all about. But it doesn't hurt. I feel fine." He says, and then frowns. "Do you think we should call 911 anyway?"

"We are 911", Tommy reasons, but his phone is already on his hand. 'I'm calling Hen"

"Uh..." Tommy starts, not particularly sure how to continue. "Does glowing like a lava lamp on the couch counts like okay?"

Tommy's not particularly sure why he is calling Hen for this, except that she always seems to have the answers for absolutely anything, and Evan trusts her a lot. They've called her for every little pregnancy symptom that worried them so far, and she's always helped calm them down.

He's not sure she'll be able to this time. But he makes a video call anyway.

"Hey, Tommy", she greets, and her tone makes it clear she's already expecting a pregnancy related freak-out. "Everything okay with Buck?"

"...What?" Hen asks in exasperation. "Tommy, are you taking edibles with a pregnant person in the house? Cause that doesn't sound very safe"

"Peace", Evan says, and he sounds very sincere. "And it's... warm, I guess? I don't know, she seems perfectly happy to me, and I'm not in any pain. I feel totally normal, actually"

"No, Hen, I mean it!" He says desperately, and flips the camera so it shows Evan. The light is even more noticeable on the camera, and his husband gives it a sheepish wave. Hen lets out a small gasp of surprise, and Tommy feels perfectly validated. "See?!"

"Hi, Hen" Evan greets. "Learned anything about glow stick babies in med school?"

"Can't say I have, Buck", Hen says, and she sounds one second away from freaking out. "This looks... way beyond my payroll. Are you feeling anything?"

"You don't look perfectly normal" Hen offers, and Tommy finds himself nodding vigorously. 'But, um. I don't think this is health related"

"Oh?" Evan and Tommy ask in unison, and Hen takes a sigh, as if she's half expecting them to laugh at her.

"When I was growing up, my mom used to tell these stories about... The Gift. Some... some kind of magical power that could be passed through generations." She says, and even she sounds skeptical. "i know it's insane, but... Have you ever heard of anything like it?"

"Yeah!", Evan exclaims, and he sounds so enthusiastic, in that way he always does when he gets to share fun facts he learned on the internet. He comes closer to Tommy and his cellphone, as if he wants to make sure Hen can hear everything. "It's a story told in all types of cultures. Some also call it The Whisper, or The Light."

"The Light?! Fuck. La Luce!" Tommy exclaims, and Evan looks at him with realization all over his face.

"Nonna?" He simply asks, and Tommy can only nod.

"Well, sounds like I'm not the one you guys should be calling right now", Hen states. "Good luck, you guys."

Tommy and Evan thank her. Apparently, they'll really need it.

[fuckabledragonoftheday]

You used Rex Lapis vs Zhongli as an example but I don't see anyone having made a case for Neuvillette from Genshin Impact as a fuckable dragon.

He has proof of dragon-ness (the blue rhinophores in his hair, he's a water dragon. Arguably his weird eyes too) and is in-lore a dragon who was stuffed in the body of a human (potentially via divine intervention trying to nerd him? Can't remember if a reason was stated?) He is also the collective father figure of a race that is described to be the daughters of a dragon.

Sorry for the essay I'm autistic about dragons and want this man carnally

This mod is actually hyperfixated on Genshin Impact, like this is my jam, so I will actually respond to this in detail.

TL;DR I love Neuvillette and he is a dragon but I am too pissed with Hoyoverse's cowardice regarding dragons to award it by posting an anime man.

Yes, I know that Neuvillette very much is a dragon. Hell, he's shown more dragonness than Zhongli so far. He understands saurians, and once the hydro archon... left her throne, phrasing as to avoid spoiling people, he took back his reign over hydro. And I love him.

HOWEVER.

My man's dragon form is still a speculation, and I realize I relented and posted some dragons that don't look like dragons, including but not limited to Falin (Dungeon Meshi) who looks more like what we know as chimeras but lore-wise is a dragon, and Dan Heng (Honkai Star Rail) from the same company as Genshin Impact. I did not mind posting Falin because she's a dragon as far as the universe she belongs to is concerned. I minded posting Dan Heng because that's just an anime boy with horns and tail and they are not even committed to the horns and tail! They only show up under specific conditions!

And Hoyoverse keeps including dragons in their universes, giving them a banger lore, and... shying away from making them dragons. Zhongli was famously a shapeshifter but he shed his dragon form to have a mortal life and we only see the corpse he leaves behind. Neuvillette, despite being a honest to god dragon, only gives away his true form in shape of a ladle. The only dragons that were allowed to be dragon-shaped are antagonists, Dvalin and Azhdaha and Durin and the very advanced ancient dragon race that went extinct and the only remaining ghost of that race also being a world quest antagonist before fading away forever!

And, salt to the wound, as if that's not enough...

