#tidy tabs

[dpw67blog]

Arc - Browse for me

Arc browsers for you with Tidy Tabs, Instant Links, and Arc Sync.

The Browser Company released this week’s update to Arc browser with several interesting features: Arc Sync, Tidy Tabs, and Instant Links. With these automatic tab groups, you can easily save them in Pinned Tabs, move selected folders to another Arc space, or copy all its tabs as Markdown links for an Obsidian note or map. Arc Sync The new Arc Sync feature provides end-to-end encryption for your…

[dead-rabbit-comics]

what a wonderful resource!

4 shaft weave structures with drawdown and! a photo of the cloth!!

[kikikakapo]

my emotional support tabs

[nnay-naee]

Mental illnesses themed group of tabs

[delicatebluebirdruins]

Lockets and Rings

disclaimer this will be a ramble... no one should be surprised

so I just started rereading the Screaming Staircase and Lucy just picked up the locket of Annabel Ward (well obviously i am also finished at the time of posting) and I was thinking about how it is in the show and I won't presume to know why they changed it (maybe because it would be easier for Lucy to remove and how easy it was to put it front and center on Annie's finger and frames her face and i just think its a haunting image) but both serve to show the relationship between her and Fairfax in different lights (heck in show verse he could have given her a locket as well)

Lockets are often ways to remember something or someone. They contain pictures most of the time and sometimes locks of hair or maybe little love letters.

So often it is a connection to the giver a way of keeping them close. It contains a image or a piece of them.

Onto how it is in the book.

page 57 of my copy "once, that girl's living hands fixed it around her neck, think to make herself look lovelier for the day"

180 "maybe I just wanted to save something of her, so she wouldn't be completely lost" a thing that came through in the show (also glad the show added Lucy acting "odd" when connected to it

186 noticing the seam without noticing the seam

Later on I mention the presentation of the memories attached to this precious things in the show but here is the book 191-192 "first a man and woman talking; the woman's high-pitched laughter, the man's voice joining her as one. Then a sensation of fierce joy, of passion shared; I felt the elation of the girl, her feverish delight. A great bulb of happiness spread out to fill my world... The laughter changed, became hysterical in tone. The man's voice grew harsher, the sound twisted. I felt a cold, sharp jolt of fear... And then at once the joy was back and all was well, well, well... Until the next reversal, until contentment curdled, and the voices rose once more in anger, and I was sick with jealousy and rage... the mood-swings flashing past... And all at once came sudden silence, and a cold voice talking in my ear, and a final blaze of fury that ascended to a desperate shriek of pain"

emphasis mine the cycical nature the jealousy and rage of both parties "I was sick with jealousy and rage" and the final moment of anger

Inscriptions on the locket: same quote from Hamlet and 196 latin "my torment, my bliss" which is again very telling on how jealous and insecure Fairfax was.

page 218 "The necklace doesn't really add anything. Even without it Blake is clearly guilty" I have to add this line because it made my eye twitch like this is a reread and I know Lockwood follows up on it and it's incriminating evidence but still I had to share it. Inscriptions are important be it as simple as initials, words or what Fairfax did with the locket which is add a reference to a specific passage from "their" favourite play and "my torment, my bliss" and there is a record of it rings inscriptions depend on the size of the band and those can be slender so it would be very small writing (and we who have bad eyesight suffer with it example i have looked over the wedding rings in my grans jewellry box many times and today i found that does have an inscription of her name and my grandads it was in a bag that I halfheartedly labelled "not inscribed") but still receipts exist

244 Both show and book have an intruder working on behalf of Fairfax try to take the precious item back... inadvertantly shoving the trio onto the right path. That the importance of it is more than meets the eye.

250 I am very glad the show added more emphasis on Annie playing Ophelia in Hamlet as it joins Fairfax, Blake and her in this unwilling jealous love triangle (assuming Blake felt anything for her other than fondness of a coworker in the show we know she dated him for little bit) If we had more time maybe we'd have more than one mention of Fairfax and showbuisness.

and then we get a big gap and resume with

407 Fairfax performing under his middle name and the history of his acting stint being something he remained proud of and probably something he always wanted to do but expectations of his life kept him from his real true love his great pride but still love of money is greater than anything else.

409 "passion is what Annie and I shared" passion goes both ways it's a very strong emotion and we see it in the glimpse we got of their relationship

410 "Annie was not of the correct social standing, you see her father was a tailor, or something of that kind- and my parents would have cut off my inheritance if they'd known about her. Well, finally Annie demanded we go public. I refused, of course - the idea was impossible-so she left me... For a time she went around with Hugo Blake: a fop, a worthless dandy. He was no good and she knew it. Before long she was back with me." Everything Fairfax did was to keep the relationship secret and keep Annie with him it was Hugo Blake dropping her off at the door that was the ignition for his jealous rage ending with Annie's death. Fairfax also visited her in secret and waited for her inside. I don't think I have to say how terrifying it must have been to come home and the moment you're inside you're being confronted by an angry jealous man'

412 admitting he forgot the Locket for weeks vs "I often regret leaving it behind when I bricked her into that chimney. I knew it was monstrous. But I couldn't throw my whole life away for one mistake" which is actually not completely discrediting the idea that in his panic and guilt it slipped his mind to take it with him (but still him keeping it with him somebody could find and ask about it)

428 Annie hopefully moving on and the locket being destroyed in the funaces

Now lets talk about rings

When rings come into play in romantic relationships people tend to lose their minds a little. What with the empahsis on extravagant engagement rings and the simpler wedding bands.

Symbolically as a whole rings are unending circles a sign of an unending bond, a show of committment. No matter the relationship type.

so promise rings: it's a commitment ring without being a engagment ring or wedding ring "It's given by one partner as a token of their fidelity, and in turn worn by the other to show that the commitment is mutual." and can be used to signify a future engagement

Engagement and wedding rings can become heirlooms passed down through the years, and it's obvious what they mean but its the greater/ greatest emotional show of romantic commitment.

And I think having it be a ring in the show is incredibly cruel of Fairfax. We don't know what the interaction was like when she got given the ring and it's inscription but just think about the hopes she had for their relationship, for their future. All brought up because of a ring and a significant inscription for her "never doubt i love" because of what she did as an actor and the quote itself.

The snippets of conversation when Lucy channels Annabel. Fairfax seemingly making a mountain out of a mole hill and working himself into a rage. Talking about Hugo Blake dropping her off "did you tell him where to go?" and Annie not knowing what the problem was and just being happy that she gets to spend to time with the man she loved. "She's afraid *pants* It's alright he loves me you love me don't you." As well a the confusion and the desperation of "you gave me the ring. he'd never hurt me, never... stop, stop look at me you're hurting me stop please I can't bloody breathe" all draws out the pain Annie is feeling.

modes of death and other things

in the book Annie's death was seemingly accidental a hand raised in anger and a broken neck it was the cover up that made it murder. And I don't why I started thinking about this but lets diverge to another show another story. The Haunting of Hill House adapted by Mike Flanagan and Nell Crane's passing in the show. Her mother's locket (holding the images of her and Luke) turning into a noose. And with a hanging there is two ways to die a broken neck and suffocation. Suffocation is a hard way to go intimate no matter where you are, you are sharing the last breath of another person. It also a little premeditated? nobody gets accidently strangled right

[catbolt]

Sylus is attentive, extremely so. Nothing about you is secret from him, whether you wish it was or not. Since you've been together, you've found yourself a victim of his control-freak tendencies— the fact your location, step count, heart rate, and apartment security cameras had all become his personal business was something that took a while to get used to. He's respectful as he can be about it, regularly reminding you he does it only to make sure of your safety and always coming clean whenever he's been snooping. Over the months you've grown to find it endearing instead of creepy, because it makes crystal clear how he simply cares so damn much about you.

You can't hide from him, even when you want to the most. When you're holed up under the blankets in the dead of winter, the shitty weather and 4pm sunsets bringing out the worst of your depression, he texts: "Sweetheart, 150 steps? Am I reading this right?"

You cringe, wanting to disappear. "Stop tracking me," you respond back.

"Have you not gotten out of bed?" His follow up text comes in immediately, and then those three dots pop up on your screen again. He's not giving you a chance to respond with the "I'm fine" he already knows you've halfway typed out. "I'm coming over. No questions asked."

Before you know it he's at your door, making himself at home without asking, his care quiet and efficient. Mephisto keeps you company in bed, chirping and whirring on your nightstand as Sylus busies himself tidying the apartment. After a moment, Sylus brings you a glass of water, toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, a hair tie— little things that make you feel a bit more like a person again.

He then slips into bed next to you, helping tie your hair back into a neat ponytail as you demolish the first glass of water you've had all day. You give him a wordless, grateful look.

"You know, I won't think you're weak if you ask me for help," he murmurs gently, his voice gravelly and tender. He squeezes your shoulder.

You want to tell him that you know, but that it's just really hard. He gives you a warm look that makes you feel like he's just read your insecurities like a book, his hand slipping into yours beneath the blankets. He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"This is why I keep tabs on you, sweetie. I need you to know that I'll always be here."

[A/N]: this a combination of some similar requests and an expansion on one of my sylus headcanons! if you sent a request along these lines hope you enjoy :)

[calcifiedunderland]

If you’re still doing requests— could we have Azul selkie to finish up the series? The other shots were so cuteee

💌 Request received!! Thank you for your message, your delivery is ready~

This will have a part two!! Thank you for all so much the support given to the other parts of the selkie series!! Hope you enjoy!!

Azul Ashengrotto, ft. Selkie

Floyd! Jade!

Anyone foolish enough to take the pelt of Azul Ashengrotto knew the consequences of daring to steal from him.

He’d spend years in the ocean, dealing with jabs at his octopus form. Remarks about his ink, his slow speed, his size. Even comments on tearing his Selkie pelt, or even outright try to rip it off him. He’d hide in his secret grotto, pelt wrapped around him snugly (although he wished it formed a tail instead of tentacles). He’d be safe and sound, with only his golden contracts for company. He’d make everyone regret making fun of him.

Soon, Azul made friends with Jade and Floyd, two eelmer selkies, and Azul had grown his business. He was no longer the crybaby octomer selkie. No, he was the cunning businessmer of the Mostro Lounge, Housewarden of Octavinelle now. No one had to know he was a selkie.

His pelt sat in a little treasure trunk Azul had found while searching for coins in a shipwreck. It was unassuming, and rusty from seawater. The ink-black and lavender skin, folded along the several slits in the pelt that formed Azul’s eigjt tentacles, was folded carefully and tucked gently into the trunk. It sat under his bed, and every night he slept over it, dreaming of ocean waves and saltwater curling over his multiple limbs.

Azul knew his reputation preceded him. So, he figured, if it was out of sight, it was out of mind. Leave it to Jade and Floyd to show their pelts to the landfolk. Azul would hide his, baring only his strengths to his adversaries. His pelt would only be a weakness if anyone wanted to control the merchant of Octavinelle house.

No one knew Azul was a selkie until his overblot. He winced to remember it, even now. How his overblot form had shown off his octopus form to everyone. The hushed voices in the corridors, asking “did you know he was a selkie? I had no idea.”

Now students who were once under Azul’s thumb would wish to do the same to him. Cruel irony wasn’t lost on Azul.

Now they’d be out for blood in the water.

Fortunately, he’d suspected this. He’d tipped Jade and Floyd off about his suspicions, and had them keep their ears to the ground about any strange behavior. And soon, they found it.

Someone would steal his pelt tonight. And he would be ready for them.

You were working yet another cleaning shift at Mostro Lounge.

After Azul’s overblot, you decided to enter into a (much fairer) deal: work as-needed at the Lounge. Your paycheck was a tidy little sum, and you worked small odd-end jobs for Azul when the twins couldn’t. Fetch supplies, tally worker availability, et cetera. Tonight, you were in charge of taking away dishwater when customers were done.

You would say that you and Azul had grown… comfortable with each other. He seemed to want to prove something to you after his overblot. Sure, you’d spoken some kind words to him at the Atlantica museum, but you figured that would be that. When the semester resumed after winter break, he’d sought you out, offering you the little position.

Maybe it was to keep tabs on you. After all, now you knew his secret - that he was an octomer who didn’t want anyone to see his true merform. But you had a very small inkling that maybe Azul wanted a friend.

Or at least, you told yourself that when he called upon you to do impossible tasks. You hefted a stack of plates to take to the kitchens, when you heard a voice hiss on the other side of the booths.

“The Housewarden will have no idea! And neither will the Leeches!”

That got your attention. Nothing ever seemed to slip Jade and Floyd’s eyes, nor Azul’s. Still, nothing good could come out of scheming dorm members. You slid into the booth quietly, pressing close to the booth divider as you listened through the cracks.

Two Octavinelle and two Savannaclaw students picked at some fries as they complained. “Ashengrotto is the worst!” An Octavinelle student seethed, “if it wasn’t for him, I’d still have my unique magic!”

A Savannaclaw student agreed, “that conman took my strength! I just wanted a study guide for Alchemy, and then I got booted off the Spelldrive team ‘cause I couldn’t throw the disk!” He pounded his fist on the table in fury, “Leona didn’t even care when I said Azul took my strength! He said it was my fault? That schemer rigged my contract!”

The other Octavinelle student was more pensive. “Look, I had no idea Azul came from the sea. It’s so rare, it’ll go for at least a few thousand thaumarks.”

A chill went through you as the Savannaclaw student agreed. They were going to rob Azul? That didn’t seem right. Sure, Azul swindled students with contracts, ‘stealing’ from them too, but his stipulations were always listed in the contract. He didn’t rob anyone from under their nose. Not like these guys.

“I bet that octopunk hides it in his dorm,” one of them sneered. Your ears pricked. The contracts were in the vault. It can’t be those. Your mind flashed to Azul’s prized coin collection. They can’t be stealing some coins?

Maybe they were worth something? Still, you thought as you glanced at the group sideways, something wasn’t right.

“We gotta do it tomorrow night,” one of the Savannaclaw students insisted. “It’s too busy now. We can give the Leeches the slip, and Ashengrotto will be too busy during rush hour.”

Your mind raced. The group of students were getting up to leave now, so you ducked under the table. You heard them leave, and gathered the dirty plates quickly.

You had to do something.

“Azul, it’s happened.”

Azul glanced up from his desk. It hadn’t even been an hour after closing time. From the look Jade was giving him, Azul knew: someone was plotting to steal his pelt. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Floyd rubbed his shoulder where his pelt was tied beneath his clothes, frowning. “You sure ya don’t wanna just move the pelt? Me n’ Jade could keep it in our dorm so those bottomfeeders don’t find it.” Azul shook his head, fire in his eyes. “No. I want them to find it, and then have it ripped from their grasps,” he said vehemently.

“Besides, if the teachers catch wind of it, it will need to be in their possession.” Night Raven College had a rule about stealing skins and pelts, especially for selkies. Still, that didn’t mean students didn’t covet pelts for the potential thaumarks.

That night, Azul slept with the chest next to his pillow. He willed himself to relax. This would be over soon. These students would be an example. He would see to it.

You clocked into Mostro Lounge extra early the next day.

Jade seemed surprised to see you, “Prefect? We likely won’t need you until later today…?” You shrugged, smiling deceptively. “Well, I could do with the extra hours.”

Soon, you were carrying plates to and from tables like normal, breezing past students and workers alike. All the while, you studied each face for the students until-

You glanced up. There they were.

The two Octavinelle students were in their dorm uniforms, which doubled as the Mostro Lounge work uniform. You spied the two Savannaclaw students sitting at a table near an empty hallway. That would probably be their exit, you reallized. That was a back entrance that not many knew - no one but Octavinelle students. And you.

You watched as the one of the Octavinelle students skulked up the stairs, nodding to the other, who stayed put at the bottom. You clutched your stack of plates just as someone barked to you, “move it, Prefect! There’s customers waiting!”

From a dark corner of the Lounge, Azul watched his two dormmembers with disappointed, calculating eyes. Holding his pelt trunk in their grubby land-dwelling thieving hands. Azul glanced over at Floyd, “you know what to do.”

Floyd nodded silently before moving to intercept them on the other side of the exit. From above on the staircase, Jade nodded to Azul before tailing them from the second floor. Azul sighed. This would be over soon.

Meanwhile, you ran to the kitchens and dumped the plates into the sink just as you saw the two students walking out together. You dashed out, dodging everyone. Your heart began racing as you saw the Savannaclaw students smirk and walk out after the Octavinelle duo. No…!

You finally reached the doors and you slammed them open. A rush of anger swelled in you as the four of them with smug grins.

“Hey! You!” The boys stopped, seeing you there. You balled your fists up, “that isn’t yours. Give it back.” One of them scoffed, “Who cares? Run off now, Prefect.” You grit your teeth, fingernails biting into your palm. You were still able to notice that he wasn’t holding the coin frame Azul had in his room. Was that a treasure chest? You didn’t have time to think. Maybe it had coins in it. Either way, they were thieves.

From behind a wooden post on the second floor, Jade rose an eyebrow, “Oho? Now this is interesting,” he grinned. He watched you from the foyer on the second floor. He’d expected the thieving quartet to be foolhardy, but he didn’t know you’d also known about their plan.

It seemed Floyd had seen you too, Jade caught his brother’s teal hair peeking from behind the exit door with intrigue. He and his brother shared the same thought: Were you looking to steal Azul’s pelt too, Shrimpy?

“No!” you shouted with force that surprised you. The four students jolted, seeing fury in your eyes. “That doesn’t belong to you! Thieves! How dare you steal from your housewarden?!” One of the Savannaclaw students recovered, “That bastard Azul stole everything first. Huh, if the pelt matters so much to you, come n’ get it!” he goaded.

For a moment, no one moved. Jade watched in keen interest as a moray would while waiting to strike, while Floyd looked on, eyes glinting.

You could only hear your deep breaths as all the advice Coach Vargas had given you rushed back into you. You may not be as built as some of these other guys, he’d said, but you got something above them.

What? You’d asked as you dodged Vargas’ fist and used his own momentum to push him to the ground. Coach turned to grin at you, You use your head, kid.

So you did.

You darted for the box, and the Octavinelle student holding it yelped. You kept your eyes on one of the Savannaclaw students who lunged at you, and immediately you spun. You dragged him past you by his shirt, using his own momentum to send him plummeting painfully to the ground. One down, three left.

The other Savannaclaw student yelled as he made a fist to punch you. You dodged it, dropping to trip him onto the other Savannaclaw student. One of the Octavinelle students let out a yell, “You-!” It was easy to disarm him. All you did was jab him hard in the stomach and kick his shin and he tripped over the other two.

At last, it was just down to you and the final Octavinelle student. The chest was now between the two of you, dropped in the fight. You staggered to your feet, breathing heavily as you stared back. You tensed when the student took a step towards you, and—

“Aight, I’m bored.” Floyd suddenly materialized from behind the door. You gasped just as the student turned and suddenly went white with fright. Floyd had a terrifying look on his face, as Jade walked in through the entrance behind you. “Oh? What’s this? Two of our students, and Leona’s, fighting the defenseless Prefect? How uncouth.”

You stood, panting, while Jade and Floyd circled around you towards the students like sharks eyeing prey. The last Octavinelle student standing breathed hard, jabbing a finger at you. “Vice Housewarden! Th-they took the chest! We thought they’d try to steal from the Housewarden and we-” “Silence.”

Jade’s face was now devoid of any amusement. His fist clenched, and Floyd was now staring at them with wide, manic eyes. You scooped the trunk into your arms and clutched it tightly, eyes flickering between the twins and the students.

Jade took a step to them, “It is one thing to be angry with our housewarden, and yet another to steal from him. The four of you must be very bold,” he now towered over the octavinelle student, staring directly down at him, “or stupid. Especially to steal something so valuable.”