Mini Durin, whom we pulled out from a storybook, wants to become human. (And he has, though we didn't see what he looks like clearly. To their credit, we did see very clear horns and wings, but Albedo also said he needed time, so he might shed them too.)

And I am not even going to talk about Bailu and Lingsha from Honkai Star Rail.

So, yeah, Neuvillette is a dragon, but I cannot in good conscience post him as the conventionally attractive anime man that he is, especially considering how much of a COWARD Hoyoverse is when it comes to dragons.

[just-your-average-supervillain]

Alright, now that I've finished Canto VIII, here are some of my thoughts

Absolutely peak, as always. The fights were... a little overtuned... but generally, I had fun. Hong Lu's dramatized EGO moments was absolutely beautiful, and I'm glad that Project Moon has deigned to leave the vast majority of characters alive. Although, now I'm confused about if Hong Lu potentially distorting was a red herring, a canceled plot point, or just something that was never meant to be actually intended beyond as an example in Hell's Chicken.

Pinky Lore! So, every member of the Pinky is generally isolated from each other and only act as a group when called together, with them otherwise being loyal to the group they're infiltrating. Also, they're based on Mount Liang from Water Margin, with Mount Liang incidentally being located in Q Corp. Gee I wonder where we're headed next.

Shin lore! Shin being a defensive light that you then compress to create Mang, and the fact that it's taken a while for Lei Heng to figure out how to create just one Mang, with Qiu having five... hey, Demian, any tips on how you can generate something like a dozen Mang with a wave of your hand? Also, I'm fairly certain that this is how Dante will become less of a weak point as per Hohenheim's hints that LCB will become stronger in a way that he previously mentioned was limited by Dante's frailty.

Chesed Durante, and the fact that Dante both heard and quoted something the moment they manifested it... intriguing.

I loved Qiu just infodumping something like a half-dozen groups that are all fighting off-screen, this feels like the most blatant excuse for PMoon to fill up their roster of potential Identities; R Corp's 2nd Pack, X Corp, the return of K Corp, and so on, I can tell we're gonna get a lot of lore and Identities from them.

The general character moments overall. Hong Lu is rather obvious, but also stuff like Sinclair being certain that Qiu is constantly thinking about killing the ones who massacred his family, Outis trying to reason with Don Quixote as fellow survivors of wars, Faust explicitly going against Gesellschaft's recommendations and declaring that she'll follow Dante no matter what, Meursault acting as a mediator for Outis and Gregor... lovely.

God, I can't wait to get the Season 6 Roadmap.

[ronearoundblindly]

Good evening 😏Congrats on your follower count! You deserve every single one 🙂‍↕️

For your sleepover event I have a blorbo and an AU for you 👉🏻👈🏻

Steve Rogers + a Meet UGLY

Ohhhhhh boy oh boy, here we go, gang. I went Full-Ro with the humor on this, so hold onto your Steve's butt. That's pretty much the only warning--save for some potty-jokes and light language--is that a bad guy dies...it's not graphic, I swear.

Your daycation-staycation has brought you to the outskirts of town where it's all rolling hills, fields of crops, and some adorable, roaming livestock as a bonus. During one of your casual stops to watch horses graze, you hear faint screaming.

You perk up from your resting place against the fence. To your right, no cars (except yours), and no people. To your left, no cars, no people, but the yelling is incessant and getting louder.

Then you look up.

He's falling so fast, you can hardly tell it's a man until the last second. His arms and legs are still outstretched when he lands. The screaming cuts off with a solid thud, and nothing can be seen of his body over the tall grass he fell into on the other side of the road.

In confusion, you look up again, trying to figure out where the hell he--THERE'S ANOTHER FIGURE FALLING.

You take off running. Who knows what you think you can do to help, but your body just says 'go.'

This one's not making any sound. Their limbs quickly tuck together for the last hundred meters or so, and the landing is significantly...better?

You're hopping a low fence, staring at the wet and muddy ground of a pig pen, as the man hits with a squelch so loud you shiver and an eruption of thick, stinky muck. Flying poo and dirt drizzles over the grass between you and a human-sized crater.

You see movement before hearing the groan of disgust.

He's alive...though...he might wish he weren't once he realizes...

"Shit," the man mutters, brown and chunky all over, having to rip a disk out of the mud it's lodged in beneath him. Everything else is indistinguishable. You can't make out his clothing, hair, or even his skin color through the--the--

You hold back a gag as the wind changes. The smell is so strong.

"Are you...alright?" You approach now that the precipitant feces has stopped. "Can I--do you need help? Should I call for an ambulance?"

"You can tell Stark to shove that--nevermind--" the groaning returns while the man carefully stretches and checks himself for damage "--I'm okay. I just--"

He swivels so you can't watch him spit repeatedly, and the shifting back and forth knocks a sheet of clumped gunk away from the disk he pulled out.

A giant, bright star. A sliver of blue. A curve of red.

"Captain?!" you shriek before reining in your shock. He sure doesn't look like much now, but the attempted smile that answers is confirmation enough (along with surviving that fall, of course).

"Hi. Hello," he says with a half-hearted wave, flicking off his hand immediately after. Steve Rogers climbs out of his impact pit to a chorus of terrified swine. He takes in what he can of the terrain as he scrapes off, revealing more blue. "Could I trouble you for...for a ride?"

Your eyes go wide. Your face twists involuntarily at the stench.

"Sure, but--" you point him to the water spigot on the side of the pen's troth "--maybe we should hose you down first."

He hangs his head and walks as best he can without splashing the mud.

"Yeah. Good idea," he says, resigned to the awful truth of his circumstance. "If you could maybe not mention this when we get to the airfield, I'd appreciate it."

As the tap turns on, the pressure won't increase above a decent pour.

"Uh, it looks like words aren't going to be the thing that gives you away..."

You hear a deeply annoyed sigh and another quiet, "shit," but he holds out his hands to cup the clean water dutifully.

Your little day trip just became infinitely more interesting than expected.

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots]

A/N: This is not good, clean fun lol but I hope you enjoyed it, Grem!

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp

[chewnchuu]

A Stray—!?

ft: Jing Yuan

synopsis: dog? cat? What the hell is this thing that showed up at your door in the middle of the night soaked from head to toe?

CW: hybrid au, hybrids can't talk but understand languages just fine, not proofread, reader's gender not specified

note: making a Jing Yuan fic since I accidentally added a tag with his name in my last Jiyan fic. I typed 'Ji' and assumed the first tag that automatically popped up to my JIYAN fic was Jiyan, sue me. Someone wasn't happy to see it, my fault original gangsta, lemme block you in case this happens again.

Rain shot down like a fire of bullets, thunder occasionally cracking amidst the sound of the downpour. You were nestled into your couch with a blanket draped over you, sipping on some freshly brewed tea when you saw a large figure saunter past your window in the corner of your eye. You could barely make it out, and as much as you wanted to disregard the thought, the possibility of something that large outside your house in the middle of the woods wasn't exactly pleasant.

You had a simple lamp that lit the corner of the couch in which you sat, the other source of light was your TV. Yes, perhaps you'd increase the volume on it, your hand would quickly swipe the remote from your coffee table, hastily jabbing the button that ups the volume. Surely it was just a regular animal, nothing major. It was so huge though. Maybe it's just a bear! Like that was any better.

You let whatever movie that was playing drown your thoughts out. Hopefully whatever it was had already wandered off.

Boom!

Lightning struck, thunder rumbled, and with your nerves already tense, you jumped out of fear. That's fine, that was natural, a bit of a shock, but nothing to really fret over.

Then another loud boom.

Then there it was, briefly illuminated by lightning, a tall hulking figure, facing you, looking directly at you from outside your window. Your heart felt ready to eject from your chest. Your hand's grip on your mug faltered as fear had you glued to your seat. It was unmoving, eerily watching you for a few moments.

A tap was heard from against the glass, the sound sounded so clear despite the buzz of the T.V.

It moves and it leaves your vision, but you know it's now standing at your door with the knock that intrudes afterwards. It's not violent per say but the knocks aren't exactly light.

Finally you decide to move, rushing to close the curtains before you click the outdoor light on. Then you take a look through your door's peep hole. A tall, soggy male— a hybrid you note by his tail, equally as soaked as the rest of them. You've encountered a hybrid without an owner out and about like this. You're not sure why, but it genuinely seemed like he was looking directly back at you, and not just looking at the door expectantly with that oddly docile expression. There's a strange hint of mischief in it though.

Whether it was out of stupidity or pity, you let him in.

You got him a towel— two because of his size and fur plus a change of clothes, you originally had planned to ship to a friend, that'd fit him. "Those will fit you right?" You ask as you helped dry off his hair while he sat quietly on the floor with his fluffy white tail curled around his body. He nods in response, nuzzling against the towel in your hands. A soft purring emits from him.

Ah, he's a cat.

As you continue rubbing the towel against his hair, you finally notice the collar and name tag on him. You're barely able to make out the name.

Jing Yuan

A few weeks pass, and Jing Yuan is still living in your house. After the night he showed up at your house, you tried to call up someone who might take him off your hands. You've never owned a hybrid, you didn't have any plans to, surely there was someone else who could take him. Each of your attempts to discuss transporting Jing Yuan failed. Why?

The bastard kept stealing your phone and hung up on anyone you tried to call.