A frightening grin stretched across Jade’s face, showing off his very sharp, shiny teeth. “Fortunately, we are quite benevolent. Isn’t that right, Floyd?” Floyd skulked up from behind the other three students, giggling, “‘course, Jade~ In fact, its like they wanna get squeezed~”

You suddenly realized your breaths were very, very shallow and you felt lightheaded. Sevens, you were hyperventilating and you weren’t even the one being threatened. Jade cast a sideways glance at you, “Prefect,” his tone became gentler, “why don’t you take that back to Azul and explain what happened?” Floyd’s grin somehow became wider, and his eyes more manic, “don’cha worry, Shrimpy, we’ll finish up here~”

You couldn’t run out of the room fast enough. When you cast a glance back, you saw Jade slide his gloves off using his teeth just as the door slammed. You made a beeline straight for Azul’s office.

By now, the Lounge had closed. All the staff had left, it seemed, so you didn’t have to explain to anyone why you were so… flushed. You stopped before Azul’s office door, and took a deep breath before knocking and entering.

Azul frowned, “Jade, please-” before stopping. His pen clattered out of his hand. You looked worse for wear. Already, bruises from the fight were forming and you looked disheveled. Not to mention, you were out of breath. But what really caught his attention was-

“I got your stuff back,” you panted, shutting the door. Azul could hardly move as you sat opposite him on an armchair. The trunk sat on your lap. Azul couldn’t take his eyes off of it, heart clenching.

You wouldn’t steal his pelt from him, would you? He’d repaid you back. He’d given you a generous wage and job, he’d helped you several times, and he’d apologized over and over. You always assured him that all was well, and normally he’d just let the matter drop, but some part of him always felt guilty.

It was your kindness, he reasoned, or your naivety. He’d given you a job at the Lounge because he was paying you back, not because he liked having you around. He had you run errands for him because you had connections on campus, not because he’d be in your company or trusted you.

“Prefect, I-” Azul composed himself, “thank you for retrieving my… belongings.” He tried not to look too eager to have it back. Right now, he didn’t know if he could trust you. Would you demand a ransom? He watched you carefully.

You hardly noticed Azul’s watchful gaze, “y-yeah, I’m glad I could help.” You sighed before placing it on Azul’s desk, “I overheard some students yesterday. They said they wanted to go into your dorm and steal from you,” you explained. “I didn’t know if they’d actually do it, but I saw two of them go upstairs. I followed them and… got it back,” you rubbed the back of your neck.

Azul laced his hands together, humming. The twins were going to apprehend them anyway, but it was surprising that you went to such measures. “Jade and Floyd found them, too. They’re dealing with those students,” you winced, not wanting to think about it.

Azul studied you. “I see…” So you weren’t holding it ransom. Good. Azul ran a hand over the trunk idly, until a thought struck him. He’d always expected his selkie pelt to be taken. He never prepared for when it was given back to him.

He didn’t think anyone would give it back to him, not without force. But you… his gaze met your eyes, and you were struck by his sharp blue eyes. You gave it back to him. Of your own free will. You’d even fought others for it. You could’ve stolen and sold it, but you’d returned it to him.

And if you’d given his pelt back, then that meant-! His eyes snapped to the trunk. He flicked the lid open, feeling relieved when he saw the octopus pelt laying undisturbed. His fingers tangled in it, and he breathed deeply, trying to think rationally. That meant you knew how important it was to him. That was assurance. According to selkie tradition, this was also… a courting gift.

The thought came to Azul so rationally and normally, it was alarming: naturally, he would accept this deal. The next realization made his throat go dry: he would have only done this if it was you.

“Well,” Azul looked flushed, a pale pink dusting his face. He cleared his throat, “Now this is…” you frowned, “Azul? Are you alright? They didn’t break into the box, have they?” “No! No, everything is…” you didn’t quite understand the look Azul gave you as he cleared his throat, “everything will be perfect, Prefect. I promise you.”

You were surprised when Azul insisted on personally escorting you out of Octavinelle. He just couldn’t stop talking. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for returning my pelt, my pearl,” he rasped. “I-I do promise to put everything in writing, and have it ready tomorrow. Of course, we’ll do things in accordance to how landfolk conduct themselves, too.”

“I- what?” You asked as you stepped onto the threshold. The bubble that transported students to and from the dorm entrance to the Mostro Lounge enveloped you as Azul waved at you. You were struck by the soft, flushed look on his face. Your questions faded on your lips as the bubble floated away towards the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors, and you watched Azul’s figure get smaller and smaller.

You were left with more questions than answers as you walked back to Ramshackle awaiting your apparent meeting with Azul tomorrow. What just happened?

Part two is underway!!!

[d1s1ntegrated]

Shigaraki is so pathetic he’s able to cum untouched just from kiss

shared seat (nsfw)

fem!reader x loser!shigaraki

cw: dacryphilia, premature ejaculation, mutual pining, desperation, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, no use of y/n (blank name space instead!!), tomura is a mega computer nerd, reader plays dumb kinda, some light hurt/comfort i guess?? making out, afab/fem reader, implied virgin shiggy :)

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•

naturally.

you have tomura in the palm of your hand. every time you walk by him, brush against him awkwardly, tap his shoulder to get his attention, it sends sparks through his touch-starved limbs and makes him dizzy. every night, he begs and pleads for you to come into his room, even just to sit in there. he wants you in whatever way he can, to see you, smell you, touch you, hear you. gods, of course he wants to taste you, but he's learned the hard way to take whatever he can get.

so when you knock on his door and ask him to teach you how to sort out your PC and mod a few games, his heart lurches in his chest. of course, of course he will. he trudges behind you to your bedroom, watching your ass jiggle lightly in the dingy sweatpants you stole from him a few months back. he takes a deep breath before sitting in your desk chair, immediately clicking through PILES of random trash files and download files.

"_______" he starts sternly, brow already furrowed at the sight. "have you not been deleting the download files after you download a mod?"

you shake your head. "won't that delete the mod?" you lean on your desk next to him, uncomfortably close to him. he smells the conditioner in your hair, your sweet perfume. he tightens his gloved grip on your mouse as he shakes his head and tidies your desktop up.

"fucking idiot" he mumbles as he clears a few gigabytes from the system, "this is why it's so slow, stupid". you giggle and mumble, "ohhhhhh" under your breath.

who's to say you didn't know that. who's to say you just wanted an excuse to have him in your room, huffing at your desk, having his scent fill the room and his frustrations cloud your thoughts. but he didn't have to know that.

he keeps clicking through folders, and you nudge the chair. he turns to face you and you mindlessly sit in his lap, telling him "let me in", spinning the chair back to face the desk.

his breath hitches as your plush ass presses against his dirty pajama pants and half-hardened cock. you watch the pointer on the screen as he sorts through different game files, his breathing unsteady in your ear. you giggle as he groans at the unnecessary folders and shortcuts.

"why...dude, what's with all the sims mods?" he asks, voice filled with genuine concern as he clicks into the mods folder. you panic and spring up, sending the chair back a bit with him still in it. your ass is directly in his face as you scramble, closing the folder.

tomura's eyes widen and he forgets the folder entirely for a moment as your shirt rides up, the small of your back exposed, the waistband of your underwear pulled slightly above the baggy sweats. he starts again and rolls his eyes.

"dipshit, just let me make sure there aren't duplicates, okay?" he pulls you by the waist into him again, your ass falling back onto him. he closes his eyes for a moment to regulate his thoughts.

the mods folder flashes back open. he scrolls through hundreds of mods, your body tensing as he pauses and reads through them all.

"what the hell are you doing to those poor sims" he laughs nervously as his cock grows tighter against you. you grimace as he closes out of it and goes into the save files folder.

he stops when he notices his name front and center, paired with yours.

he nods and stays silent, and you readjust in his lap. your eyes gloss over, unable to confront the clear tension between you two as you shift, his free arm lacing around your waist slowly, holding you tightly as he tries his best to hold back.

he closes out of the tabs and sits on the blank screen for a moment, clearing his throat.

"did...you need me to do anything else here?" he leans forward with you a bit, greedily inhaling your scent again as he awaits a response.

"hm...yeah, can you help me set my new speakers up? they won't connect for some reason." any excuse to keep him here.

"hmph. yeah, sure" he bites his lip and scoots the chair in, opening the program.

"they're plugged in, right?" he asks, and you nod.

"mhm, i'm not that dumb" you playfully lean back, your face all-too-close to his. he rolls his eyes and hums to himself as your weight presses more against him, and he's painfully trying to conceal how hard he is. if you don't stand, maybe you won't notice. he's so fucking close already, he's afraid any small movement will ruin it all.

you lean forward to turn the dial on the speaker and his breath hitches. he twitches in his pants and feels the moisture beading from his tip, hissing lowly to himself as you readjust again.

"jesus, _________. can you figure your shit out" he snips, and you laugh. he groans as he twitches again, dangerously close to finishing right here.

"sorry" your words come out as a whisper as he grips you closer now, his fingers tracing the exposed skin under your shirt as he fiddles around with the settings. you smile as he touches you.

you take it one step too far when you scoot back into him, using his thigh to steady yourself. as you grind into him, he loses control and feels himself cumming sporadically in his fleecy pants. he shakes against you, his head falling into your shoulder as he crumbles underneath you. he nearly crushes your brand new mouse as his hands clench, his uncovered fingers digging into your midriff. he shakes as you feel the moisture seeping from the material, leaking onto the back of your own pants. you don't dare to speak a word, you refuse to ruin it for him.

you go to look at him, but his head is still pressed against your shoulder, his baby blue hair draped over you. his breathing is slowing now, but he's still shaking.

"i'm sorry" he shudders before you can say anything. you grab his hand, still slung across your legs, and squeeze it.

"tomu, it's okay" you comfort him quietly as he continues to shake. you stand and he plants his face into his hands, soft tremors coming from the pale man.

you flip the armrests of the chair up and wrap your legs around him, facing him now. you stroke his hair gently and coax him to look up, his cherry eyes teary and glossed.

you kiss him gently, feeling the tears still running down his cheek. his lips are rough, but they taste like candied apples, and you hold his face in your hands as he falls into the kiss shakily.

as you pull away, he sniffles.