"Ah, yes, hello? I'm calling because I have a hybrid who— wha- Jing Yuan!" A hand would softly keep you at a distance the other hand of his would raise your phone into the air before swiftly hanging up and handing it back to you, all with a lazy smile on his face. "You're not thinking I'm gonna let you stay here are you!?" He only smiles, now with an innocent little tilt to his head.

You eventually just gave up because he started shadowing you around your house, and he wouldn't stop until he was absolutely sure you weren't going to try and make that call.

So now he lives with you, permanently. You don't know hardly anything about hybrids and their mannerisms. You've only learned that this Jing Yuan was a cat hybrid— a very clingy one at that. He let himself get comfortable, quick, after he oh so confidently just knew he'd be staying at your residence. He's lucky he's so handsome you think, it makes you wonder how he ended up a stray, especially since it's clear he had been under someone else's care.

Well it's not like Jing Yuan would let you try and find his old owner. You suspect he still tunes into your phone calls, just in case. It's quite scary how he'll go from half asleep to completely focused on your every move.

You just had to open that door. Now he's your problem, congratulations.

Jing Yuan often clings to you whenever you're seated or laying down. The problem is that he's massive, bulky, and heavy. Not to mention he's the most annoying piece of work to move once he falls asleep right on you. Maybe if you weren't getting crushed, you could appreciate how cute he looked.

When you're on your couch, he's all up against you, tail wrapped around your waist while he squishes his face against yours while subtly pleading for you to stroke him, pet his head. Jing Yuan makes your touch a full on requirement.

And he is always all up on you. You have to beg him to stop trying to groom you— keep him from constantly lapping at your cheeks while you're trying to fall asleep. It's hard to, obviously, with his tongue coating your face with saliva. It's even worse when he goes for your ears, you have to physically pry him off you, and even then he still can't keep his greedy mouth off of you, so he settles for leaving kisses on your neck instead. Those roaming hands of his aren't much better, but he usually rests them securely on your stomach and only rarely do you feel his finger tips leaving teasing touches at your v line.

When he's not attached to your hip, you notice that certain chores around the house are already done before you get to them, and sometimes even your work seemed like there had been someone else attentively editing and finishing it up for you on your computer.

Overall he's somewhat well behaved-ish, and you can't get rid of him, but he's not a complete nuisance.

Your lovely pet cat Jing Yuan🩷

[thejadevvitch]

The Jade VVITCH pt. 2

A/N. Happy Birthday to me and to any of my Birthday twins 🌻🎊💐

Background

What if Wanda Maximoff had a teacher? Another orphan girl who came to find Wanda after she saw footage of her fighting with the Avengers against Ultron in Sokovia. A girl with green magic who knew what Wanda would become. Wanda adopts her as a younger sister figure and they grow powerful alongside each other. The Jade VVitch. (The double V is purposeful. Witch VVitch looks cooler)

Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader

Warning! Mention of child abuse. Mention of child death. John Walker...

One by one the shadow ops climbed out of the elevator shaft. Starting with the asshole John Walker. After Yelena it was now Jadises turn. "Come on greenie its your turn." Jadis griped his hand and was pulled up. "You almost got Bob killed." Jadis muttered to him. John just rolled his eyes. “I made a tactical decision to secure my own safety before ensuring all of yours. Pretty ungrateful, if you ask me.” Jadis grunted in frustration before turning around to make sure Bob was OK. "Come on, Bobby." Jadis moved closer to ensure he was still there when his head popped up. "Thanks Captain." Bob said in annoyance grabbing Walkers hand.

"Hey. Are you alright?" Jadis asked Bob. The latter smiling when he saw her waiting for him. "Yeah.. yeah. Cause of you. *breath hitches* If it weren't for you Id.. I'd be..." Bob said gratefully. Jadis put her hand on Bob's arm and flashed a smile. Her smile turned into confusion when she realized. "That's weird..." She whispers. Bob immediately apologizes. "I.. I'm sorry I thought that." Jadis looked up putting her other hand on his chest. "No no not you. Im sorry I Just-" She was interrupted by Yelena yelling for Walker. Jadis looked over to see him standing near the edge. She immediately started walking to him trying to read his mind. But she can't see anything... "John!" Jadis yelled out. All of a sudden she was able to read his mind. All she felt was anxiety and sadness. Emptiness... John turned back to see everyone staring at him. "Let's go." Said Yelena. The latter, Ava, and Bob making their way towards the door as Jadis walked closer to Walker. "Are you OK?" She goes to reach for him but he just pulls away from her. "I'm fine!" He scoffed before moving on. Jadis stood there trying to probe his mind but all he was thinking about was his son. Which made Jadis smile. But then she understood that he felt that he's failed as a father. "Do me a favor. Stay the hell out of my head!" Walker suddenly snapped at her. Making her jump back. Bob comes to her defense. "Leave her alone you asshole!" Bob pushed him away. A strength rushing through him making the super soilder fly back and bang against the door. "You're dead Bobby!" Yelena was the one to step up and keep Walker from going off. Meanwhile Jadis looked down to notice what Bob did. With one hand he sent the man flying. But with the other he was in defense mode. "Bob?" He looked back to see that he was actually holding Jadis around the waist. The latter with her left hand holding his back and the right places on his chest. His heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