"i'm sorry" he repeats, and looks back down.

you kiss his head, his soft hair tickling your face. he wraps his arms around you and presses his face into you, his tears soaking the front of your shirt. you shush him and brush his hair back. you comfort him best as possible, but feel him hardening underneath you again.

"c'mon" you stand from the seat again, and take his hand. you bring him to the bed, and he sits slowly. you wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he shakes his head.

"why?" he asks quietly, and you kiss his nose, "why aren't you mad at me?".

you tug him into you, kissing him. he moans into the kiss this time, his cock tenting again. your mind swirls with thoughts of him inside of you, making him shiver and cum and whine. why would you be mad at him, your sweet pathetic leader?

no one else would ever see him like this. maybe it played a part in your arousal, knowing that this display was solely for you. that his orgasm was because of you. that he was crying because he was afraid he upset you. your scary, villainous, domineering leader was crying in your room, cock twitching desperately against his minecraft pj pants, because he just came from you sitting in his lap.

the heat between your legs swells as your tongue presses into his mouth, tasting the same sugary sourness from before. his tongue slides forcefully into your mouth, his saliva mixing with yours. he palms aggressively at his erection, trying to push it down nervously before you tug him by his sweater, pulling him on top of you. he instinctively grinds down into you, and as you feel him press against your clothed sex, you moan.

the heavy petting stresses you out. you can't keep kissing him and touching him without feeling him inside of you. tomura's eyes are half-lidded and hungry as you shove him back, and he looks at you nervously for a moment before you pull your pants off, urging him to do the same. he throws the pants off the bed, his cock springing free and tapping against his stomach. the knot in your stomach pulls deeper as you gaze upon the soft sky-blue tuft of hair leading down to his dick, his breathing ragged as you pull yourself on top of him again. you grind down, and he moans as the wetness soaking through your underwear squishes on his admirable length.

he's ready to cum again already, and you can tell from the way he grinds into you from below. you shift your underwear off, awkwardly shimmying as he helps you. he doesn't seem to care as he tugs at the garment, his hands exploring your curves with a greedy grip. as his cock rubs against you, you kiss him, coating him with the slick heat. you help position him against your tight hole, and he thrusts it in, stretching you with a snap. you throw your head back from the sensation and steady yourself for a moment before rocking back and forth, his moans and huffs growing louder. you ride him slowly at first, helping you adjust to his size, and he watches you bounce on him with a feverish daze. he grabs at your shirt and you allow him to bring it up over you, throwing it mindlessly. his hoodie comes off next, yanking haphazardly as you continue to grind and bounce on him. he bites his lip as he cums again, not holding anything back as the sticky seed coats your insides. you don't stop, feeling yourself growing closer. his orgasm brings you even further, and you gyrate your hips against him, his soft hair creating a friction against your clit that is fucking unimaginable. you moan and cry out, chasing the orgasm. you squeeze against him, the searing pain from being stretched before now replaced by a deep craving from the pit of your sex, needing more and more of him to fill you up. his pitiful whining grows in volume as his cock re-hardens inside of you quickly, and his hands grip against your hips and he thrusts from below as you slam down into him, furthering the sensation as his tip nudges your cervix. as you both rock into each other, your climax rushes over you, flooding his cock with a deep heat that sends him over the edge for the third time. tears brim his eyes again as he sprays your cunt with more pearly fluid, and your body shakes as you clench and rub the end of your orgasm out on him. your chest heaves as you both finish, and you fall on top of him with his dick still throbbing inside of you. he whines out and kisses you, tangling his fingers in your hair. the aftershock of your orgasm sends shivers through your body, and you pull yourself off of him. you already miss the feeling of him stuffing you with his cock, but he's spent. he shakes and squeezes his eyes shut, his legs and arms splayed out, vibrating.

you kiss his cheek and reach for something to help him clean up. you grab your shirt and wipe him off, and he frowns.

"didn't have to do that" he chokes out, and you shrug.

"i could never be mad at you, tomura" you say to him as you find clean clothes. as you dress, he drags a blanket over himself.

he nods and doesn't speak again for a moment. you climb in next to him, and he smiles weakly.

"promise?"

you nod. "pinky promise" you lace your fingers with his, the gloves brushing against your soft skin.

the two of you lay together in silence, growing more and more tired with each passing minute. you won't send him back to his room, you'd rather keep him here as long as possible. even if it was left unsaid, you loved him, and you spent every day worrying which day might just be the last. especially with the league growing in infamy, the unknown became scarier every day. but for right now, it felt more than okay. and for right now, you'd rather spend the time with him like this than having to worry about your futures.

"so what's up with that save file on the sims?" his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you groan.

"i think the next thing im gonna ask you how to teach me is hiding folders".

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

thank you for the ask <3 yummy yummy suggestion!!!!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#6)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Suicidal thoughts (neither Bucky nor Reader). Canon-Typical Violence. Suggestion of past non-con.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 6k. CORRECTED VERSION

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

He stopped sitting at the table in the mornings. Stopped waiting for her to pour her coffee so he could watch the steam curl and the corner of her mouth twitch toward a smile.

He timed his business better now, earlier. Cleaning the apartment. Taking out the trash, washing the dishes. Laundry -tricky at first, but watched a video of how to use a modern washing machine-.

Her house was tidy, her world undisturbed. Like he’d never been there.

He still listened. Every creak of her bedroom floor, every open faucet, and the sound of her drawers opening when she looked for clothes. He mapped her routines again, not out of obsession this time, but for strategy. To stay out of the way. To be less seen. Less felt.

He still brought back food when he slipped out, always things she liked, even if he never joined her to eat them. He left the bags on the counter, the receipts shoved deep into his jacket’s pocket like contraband. One time, she called out a thank-you. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Instead, he stood in the hallway with his back pressed to the wall, waiting for the sound of the fridge and the cabinets closing, then the lock clicking again behind her. Only then did he let himself exhale.

He didn’t know how to talk to her anymore. Not without tasting guilt, or that damn chamomile. So he didn’t.

But he watched.

From across the street, when she walked to work. From the alley when she stopped at the hardware store. From the shadow of a parked car when she lingered to talk to the woman with the little dog outside the flower shop.

She didn’t know she had a second shadow, long and quiet and ready for violence.

His boots itched to move every time someone passed too close to her, spoke too loudly. His hands twitched for the weight of a weapon.

She would hate him for that if she knew.

Still, he couldn't help it. Couldn’t not follow her. The world was full of threats, and she was too innocent for it.

----

She noticed his retreating, of course.

Not all at once, but in little silences scattered through the days. The house felt quieter. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quieter.

He didn’t hover anymore. Not behind her while she cooked. Not beside the fridge when she came back from errands with too many bags. Not in the kitchen doorway with a half-answer, half-huff when she asked what he wanted to eat.

She realized she hadn’t heard his voice in five days.

And before that, it had only been a muttered “yeah.”

She tried not to take it personally.

Tried to think of it as one of his phases. Tried to trust the way his boots still disappeared from the doormat in the early mornings, to find the quiet miracle of groceries restocking themselves, and the clean floor under her feet.

She didn’t know how to approach him without crowding him. Recovering had backsteps after all, and she feared making things worse if she brought it out.

----

One afternoon, a power outage at work, with half the block down, systems cut, and useless phones, made her boss grumble, and sent them home. She stopped for a pastry, imagined she might nap or read, or just watch some TV drama.

She didn’t call out. Just stepped through the entry, and that’s when she saw it.

Her laptop open on the coffee table. She tilted it out of habit, catching the website on the tab:

A shady, backchannel listing page. Low-res photos. Flickering neon ads.

Cash only. No lease. Month to month. No ID.

Her stomach dropped.

Beside it, a crumpled page. Lined notebook paper, three addresses in his handwriting.

Next to one, underlined: basement. back entrance. no windows.

The sound of the bathroom door unlocking made her freeze.

She turned just as he stepped out.

His hair was damp. The shirt clinging slightly to his body.

They looked at each other.

The distance between them was not more than a few feet, but it stretched like a chasm.

He just stood there. Eyes unreadable.

"H-hi," she managed, her voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t answer. His gaze flicked down, not in shame -he didn’t have the right to feel that- but like he was bracing for something.

"You're... you're leaving?" she asked, grabbing the strap of her bag.

His first impulse was to flee. To vanish into the hall, shut his door, and wait until the walls swallowed him whole.

But he didn’t. He made himself step forward, slowly.

No eye contact.

"I thought of knowing about a few places. Just in case-"

His voice cracked, barely holding together. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t even try to voice the possibility of her rejection.

"In case you have the need to leave?" she completed softly, tilting her head.

His jaw tensed.

"You feel ready to-"

"No."

His titanium hand clenched and unclenched at his side; the faint whir of the servo was audible in the silence.

"I'm not... ready for anything," he said, quieter now. "But if you ever decide..."

He swallowed hard. The rest didn’t come out. The sentence died between them.

He hadn’t expected her early at all.

Had been sloppy. Stupid. He’d made things worse.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe he’d just accelerated his ejection.

She tilted her head, puzzled, until the meaning of his words clicked into place.

If she decided.

Then it made sense, all of it.

The way he ghosted through the apartment after the incident at the store. How he cleaned everything while she slept. How he brought food and disappeared before she could thank him.

He wasn’t retreating, he was making himself invisible. Trying not to be a burden, trying not to get in the way.

She took a step forward, then shifted course, and sat gently on the couch instead.

“Could you sit with me? Just for a moment?”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His heartbeat pounded so loudly it roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. Her voice came softer now, warm and coaxing.

“Darling, please. I know you want to sprint, but I think it’s time to talk.”

His jaw twitched. His titanium fingers opened and closed again, useless, and lost.

He didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to talk. He wanted to vanish.

But she’d called him darling.

So he fucking moved.

Each step felt like dragging a concrete block on each foot, but he forced his limbs to obey. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped tightly. His gaze was locked to the floor.

"Did I do something that upset you?" she asked gently.

His brows pulled together before he even looked at her. “No, why-” he started, confused.

"But said something, didn't I?" she pressed, worried. "For you to feel bad here? To think I want you to leave?"

He shook his head, short, sharply. No.

“Is it because of what happened the other day?”

His knee started to bounce.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

Because it wasn’t her. She hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. It was him. His brain and its thousand traps inside it. His fucked wiring. His absolute inability to believe he could belong anywhere, or be wanted by anyone. Who would choose to live with him? With the mess he was? A twitchy and broken thing, too old to be this lost?

She noticed the shift in his body language. A too-sharp breathing, the jerky rhythm in his knee, his eyes still fixed to the floor as if he looked up, something would shatter. So she tried to undo the damage her concern had caused, too many questions, she understood.

"Okay," she said slowly, “just to be clear. I still don’t know what- I don’t know why you feel this way… but I assure you, I don’t want you to leave.”

His knee stilled mid-bounce.

“Why?” he rasped, barely audible.

She ran a hand over her face. “Because- damn. I don’t know how to put this.” She got quiet for a second, searching for the right words. “Yes, I helped you because of Granny. But…”

Another pause.

She huffed out a short breath. “You’re a good roommate, Bucky,” she tried to joke, even if her voice cracked a little at the end. “Contrary to what you might think… you’re not a burden.”

He blinked once. Then again.

“I won’t pretend I don’t know about… your past,” she mumbled.

That made his whole body go tense.

“I confess I did some looking, not that it is very difficult to do nowadays.”

His jaw clenched, and his fingers pressed hard into each other. Of course she looked. Anyone would.

“But I know whatever you did… it wasn’t really you.” She added.

That hurt in the worst kind of way. Because it was too kind. Because she believed that. His head dropped lower. Chin to chest. He looked like someone waiting for a blow that never came.

“And I can tell you’ve suffered a lot,” she said gently. “And you need time. To figure out who you are. What to do with your life now that it’s yours. Granny would've helped you without thinking, so I’ll do the same.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Didn’t falter. She meant every word.

“You’re welcome here, Bucky. As long as you need to be.”

And that did it.

His hands trembled. He didn’t try to stop them.

“…okay,” he whispered. Like it had to squeeze years of silence just to make it out.

And then -because he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not yet- he shifted slightly closer.

"Ok". She echoed. Then- "Is it ok to hug you?" She asked above a whisper.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He exhaled a long breath, thin and shaky, and then, slowly, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. His shoulders were still tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes cast down. But he hadn’t said no.

So she moved carefully. Slowly closed the space between them on the couch and slipped one arm around his back, the other gently across his chest.

He didn’t flinch, but it was like holding a statue. A trembling one.

Then, his breath hitched. His body relaxed, and he tilted his head until his temple touched her shoulder. His arms moved slowly around her waist. The metal hand settled at her back, too lightly for its weight. As if he feared hurting her. His chest trembled. And her sweater, -over her shoulder- went damp.

"It's ok, sweetheart," she soothed him. "You'll be alright. We are roomies, hm? It's... this is your house until you decide otherwise." She needed to reinforce the concept of belonging in him. And before she could stop herself, she angled her face and pecked the crown of his head.

He didn’t pull away.

Just… froze.

For a second, she thought she’d crossed a line, until she felt it.

That slow, nearly imperceptible exhale against her collarbone.

A tremor deep in his chest, and then his weight shifted subtly, leaning in, seeking more warmth, more contact, like some animal who’d learned what gentleness was late in its life and clumsily sought for it all the same.

His voice, when it came, was muffled against her sweater.

“Don’t wanna go.”

Barely audible. Childlike.

“You don’t have to,” she murmured, lifting one hand to stroke his hair. “You don’t ever have to, unless you want to.”

“Didn’t want you to think I was…” he didn’t finish. Voice hoarse. “Too much.”

“You’re not,” she said.

Another breath. Rougher this time. He nodded against her, a raw, exhausted nod.

She held him tighter.

And this time, he didn’t freeze.

----

She padded into the kitchen, sleepy eyes adjusting to the pale wash of morning light.

He was already there.

The scent of coffee hit her first, strong, fresh, the kind she liked. Then she saw him, standing by the counter in a clean t-shirt, also barefoot, hair still damp from a shower. His broad back was tense, the way someone looked when they weren’t sure if they were supposed to be in a room, but showed up anyway.

She blinked. He didn’t turn around right away. Was that…a second mug?

Bucky shifted his weight like the floor might give up under him. His shoulders dipped when he finally glanced at her, quick and unsure, as if he expected to be scolded for using the kitchen.

“I didn’t know if I should,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse, from sleep, from yesterday. “But I figured maybe I should start acting like I live here.”

She smiled, still groggy, and stepped forward. “I’m glad.”

He slid her mug across the counter with gentleness, his fingers barely brushing the ceramic. Then-

“Didn’t know if you’d want to see me today.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, lifting her brows, searching his gaze.

He shrugged. “Yesterday was a lot.”

Her hand settled lightly on the counter, not touching him, just… there.

“It turned out ok. We were able to talk, frankly, we needed it.”

He nodded slowly. Took a careful sip. Looked down into the coffee like it offered a way forward. “I used your beans,” he said eventually. “The good ones.”

“Good,” she murmured, sipping hers. “That’s what they’re for.”

He made a small sound. Might’ve been a laugh, or maybe just surprise that she hadn’t shooed him back into a corner. And then -tentatively- he leaned a hip against the counter beside her stool, angling his body toward her ever so slightly. Close enough to make it real.

“You smell like my shampoo,” she added after a beat, nudging his arm.

He stiffened, embarrassed. “Ran out of mine.”

“It’s fine. Apple suits you.”

That drew a flick of his eyes her way. A blink. Something warmed, barely, at the corners of his mouth.

----

After a while of eating in silence-

"I'm returning late today," she said, halfway through a bite of toast.

He stiffened. Subtly, but unmistakably. The way his jaw locked. The way his hand paused mid-air, mug halfway to his mouth.

"It's the 20th anniversary of the bookstore," she went on, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send his nervous system skittering. “There’s an event.”

“Will you be on time to catch a bus?”

She looked up, surprised by the sharpness in his voice.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll have to take a cab. The late hour frequency is pretty shitty. At least they pay me the extra hours double for this.”

He didn’t realize his hand had moved until he felt the fabric. The soft cotton of her pajama top between his fingers. Clenched.

Her eyes dropped to his hand.

“Bucky-”

“What time?” he cut her off.

“What?”

“What time you go out?” His voice rasped with urgency, eyes wide, scanning her like she might dissolve. “I’ll go wait for you. You can’t be alone so late.”

“Bucky,” she tried again, softer now, hand touching his wrist. His knuckles were white. “You don’t have to-”

But then she saw it.

The panic. Small, contained, but there.

He wasn’t trying to be gallant.

He was afraid.

“...Around nine,” she murmured.

He gave a small nod. Didn’t release her pajama right away.

“I’ll be there.”

----

He was there at eight-forty five.

Just in case.

Low cap pulled down to shadow his face, gloved hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He stood across the street first, then eventually migrated slowly, silently, to lean against the wall beside the bookstore’s big front window. Eyes half-lidded. Watching.

She’d said nine. It was nine-thirty.

His jaw shifted.

Through the glass, he could see the warm lamplight and too many bodies still milling around. Books clutched against chests, people laughing too loudly for the hour. She was behind the counter, tired but still smiling, her hands were a blur as she rang someone up. And next to her -too close- was a man. Early forties, probably. Jeans, salt-and-pepper stubble, and a cocky familiarity in the way he set his hands on her shoulders to pass behind her.

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists inside his jacket.

He didn’t blink. Just stared.

And even when the man moved on, when she shifted to the side and returned to her register, his jaw didn’t unclench. His breathing stayed shallow, grinding his teeth. He told himself it was nothing. It had to be nothing. But his feet itched to stomp through the front door, his body tensed by an old reflex to protect.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and she stepped out, hugging her coat close to her chest. She glanced once across the sidewalk, and then her eyes landed on him.

Her smile bloomed, small and surprised.

"You came!" she said, coming up to him.

"You’re late," he muttered.

Her head tilted. “Told you. Busy day.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped off the wall and fell into step beside her.

They walked a few paces in silence. Then-

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He shrugged. "That guy," he said, not looking at her.

Her brows pulled together. “Which-?”

"The one who touched you."

She blinked, surprised, then gave a soft little laugh.

"That’s Rick. He owns the place. He’s like that with everyone."

Bucky’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to.

"Hey," she added gently, nudging him with her elbow. "Thanks for coming."

He didn’t answer again. Just kept walking, matching her stride. He didn’t know what to say. He only knew it mattered that she got home safe. That she saw him waiting. And that the world wasn’t going to hurt her. Not if he could stop it.

She didn’t let him walk behind her this time. She moved closer, their coats brushing as they strolled to the bus stop.

----

The door clicked shut behind them, the hallway light flickering once as she stepped in first, rubbing warmth into her hands. Then, her nose twitched.

She sniffed the air, tilting her head.

“…You cooked again?” she asked, hanging her coat with a lazy swing toward the wall hook before walking toward the kitchen.

He followed slowly, silent in his boots, tugging off his gloves finger by finger. The leather creaked. Then the jacket came off too, slung carefully over the back of a chair.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he mumbled without looking up, already moving toward the cabinets to grab two bowls.

She smiled at his back, hair still tousled from his cap, the careful way he moved around her space like he was afraid to jostle it, and turned on the burner to reheat the stew.

“You’re the best,” she said, almost absently, digging for two spoons in the drawer.

His hands stilled for half a second.

The praise made his pulse thud with a tight, invisible heat. He ducked his head, hoping she didn’t see the way his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. Like a child who’d been told his crooked finger painting was beautiful.

He finished setting the table and put the bowls on the counter while she stirred the pot, back to him, humming a little to herself.  A plate with bread. Water glasses. It wasn’t much, but it was… a contribution. He’d done something for her.