Bob stood there in disbelief for a moment. Until that disbelief turned into raw lust. And Jadis looked into his eyes to see they've turned gold. He was so close. "I will never allow anyone to touch you again." He brought his free hand down and ran his thumb under her bottom lip. "I will protect you." Jadis just looked into his golden eyes and her stomach flipped. He looked at her lips before his eyes went back to their normal shade of blue. And Jadis saw his confidence immediately plummeted. Stepping away from her. "I'm s.. sorry. I.. I dont know what came over me." He sated. Looking down, rubbing his hands in shame. A single tear ran down her face before she quickly wiped it off. "It's OK." She whispers.

The doors to the outside opens making everyone duck for cover. The sun is down and the moon is high. Everyone looks outside to see a squad of black cars spitting out soilder after soilder. "I can take ahold of their minds and make us invisible to them." Jadis offered. Sticking out her hand immiting a small green light before it fades. "Walker I swear to god..." She gritted out. The U.S. Agent rolling his eyes. "Get over it already. Any other ideas?" He asked looking around. “I think I might just surrender, probably,” said Bob. Jadis looked back at him before speaking. "Absolutely not. I won't let that evil bitch get her hands on you again." Bob gave her a small smile. Why is she nice to me? He questioned himself. "Stay with me." She reassured. “Okay, fine,” John said, shrugging. “Every man for themself, then.”

“Why should you be in charge? You almost killed all of us right there!” Yelena bit at him rightfully so. John shook his head like it was obvious. “Well, let’s see. I’ve been in the trenches of every war-torn country there is, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two US presidents!” Jadis looked at him with sarcasm. "Ohhhh how distinguished." Walker ignored her “What else... oh! High school state football champs, back to back to back. Go bears!” Jadis just rolled her eyes as did Yelena. “Oh, wow. When I was five, I was in a peewee soccer team named the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts, sponsored by Shane’s Tyre Shop. We won zero games, and one time one of my teammates did a poo midfield! Anyone else have any pointless stories to share?” Exasperated, Ava pointed to herself. “Grew up in a lab prison.” Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Meth-addicted sign twirling chicken. Was a… summer job.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. Walker then looked to Jadis.

"What about you greenie?" Jadises magic kicked in. "I quite literally fought Thanos one on one." Her eyes as well as the veins on her face started glowing green. All collectively seeing Jadises memory of the battle.

"And that was after I had fought his army of Chitauri AND his special forces. 2 out of the 4 of them I killed by myself."

Everyone came out of the memory. "Well that was impressive." Ava admitted. Bob looked around in confusion. "W.. what did you see?" Everyone looked at him confused. "What is it about you?" Yelena gathered everyone and spit put a decent plan. Yelena and Walker pair up and wait for Jadis and Bob to shut off the lights. While Ava gets them a ride out.

Bob stuck close to Jadis the whole time. "S..s.. so you really can't. *points to his head* See what I'm thinking?" He asked her. She was really perplexed on why. But she couldn't. "No. I don't know why. My guess it has something to do with what Contessa did to you. The pure evil of that woman." She was obviously disgusted. "Well who says it's a bad thing?" He asked genuinely. With the way his life was going. He'd take anything. Jadis stopped and grabbed onto his hand. Bob looked at their locked fingers and up to her eyes. He was so glad she couldn't read his mind. "You were asleep inside that vault. You were woken up because these yahoos were all sent to kill each other. You weren't supposed to be woken up Bob. Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She was going to burn you in that vault along with them. Trust me. It is a bad thing." Just as she was pulling away to keep walking Bob ran forward to catch up and keep their hands locked. "Why do y.. you care about me?" He asked as they kept walking hand in hand before reaching the panel to turn off the lights. "I grew up with no one. I had no one to defend me. Protect me. I was beaten for most of my childhood." Bob looked down in shame. Remembering what she went through as well as himself. A person that understood. She continued, "I felt you... when you woke up I immediately came here. I won't lie to you when I say I came because of whatever power you possess. But I'm tell the truth when I say that I want to help you. Whatever that mean for you. I will protect you. I will get you out of this."

"I'll just stay with you in that case." He smiled at her.