The silence stretched comfortably, filled with the clink of utensils and the low bubble of stew.

Then she spoke, casually.

“I was thinking…” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “you should get a phone.”

He lingered beside the table, his palms flat against the edge, head bowed slightly, long locks of hair covering his features.

A phone.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. Not with her -never with her- but with the idea.

He hadn't held a phone in years, not one that wasn’t bolted to a wall or smashed to his face by a handler. The thought of something buzzing in his pocket, demanding things, reaching him -tracking him- created a cold knot inside his stomach.

“For me?” he asked softly as he sat down slowly, the chair creaking under his weight. “I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“You’ve got me,” she said lightly, as she ladled stew into the bowls. “I mean…” she shrugged. “Maybe I can let you know if I’m going to be late from work. Like that day you got-” she hesitated, then gently, “agitated when I missed the bus. You wouldn’t have to wait or worry. And sometimes I buy things spontaneously, and I could ask you if you want anything. Or you could text if we’re out of eggs, or if you think of something we need. It’s just… for better communication.”

He looked up. She slid the bowls on the table and sat down across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Think about it. No rush.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. The thought of having one of those devices unsettled him; someone could track him. But the idea of her being late again, walking alone in the dark, unreachable, sparked the same protective instinct that bloomed in his chest every time she went out. Maybe she was right.

Maybe he didn’t have to make this about him.

Maybe it was about making sure she was safe.

“…Okay,” he mumbled.

Her gaze flicked up from her bowl. “Yeah?”

He gave another small nod. “If you think it’ll be useful… then okay.”

And the way she beamed at him, a smile crinkling her tired eyes, briefly brushing his fingers on the table in thanks, affected him harder than he expected.

He dipped his head again. Shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth before she saw any sign of emotion in his face.

She’d said us.

He’d never had an us. Not for a long, long time, not since before they turned him into something else.

----

The phone trip happened on Monday.

They went together to a small corner shop two blocks away the apartment, with faded ads on the window and dusty shelves inside. She showed him rows of sleek smartphones. He barely paid attention before spotting a small, unassuming box in a backlit case. A clamshell model. No apps. No updates. Just numbers and buttons and a sound like a real ring.

“This one,” he said. Like choosing a weapon he trusted.

----

After that night by the bookstore, something shifted.

He was everywhere in the apartment again. He still was the helping sprite, but let himself be seen. Now she found him wiping down the counters in the early mornings, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jaw set like he was facing down a mission. Or crouched by the laundry machine, watching the spin cycle like it might explode. He made meals -simple, hearty- and waited for her to take the first bite, barely touching his own food until she reacted.

He started watching her in a new way. Not the skittish, corner-eyed surveillance from the early days. But openly. Studying her. Gauging her responses.

Did she finish the bowl? Did she wrinkle her nose at the smell of bleach? Did she flinch at the way he diced the vegetables?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But his eyes always did.

And she learned to answer without waiting for words.

She started offering quiet praise, “This tastes amazing,” or “What a great way to organize this.” dropping them like breadcrumbs. She touched his shoulder lightly when passing him a dish. Let her hand rest a beat longer when returning a mug or ruffling his hair as she passed behind him at the sink. The first time he froze. Then leaned ever so slightly into her touch.

They were little signs of approval, and he absorbed them like oxygen.

By midweek, he began touching more. Testing the space between them.

A gentle tap on her wrist to ask about a grocery item. The brush of his knuckles to get her attention. Once, as she read on the couch, he sat beside her, -closer than usual, still tense- He stayed still a long moment, barely breathing. Then leaned -slowly, tentatively- just enough for his shoulder to ghost hers.

She turned a page. Lifted a hand. Ran it softly through his hair.

The exhale he gave was silent but immense. He melted by degrees, tipping his head toward her thigh, breath deepening like he’d been holding it for years.

She didn't stop.

His hair was longer and softer now. His fingers twitched on the couch cushion when her nails grazed lightly across his scalp. This was new. Not the hands on his hair, but the intent.

Hydra had pulled his hair to drag his face up. To yank him into place. To force his mouth open. Hands in his hair had always meant control, meant pain, meant humiliation.

Now her fingers moved the opposite way, gently, patient, with no agenda, or force. Just touch.

He trembled the first time she threaded fully through the strands. She said nothing, just slowed her pace, soothing with the pads of her fingers, again and again.

His eyes closed gradually. His shoulders relaxed in increments.

He melted like something unused to warmth, seeking more.

And when she brushed her thumb behind his ear, he made a soft, involuntary sound, not pain, not quite pleasure either, but something deeper. Like his body was remembering what tenderness could be.

----

Friday night, she woke at some point past two a.m. When she sat up and peered toward the floor, her eyes adjusted slowly to see his shape curled on his side next to her bed, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other clenched lightly in the blanket near her ankle.

She watched him for a moment, refraining from reaching, then lay back down. Pretended she hadn’t seen.

The same thing happened Saturday night.

By Sunday, she’d stopped pretending it wasn’t happening, it seemed he still needed reassurance.

She returned from the grocery store to find him finishing the dishes, his sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot and quiet. He glanced up when she entered, something like hope flickering across his face. Like he wanted to ask: Was this right? Was I good?

She stepped into the kitchen. Set down her bags. Touched the back of his hand with hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You make this place feel… taken care of.”

Bucky looked away. But he didn’t pull his hand back.

He didn’t know what to say. Just that he’d do anything to keep hearing those words.

Keep being wanted.

----

That night, he went to bed.

His bed.

She was still up, on the couch with a book, curled under a blanket. He lingered for a moment in the hall, waiting, hoping she might rise. But she didn’t. Didn’t look up. Just turned another page.

He’d barely made it under the covers before sleep took him.

It started slowly, smoke curling at the edges of his memory, the vague sense of rain and concrete. Then, sharp. Instant. A scream.

A boy. Just a boy.

Maybe sixteen. Maybe younger. Wrong place, wrong time. Books were flung into the alley. Blood soaking the pages. History textbook. Biology workbook. The glint of a school ID card already turning crimson. The boy had stammered something twice. “Mom. I want my mom.”

And Bucky -no, the Soldat- had looked down at him with nothing in his face. Just finished the job.

The nightmare didn’t wake him with a scream. Just a sudden, jarring bolt upright in bed. Sheets tangled on his legs. Cold sweat in a heaving chest. Hands clenched tight in the blankets.

Because it wasn’t just a nightmare.

It was a memory.

That boy hadn’t made it into Hydra’s reports. He hadn’t made it into anything.

But Bucky remembered now.

He’d killed a kid going home from school.

He sat there until dawn, frozen. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t wash the blood off his hands. It had soaked into him. Into everything.

----

When she woke up Monday morning, the apartment was quiet. Not unusual.

He wasn’t in the kitchen. Not making coffee. Not folding blankets. Not checking for the tenth time the squeaky door down the sink.

Maybe he’d gone out. Maybe exploring, maybe grabbing some meat. He did that sometimes now. She didn’t worry right away.

Not until she left for work and her calls went straight to voicemail. Every message unread.

Not until he didn’t come home that night either.

The next morning, still no sign of him. And she felt it now. That needle-prick worry in her chest.

----

It rained on her way back from work. One of those sudden, slap-you-sideways storms, fat drops and wind biting through her sleeves. She took the alley, shortcutting the block, her coat clutched around her body as she grumbled under her breath.

And then she saw him.

Barefoot. Soaked. Blood drying in crusted rivulets on his fingers and the side of his face. Hair clinging to his neck, tangled and heavy. Standing in the same damn spot she’d found him all those months ago.

Unmoving.

Like time had reset itself and dragged him back to the start.

“Bucky?” she called softly.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn.

But his eyes cut sharply toward her.

And oh god, he looked… he looked ruined. A hollow stare of someone who didn’t think he deserved to exist.

She stepped closer. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? You’re going to get sick.”

Could he? Get sick? She honestly didn’t know. Probably not. Probably pumped full of Hydra’s best immune boosters, but that wasn’t the point.

Still nothing.

So she reached carefully.

“I- I’m going to take your hand, alright?”

Still no answer.

But he didn’t flinch.

Her fingers closed around his flesh hand, cold and limp, with knuckles scraped raw. And she felt the tremble in his body.

She didn’t comment on the blood at first.

Didn’t flinch at the chill soaking through his skin. Didn’t ask what the hell happened, why his lips were blue, or why his shirt was torn, or what he’d done to himself.

Because he let her take his hand.

She guided him step by step, one slow inch at a time, from the alley to the building entrance. Her soaked coat clung to her legs, her shoes squelched with every footfall, but she didn’t stop.

The elevator creaked under their weight. He didn’t look at her.

Just stared ahead, water dripping from his nose, his hair plastered in wet ropes down the sides of his face. Blood -some old, some new- clung to his shirt, also drying in flecks across his jaw, a smear on his temple.

When they reached the apartment, she unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and ushered him in. She closed the door behind them and turned to face him, heart beating like a drum in her chest.

“You’re home now,” she said softly.

That word -home- did something to his face.

Cracked it down the center.

She reached for his jacket, but he didn’t shrug it off. Didn’t move.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Bathroom.”

She led him again, and again he followed.

She peeled the jacket off slowly, gently, watching for any flicker in his eyes. Then the soaked shirt, the stiff gloves, the belt. All of it came off like dead skin. He didn’t help, but didn’t resist.

He stood there, shivering, stripped to his boxers in the glow of the bathroom light, like a penitent carving.

Cuts streaked across his chest and thighs. His hands were smeared with old blood. Dirt caked beneath his nails, under the skin of his knuckles. His metal arm hung slack, the shoulder where it joined his flesh inflamed, skin torn and raw.

She knelt in front of the tub and started the water. Checked the temperature three times. When it was warm, not hot, she turned back and touched his wrist.

“Come on,” she coaxed.

He obeyed with the silence of shame. Sat only when she guided him down slowly, like easing a wounded animal into comfort.

He winced when the water kissed a gash on his shin. But otherwise, he didn’t make a sound.

She brought a new clean washcloth. Soap.

And she began.

She scrubbed blood from his wrists, some of it already dried to rust. Lifted each of his fingers, gentle and sure, and worked the dirt from his nailbeds. Wiped the grime from the sides of his torso, the bruise blooming along the underside of his arm.

She tried not to react, but it was hard.

His thighs were mottled deep purple, like he’d pounded his fists into them again and again. His temple was raw, scuffed, like he’d slammed his head against a wall. The skin around the metal shoulder was torn in angry streaks, as if he’d tried to rip the prosthesis off with his bare hand.

Punishment.

That’s what this was.

She didn’t ask why. Not yet. It wasn’t the time.

Then she reached for the shampoo, poured it into her palms, and lathered it gently through his hair, careful not to pull. The water trickled down his spine. He sat very still, arms wrapped around himself. His back rose and fell with shallow breaths. When she reached the crown of his head, he bowed forward between her hands, and he made a sound.

Not a cry. Not a sob. But something hollow and cracked and barely human.

She cradled his head as gently as she could. “It’s okay,” she whispered, “You’ll be ok.”

He didn’t believe her. She knew it.

But he needed to hear it anyway.

By the time the bathwater turned tepid and his hands stopped shaking, she had wrapped him in the largest towel they owned, tucked it under his arms like one would do with a child. A dry pair of underwear sat folded beside the sink, ready when he needed it. She didn’t ask him to change yet. Didn’t push. Just helped him out of the tub, and sat him down on the closed toilet lid, then she ran a comb through his wet hair. His shoulders curled inward, like he was trying to fold himself into something smaller.

When he leaned into her touch, she didn’t speak. Just kept brushing.

Then it came, the first sob. His hands clutched the edge of the towel at his waist. And then the next one came, and the next, until his shoulders shook under her hands and his breath was ragged with grief.

She dropped the comb. Slid down to her knees. Pulled him to her.

And he let her.

His forehead pressed to her shoulder, wet hair clinging to her collarbone, his weight leaning forward like the whole world had given out beneath him. His hands trembled against her back, barely gripping.

She held him through it. Just held.

And when his sobs finally quieted, when he’d cried himself to exhaustion and sat there limp and burning with shame, she spoke very softly:

“Do you want to share the bed tonight?”

No answer at first. He didn’t even lift his head.

But after a long silence -just as she thought he’d shut down again- came a whisper. Barely more than breath.

“…Yes.”

----

She waited just outside the bathroom, perched on the hallway wall. She listened to the faint rustle of fabric, him changing slowly, carefully into the dry underwear she’d left folded on the counter.

When the door opened, he stood there, towel in hand, hair damp and curling at the ends, eyes unsure.

She didn’t comment. Just gave a soft nod and extended her hand.

“Come on,” she murmured.

She led him to the bedroom, and he crawled into the bed with obedient exhaustion. The sheets were cool.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she said gently, and he almost panicked -just for a flicker of a second- before she brushed his shoulder. “I promise.”

He stayed curled on his side, watching the door. Her steps moved toward the kitchen, water running, the clinking of a kettle. Then the sound of something being filled.

When she returned, it was with something bundled in a thick cover, a warm, rubber water bag tucked snugly into one of her old flannel pillowcases. She lifted the blanket and sheet and slipped it down by his feet without a word.

He flinched at first, then stilled.

The heat spread slowly into his skin, through the ache in his frozen feet. His eyes burned again, but he blinked the tears back.

He didn’t know anyone still used that in modern days.

She turned off the overhead light and climbed into bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He stayed on his side, facing away, but she could hear his breathing, slower now.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t touch. Just lay there, the silence stretching comfortably between them. Her body was close. He could feel the faint warmth next to him. Hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Smell her scent on the sheets.

He wasn’t used to this. Sharing a real bed without violence, without expectation. Just… company.

It felt safe enough. Quiet enough.

So he closed his eyes and let himself drift.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404@lil-riddle-kiddle@maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155 @gloriousvariant @hiraethmae @ixopod

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[sunmoon-starfactory]

Potions A Plenty - Potion Brewing Set

Pulling from most every other set of Sun&Moon for potion ingredients, this set gives the sims the ability to brew various potions that affect moods, skills, life states, aging, pregnancy, health, and a variety of other mostly harmless effects.

The Quick Feature Review/Set Breakdown below the cut.

Download - SFS

View Use/Instruction Manual

The Potion Crafting Bench - The heart of the set itself, the potion bench is where components are stored, prepared, and combined into batches of potions. At this station, sims can do the following.

Practice potion making and brew a total of 56 potions that have varying effects when drank by sims

Earn Logic Skill and Science Enthusiasm

Stock materials

Order Supply Bundles to facilitate quicker potion making

Obtain a Writ of Mastery in potion crafting

Keep a tidy workstation by keeping things clean

A set of “basic” potions, and their ingredients will be considered REQUIRED for function. Do not remove those files. Let the manual guide you.

This set is MAC-compatible and requires Smarter EP Check, Easy Inventory Check, Easy Lot Check and Money Globals. These are HARD requirements. The set will NOT FUNCTION without these files.

Access to these is dictated by logic skill level as well as a writ of mastery/Creature Life State/Traits.

This station has 28 decorative slots, as well as a decorative mode to enable/disable effects and an "in use" look at will.

Story Mode Enabled - Skip all the ingredients and steps, just enjoy the end products, or just run the animations on a station for the ease of taking pictures.

*New Feature* - Station Cleanliness. As the station is used, it will obtain dirty points. This dirty level affects the outcomes of potion crafting and increases failure chances. Make sure to keep the cauldron clean to ensure quality products!

*New Feature* - Supply Ordering. For a flat rate, sims can buy a bulk order of various materials needed for any potion. They will be added directly to the station's crafting counts.

All potions can be found in Hobbies/Logic. Complete Dutch and Portuguese translations. If you'd like to translate into your native language, please share your strings with us and we'll update the set proper!

Inventory Tools & New Items

Botanical Book - Pretty and useful. Inventory Tool.

Writ of Mastery - Apothecary Version. Inventory Tool.

Crate of Jars - 6 glass jars needed for potion making.

Cauldron Dregs - Waste produced from cleaning the station or failing in potion making.

Bonus Items

Reference Tome - In game recipe book for all potions

Counter Split OMSP - Give maxis counters a chance to hold more things!

Display Shelves - 9 decorative slots, two versions.

Apothecary Todd Cart and Pavilion - Previously released sets bundled into this set; they have been optimized and renamed, please remove the old versions.

Potion Specifics

Potions come in 5 types: Basic, Folk Remedy Potions, Arcane Potions, Creature/Lifestate Potions, and Poison Potions. The more fantastical the potion, the more complex it is to make.

Please be aware that depending on your playstyle you will have to add more files from other sources or you can delete certain files from this set without worry; For example, if you do not play your game with creature life states or custom creature life states, you may delete anything related to those potions, provided it is not used in another “basic” potion.

Potions are NOT recolorable and will not be made so in the future. If you wish to alter the bottle/potion colors yourself, this may be done in the properties/categorized properties tab of each subset txmt in SimPe, using the stdMatDiffCoef line.

Potions Vs. Teas: You will notice that many potions have the same effects as previously released teas from the Quali-Tea set. So what’s the difference? 

Teas are based on cooking and logic skills only. Potions function more on Logic skill level and a Writ of Mastery, OR Witch/Warlock state, and other traits.

Teas are single cup per crafting interactions (except basic hunger teas). Potions will always produce in a batch of 6.

In some cases, Teas require MORE ingredients to make, whereas Potions require LESS ingredients but higher Logic skill and rarer/less natural ingredients.

While potions can have the same effect as a similar tea, more risk is involved with taking them and sims can experience adverse/opposite of intended effects.

[thef1diary]

Little Big Fan | Seven

— Little Big Movie Night

Series Masterlist

wc: 2.4k

Max kept his word and was entirely available so far out of the ten days between races. That is, if the two hours that were spent on an impromptu online meeting set up by the team principal don't count.

Max was actually at your place when he received the call, about to enjoy a movie and some popcorn with you and Isabella.

"Christian, with all due respect, it's seven pm. Can we push this to tomorrow morning?" Max walked towards the other end of the room but you heard his question, already understanding that something had come up.

After some hushed voices over the phone, Max returned with an apologetic look on his face. He began muttering your name slowly, but you shook your head, "you don't have to explain, it's fine."

That earned a frown on his face, "what? No, let me explain."

You remained silent, allowing him to go on. "Christian set up a meeting, so I was going to ask if there's a room I could use for a bit?"

Your lips parted, almost turning up in a smile, "you're not leaving?"

Max shook his head, "I figured I'd stay and we can watch the movie after the meeting's over, if that's fine with you?" He scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish smile on his face.

You couldn't contain the smile that graced your lips, "of course, that's totally fine. I have a little room I use as an office so we can set up there."

Leading Max towards your office, you quickly closed all the excess tabs on your laptop, and opened up a new one.

Then you looked back to see that Max was still standing by the door, looking around in surprise. "Sorry, I didn't really get to clean up today."

His head snapped towards you at your words, "no, don't apologize. I'm just admiring it, that's all." He walked closer to a cork board, which was covered in so much paper that you weren't able to see the brown board underneath.

Next to it was a whiteboard, with your handwriting scribbled onto it with dry erase markers since you jotted down some notes and reminders from a few days ago.

"What's there to admire about this mess?" You asked with a small laugh, partly at yourself because you had always kept this room tidy; it simply happened to be messy on the day someone other than you entered it.

"It tells me more about you," he spoke, but before you could utter a word he continued, "and no I don't mean it tells me that you're messy because you're not. It's just nice, that's all."

Pressing your lips together to prevent yet another smile, you nodded, "okay."

Max insisted that you should remain by his side until the meeting started, just in case something happened and he needed your help.

You chose not to comment on the fact that Max clearly knew how to use a laptop and did not require your assistance. Instead, you stood by his side as he sat in the chair, slightly bending over closer each time he asked a question while pointing at the screen.