After this Jadis was having difficulty shutting off the lights. Frustration building until she said, "Screw this." And with all her might sent a green blast shocking the area around them. Shutting off all lights in the vault. "Well done." Bob clapped. "Thanks. Let's go." They walked again side by side. Brushing shoulders and exchanging a few blushing smiles before they ran into two soilders. With her magic seemingly coming back Jadis picks them up and smacks them against the walls and up against the ceiling before her power fades again. "NO!" She screams smacking her hands together. The feeling of Bob coming up behind her. Wrapping his arm around her waist. Moving her away form the soilders attempting to get up. And the second they touch... her magic immediately comes back. And when she lands back on her feet she just stares at her hands glowing green. Looking from them to the blue eyes of Bob. Wondering why her magic... Before she remembered the men in uniform. Mustering up a spell before the taller one takes off his helmet. It's Walker... "STOP! STOP! STOP! ITS WALKER, STOP!" He screamed before the other revealed Yelena. Gasping for air. "I am so sorry." Jadis said covering her mouth in genuine regret. "Jesus Christ man!" Walker followed up. Not happy. "In my defense you two were in uniform with guns!" Yelena grunted with frustration, "Enough! We need to get out of here. I'll deal with my concussion later. Put these on."

The four of them made their way out dressed as men in black. Yelena and Walker carrying Bob like a wounded soldier. Jadis followed close behind them. "I don't think I wanna be carried anymore." Bob said trying to look behind him. "Stop moving. And stop looking back, you're injured remember?" Walker said in annoyance. "Where's Jadis?" Bob asked. Making Jadises eyes fall off Valentina. "I'm here, Bob don't worry." The team made it to the area to wait for Ava. She was supposed to be bringing the escape vehicle. “We don’t know where she is. She could be halfway to Mexico for all we know,” Walker stated. Before a truck pulled up behind them. Ava materialized in the driver’s seat. “Get in,” she said. Yelena and John clambered into the front while Jadis and Bob sat in the back of the tactical vehicle, where there was nothing inside but two wooden benches for seats. “Will you be okay back there?” Ava asked. Bob gave a thumbs up and they headed off.

"Are you OK Bob?" Jadis asked once more. "Yeah... yeah. I'm good. Thanks for asking again. I mean... It's.. it's not everyday you get attention from an Avenger. Especially The Jade VVitch." Bob said making Jadis chuckle. She looked st him with a smile. Normally she didn't vibe with someone so quickly. But Bob was cool. "Tell me about your life Bob." His eyes shifted around. "Uh... I used to party hard. I uh... I signed up for this medical trial and uh... well you know. And now I'm here. With you. So I guess it was worth it." He stated before continuing. "Sometimes I have… really high highs… and then really low lows… and it’s hard to remember things in the middle." Jadis nodded her head in sympathy. "I'm sorry. That must be so taxing on you." He nods he head side to side. "I manage." He says. Before Jadis can comfort him the truck came to a grueling halt. A soilder came up to the window asking Walker for identification. "Can't you mess with his mind and make him let us go?" Ava asks as she materialized in the back with them. "I'd have to see him. I can't cast a spell on him if I can't know whom I casting it on." The man asked Walker for ID once more. The super soilder having the brilliant idea to simply go, "No." Jesus Christ... Bob was panicking and Jadis noticed this. "I have to go out there." He stated reaching for the door. "Absolutely not. You're gonna get killed. Or worse they'll lock you up and use you until they kill you or get you killed." Jadis seethed grabbing ahold of his arm. "Stay with me remember?" Bob looked into her eyes. Her beautiful pale green eyes before speaking. "I am so happy that I met you. And I'm so sorry I have to do this again." Bob connected their lips. The kiss was passion. Until that passion faded and Jadis had fallen back into that room.

The Void

Jadis appears back in her last foster home and immediately starts to panic. "No, no, no, no, no..." She cries before that rat bastard bursts through the room and grabs Jadis off the bed. Followed by The Jade VVitch grabbing the foster father. Until he, Jadis, and the two other girls all come and grip a part of her body to stop The Jade VVitch from interfering. "It's too late..." Jadis says to her older self before everything resets. The door bursting open once again. "Who ate my fucking doritos?!" Her foster father screamed. The Jade VVitch let out a scream that cause a blast of energy destroying the room. Standing in a pitch black pit she is greeted. "Such darkness. A void... that matches my own." Jadis heard that voice. It sounded similar to... to him? "Bob? Is that you?" She called out. Jadis looked in the distance to see a shadow walking towards her. Bob... but not. "Your soul has been touched by darkness. You relate to him in so many ways. But... I see myself in you as well." The dark man said. "Bob?" Jadis was confused to say the least. A tear falling from her eye. The shadow bringing his hand up to wipe away the tear. The feeling of his touch cold. "We will be together soon."

Reality

Jadis wakes up with a gasp frightening Ava who's watching over her. "Relax. You may have gotten knocked out." She said. Jadis looked back for Bob only to see a giant hole where the door should be. "W.. where's Bob?" Ava didn't answer. "Where's Bob?! What happened?!" She shouted with worry until she just grabbed Avas hand and saw her memories.

"I'm sorry." Ava stated as Jadis started to cry. Yelena pulled everyone's attention. Up in the sky. "BOB!" Jadises voice carried. Then he started to plummet to the earth. And then. Impact. The car was sent off the side of the road and down the hill. Everyone was OK. Jadises first instinct was to go after Bob. "We have to save him." Walker groaned in pain. "He's on the other side of the base. There's no way we can get to him before Valentina." Jadis tried to fire up her magic but it seemed she wasn't strong enough to carry herself up into he sky to reach him in time. "John. Please tell me how much longer this will be?" Jadis asked him. "Another hour. Two at most." She cursed under her breath. "Guys..." Yelena yelped out. Holding a file. “The power of a thousand exploding suns? Golden Guardian of Good?” Ava read over her shoulder, scoffing. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Sentry,” said Walker, taking the case file from her. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he read. “Very shiny. I didn’t think any of them were still around.” What? What did he mean? “Did you know about this?” Jadis asked. Anger building. Jadis snatched the file from him. “There was a rumor that O.X.E. had some kind of big breakthrough. I don’t know much, but whatever it was, it was apparently way too extreme. Test subjects were dying. And then when the government looked into it, Val shut it down, and she put me on clean-up duty. I was meant to take care of him.” He hesitated on that last part. And for good reason. The way Jadis looked up at him made him glad her magic was weakened. "How could you all work for someone like that?" She asks. Ava is the one to chime in. "You don't know what you're talking about." Jadis scoffed at her for once. "Contessa Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine is something I know plenty. Human experimentation. Theft. Exploitation. She tried to start an open war with Wakanda. And if she ever gets her hands on Adamantium... this world is fucked more than it already is." Jadis just looked over the files and couldn't see Bob this way. Until it clicked. "Bob's power... his power is an outward manifestation of his mental state..." Everyone grew confused. "What are you talking about?" Walker being the one to ask. "What they did to him is a variation of the super serum. The serum just amplifies what's already there. Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse. In Bob's case it's... it's something else. Something dark... this file says that there were complications with the doctors administrating the testing. Shadows... they weren't ever found. Whatever she did to him it's not good... And now she has him again."

[itskenwaybitch]

Reblogging with my own takes (no disrespect meant, simply my own opinions!)

Starting out with the special little guy ever

Desmond: Bisexual as hell. Token bisexual. The bisexual ever. Like Jamie mentioned, Des has canonically been attracted to multiple women. Personally, I ship with Desmond with Shaun and I also just get fruity vibes from him LMAOO

Shaun: Everyone knows that Shaun is bisexual except for him. He would literally rather die than admit that he might have feelings for Desmond. To be honest, I think that he has trouble admitting feelings for anyone (go to therapy bud).

Rebecca: That's a bisexual woman if I've ever seen one. I feel like she's more female-oriented, but there are definitely exceptions! (Shaun)

Lucy: The token straight person in the friend group. Potentially bicurious maybe just for shits and gigs. Kinda weird headcanon: Shaun and Desmond and Lucy and Becs had like weird situationships going on, and then Shaun and Becs got together through trauma-bonding. :')

Altaïr: Demisexual I feel like he's the type of person that keeps his heart under lock and key and only lets certain people in. Other than being demi, I feel like he wouldn't really put a label on himself, and just has a "I like who I like" mindset.

skipping the rest of ac1 characters because i haven't actually played it yet </33

Ezio: Pansexual. Gender identity doesn't matter to him, he just likes who he likes. And he likes a lot of people LMAOO He's just such a romantic that I don't think he has it in him to have a preference.

Leonardo: Homosexual. Was actually gay in real life, which is really cool! A gay man invented a bunch of shit that we use today! How cool is that! Suck it homophobes!!

Yusuf: Idk, I feel like he's straight but if he ended up catching feelings for another man, he wouldn't necessarily be mad idk idk

Haytham: Bisexual (with a male lean) but, like Shaun, will never admit it to himself. Refuses to call himself gay but then proceeds to have the most homoerotic relationship with Shay what the hell man. British and a repressed homo pick a struggle fr

Ratonhnhaké:ton: Heteroromantic demisexual. I feel like him and Altaïr are really similar I feel in the sense that they are both very guarded people and don't really let a whole lot of people get genuinely close to them in fear of losing them. With Connor in particular (and this could just be me projecting lmfaoooo) I feel as if he has intimacy issues due to not really having a strong parental figure for most of his life and so romantic relationships aren't necessarily his top priority. He has an important mission, after all.

Edward: One of the only characters I can confidently label as heterosexual. There is just something so aggressively straight about him idk idk. Possibly kissed a man once while severely drunk off his ass but didn't really think anything of it.

Shay: Pansexual or gay I can't decide LOL Regardless, has a thing with Haytham (clearly).

Arno: Heteroflexibile/Bicurious. Mainly attracted to women, but not necessarily apposed to dating a guy. Another one that doesn't really want to label himself, and just tries to deal with his feelings as they come to him.

Jacob: Canonically bisexual. Why are all of the assassins so bisexual tho. Like why are they all the bisexuals ever. So violently bisexual it hurts me. In Jacob's case, I feel like he swings both ways pretty equally.

Evie: I don't care what happens in canon, that is a lesbian if I've ever seen one. Greenie was a one-off fling when she was still figuring herself out. They're still besties though!!

Layla: I honestly can't get a good read on her, so for my own sake, I'm bestowing lesbianism upon her.

Bayek + Aya: My biological heterosexual parents (I am a 21st century white girl). Next.

Kassandra: BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN BUTCH LESBIAN

Alexios: Pansexual. Very similar to Ezio in my opinion. He's such a loverboy that I don't think he really cares about gender, he just wants some action LMFAO

no valhalla characters because i haven't played it yet except for:

Basim: Another demisexual guy! Wants to make sure he really loves and cares about someone before committing to them.

haven't played shadows yet, but might update when i do! if you got this far thanks for reading!

Following isa-belle1367's post, I too have some head canon pertaining to our beloved assassins and their sexuality.

My pride month 2023 six first

Desmond Miles: bisexual, given how much we ship him with men and how in canon he's been interested in two women (Elijah's mother and Lucy).

Malik Al-Sayf: Asexual, this guy was accused of welding the Creed and The Tenets like a shield, suggesting that he doesn't find sex for the sake of sex appealing but Secret Crusade does reveal he has a son.

Kadar Al-Sayf: Lithsexual, there is not much in the way of information for this sweet baby but given how fans portray him, I went with him liking Altaïr but not necessarily wanting those feelings reciprocated.

Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad: Demisexual, preferring to get to know someone before sex enters the picture. Weather it's Maria Thorpe in canon, Malik whom he's known for years or Desmond/Vega in Eagle of Alamut Altaïr wants to know them before sex happens.

Ezio Auditore: Pansexual, the man usually at least until brotherhood is with a different woman. And by the end of two has been romantically involved with Cristina, Caterina, and Rosa, nevermind how many courtians. Then nevermind the fact that we ship him with Leonardo and Desmond.

Speaking of Leonardo Da Vinci: Homosexual, I think this one is historical fact. The reason he is well known to Paola is that he a) has pertook of some off screen male courtians or b) he's a good wingman.

Rosa: Sapiosexual: Rosa likes someone with more than two braincells to bang together. She fell for Ezio Auditore mind you. A man who is highly intelligent and has studied before becoming an assassin.

My pride month art always includes an Ally.

Maria Auditore: Straight and Cis, also warning heavy topic in bound, she has survived losing her lifetime spouse Giovanni Auditore and very likely having been raped. The thing that struck me is her silence. Sure the loss of her husband and two of her four children could do that but something Annetta said caught my attention "She’s in shock. They… When she resisted…". That seemed weird to me. So either they beat her, likely, or raped her, more likely. But to circle back to happier topics, she is supportive of her children and thus an ally.

Other assassins

Shaun and Rebecca: Straight (Married by Valhalla)

Evoir the Wolfkissed: bisexual

Federico Auditore: Homosexual

Claudia Auditore: Demisexual and Sapiosexual

Edward Kenway: Pansexual

Connor: straight

[cosmogyros]

I met up with a friend yesterday. By the end of our time together (about three hours), as usual, I had a lot of mucus build-up in my nose and throat. As usual, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom to intensely blow my nose for several minutes and try to get rid of it all.

It was still so bad when I got home in the evening that I couldn't sing. It's still so bad today, 24 fucking hours later, that I can't even record a voice message to a friend. I keep having to violently clear my throat and blow my nose (all in vain, it barely makes a difference), and finding myself unconsciously grinding my teeth because I have so much tension in my entire head from struggling to breathe.

I wish I knew what my problem was. I wish even one of the numerous doctors I've consulted about this problem over the years had even pretended to take me seriously instead of just saying "Hmmm" while nodding very solemnly and then basically saying the doctor equivalent of "You get mucus build-up and develop breathing issues... specifically after hanging out with other people and talking to them for a couple of hours? Sorry but that sounds like bullshit, I can't help you."

I'm so tired of having a mysteriously dysfunctional respiratory system :( Wtf is my problem. I'll never be able to be a real singer at this rate.