Every time you inched a little closer, Max looked up at you with a fond smile on his face. He had to occupy his hand with something else such as typing or he would have pulled you down to sit on his lap.

"Max?" You spoke with a teasing smile once you realized his gaze wasn't wavering away from you. He hummed in response, and you couldn't help but chuckle at his lack of words.

"Your phone's ringing," you simply stated, causing him to look away from you for a moment as he noted the caller id, before looking back at you, this time with an annoyed expression on his face.

"It's Christian," he held the phone in his hand, contemplating whether or not he should answer.

"What do you think? Should I just ignore the call and the meeting, just watch the movie with you and Bella?" He asked with the phone still ringing.

"Max, if it wasn't important I don't think you'd have an impromptu meeting." He groaned, "but the movie, I don't want you both to wait."

You placed a hand on his shoulder, "we're not going anywhere, if anything, we can watch it another day. Plus, it's Cars 2, you have no idea how many times Bella watched it. I think she knows every line by heart."

That seemed to convince Max enough to join the meeting. You walked a step away right before he was about to turn on the camera, but Max caught your hand in his, pulling you back.

He placed a small kiss on the back of your hand before gesturing to his cheek. You couldn't contain the blush creeping up your cheeks as his lips touched your knuckles, but tinge grew deeper when you realized what his gesture meant.

In the spur of the moment, you had kissed Max's cheek while you were shopping a few days prior without a second thought. But it seemed to stick in Max's mind and instead of being repulsed by it, he wanted yet another kiss.

"I thought you didn't notice it," you mumbled, then your gaze moved towards the meeting screen, and noted that Max's camera and mic wasn't on.

"Your lips were on me, and you think I wouldn't notice it," he dropped your hand and turned in his chair, so his cheek was facing you.

"Max, are you there?" A voice sounded through the laptop, which brought both of your attention back on it. Max quickly leaned forward to unmute the microphone and spoke, "yeah, I'm here."

You chose that moment to grab his chin, turning it to the side and pressing a lingering kiss on his cheek. Max couldn't utter a word, eyes widening since he thought you wouldn't do it.

He also couldn't utter a word because now his microphone was unmuted, and anything he wanted to say could've been heard by everyone in the meeting.

He watched as you began leaving the room, turning back for a moment to look at Max's surprised face that quickly turned into something mischievous. You smiled cheekily, knowing exactly what you did, with no regrets.

"Turn your camera on mate," the voice belonging to someone from his team, but he couldn't care less about who it was, not with you running through his mind.

Max did as requested, and the first comment he received was from Christian, "that doesn't look like your apartment, where are you?"

He wanted to roll his eyes, but that would've been very unprofessional, so he stuck to something slightly less unprofessional, "can we just get started?"

Max leaned back in his chair, or rather in your chair, as he thought about what he could've said to you if he wasn't in this meeting.

Downstairs, your daughter was sitting on the couch with her favourite teddy bear and a light blanket as she asked, "where's Maxy, mama?"

"He's in a meeting, Bella. I don't know if we can watch a movie tonight," you sighed, knowing that it was a common answer you used to give her when she was younger.

"Just like daddy?" Isabella asked, speaking your thoughts out loud. You shrugged, because you didn't know what else to say.

You wanted to deny and tell her that the meeting Max is in, is nothing like the ones Tyler had. You wanted to tell her that Max really didn't want to join it because he wanted to spend time with her.

But that would simply lead her to wonder why it is different from her father's meetings. Then, you wouldn't be able to tell her that Tyler used to schedule "meetings" merely to cancel the plans with Isabella.

"I don't know, angel, but it shouldn't take too long," was the best answer you could come up with.

It did take a while before Max came back downstairs. A whole two hours to be exact. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he exclaimed as he neared you and Isabella.

While you nodded along, telling him that he didn't need to apologize, your daughter crossed her arms and turned her head away from Max.

"Not fair, Maxy," she muttered, inching closer to you and away from him. Max frowned, "I'm sorry, Bella, do you still want to watch the movie?"

She uncrossed her arms but didn't move any closer. "I already finished the popcorn," she muttered, and Max couldn't help but chuckle. However, his smile made her frown, "don't laugh at me," her crossed arms were back.

Max instantly stopped, and you held back your own giggle watching the interaction. "It's okay, we can make more," he suggested which made Isabella look up at you.

"Can we make more, mama?" You shrugged, "I thought you were upset with Max? Not anymore?" Although Isabella tried to be upset with Max, she truly wasn't. Max, however, gullibly played into her little scheme.

"No, meetings are important, I guess," she responded and clutched Max's legs like she always did. This time, Max picked her up, "you are also very important, Bella."

You watched as they walked into the kitchen, with your daughter leading Max towards the popcorn. He did it all while still holding Isabella, and that sparked a bright smile on your face.

You finished queuing up the movie as they returned to the couch, Isabella sitting between you and Max while holding a bowl of popcorn.

Around half an hour passed by before Isabella dozed off. She was cuddled against Max's side, still holding onto the bowl which you carefully retrieved from her without waking her up.

You reached out towards her, but paused as you tried to figure out how you could pick her up and away from Max without waking her up.

"It's okay, let me take her upstairs," Max suggested quietly before carrying your sleeping daughter to her bedroom. You followed, just in case, plus Max didn't know where her bedroom was.

Leaning against the doorframe, you watched as he carefully tucked her in, which was a difficult task since Isabella didn't let go of her grasp on Max.

When he placed a short kiss on her forehead, and ran a hand over her head to smoothen out her hair, you turned away, no longer being able to watch such a gentle moment.

You walked back downstairs, with Max following moments later. Both of you looked at the tv screen where the movie was paused, then back to each other. "Do you want to continue?" He spoke your thoughts out loud.

You nodded, "sure."

This time, without Isabella sitting in between, you and Max were able to sit a lot closer. You grabbed the remote while Max held the bowl of popcorn.

Perhaps the movie was just a ploy to spend time together, to give Max a reason to stay longer because neither of you actually focused on the animation playing.

"How was the meeting?" You asked, making Max let out a groan. "The worst."

"It couldn't have been that bad," you commented, watching Max shake his head. "No, I never understood it when people say a meeting could've been an email, but this meeting—oh my god— it truly could've been an email."

You threw your head back with a laugh, "oh no, poor Max," you teased with your finger poking his cheek.

Before you could move it away, he linked his fingers with yours then facing the screen as if nothing happened. You looked at your linked fingers, smiling with a slight tinge growing on your cheeks before you looked ahead to focus on the movie.

Then, you felt his gaze on you, and you couldn't help but comment, "you're not watching." You turned your face to look at him, and he shrugged, "I can't help it, you're so beautiful."

"Such a flirt," you moved your hand away, briefly unlinking your fingers but before Max could protest, you shuffled closer to him, looping your arm with his and resting your head on his shoulder.

You couldn't concentrate on the movie anymore, and you weren't sure if it was because you'd seen it so many times with your daughter or because Max was tracing shapes with his fingertips on your thigh.

Feeling him shuffle around, you lifted your head to face him, "what's wrong?”

He shook his head but continued looking at you, this time with a look that seemed like he wanted to say something.

Max's thoughts were reeling inside his mind, trying to come up with the right words. So far, he's tried to remain calm around you, but with you so close to him in a way that seemed normal, he couldn't think.

Since he couldn't think, he mouth moved and spoke the words he had stuck in his mind for a while now, "can I take you out on a date?"

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, because out of all the words you expected to hear from him, it wasn't those. Well, you hoped he'd say it, but you didn't actually think he would.

Max mistook your surprise for denial and started spluttering with apologies, "sorry—um—that was unexpected—" he tried but the smile growing on your face told him to shut up.

"I was waiting for you to ask me out," you admitted, but Max still didn't sigh in relief. He needed another confirmation because right now, he could not believe the words you were saying.

"Is that a yes?" He only relaxed when you nodded, "yes, Max, I'd love to go on a date with you."

Then he sighed, a happy smile overtaking his face. "Thank god, I thought you were going to reject me."

Since Max stopped moving, you rested your head on his shoulder again, your arm still hooked with his but you slid your palm down until you met his. Max didn't think twice before threading his fingers between yours.

"Reject you? Never," you stated, and Max began thinking of how he was truly lucky to have met you.

"It's all because of Isabella," you answered his thoughts, making him realize that he had said it all out loud. He chuckled, "yeah, it is."

"For the record, I'm glad that I met you too," you stated, causing a slight blush to rise onto Max's cheeks but fortunately, you were focusing on the last few minutes of the movie.

This movie night might've gone in a different direction than Max expected, but the outcome was gladly appreciated. He didn't leave your hand even after the end credits ended, and you didn't move away either.

Taglist: (continuing the taglist in comments) @xjval @mrsmaybank13 @cherry-piee @urfavnoirette @solphin @burningcupcakefire @nessacarty1 @dreamsarebig @omgsuperstarg @fanficweasley @redbullgirly @llando4norris @wonnou @randomgirlnumber13 @dark-night-sky-99 @chanshintien @leilanixx @gisellesprettylies @peachiicherries @monsieurbacteria6 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @arian-directioner @distancedss @morenofilm @sachaa-ff @lighttsoutlewis @teamnovalak @casperlikej @sadg3 @d3kstar @lewisvinga @lpab @queenofmanydreams @glitterf1 @honethatty12 @drunk-teens-doing-drugs @its-avalon-08 @yourbane @oconswrld @noneofyourfbusinessworld @ssrcsm @softtina @hockeyboysarehot @formulaal @namgification @tallrock35 @bloodyymaryyy @formulanni @ellouisa17 @phantomxoxo

[lilyprettyremy]

Mastering the It Girl Life on Campus/ at school : Confidence, Class, and Style

On-Campus Essentials: Sophisticated and Ready to Conquer

Structured mini tote – Think sleek and polished. Choose something that says "I'm on my game" while fitting your essentials: a slim laptop, your chic planner, and a pair of sunnies.

Signature scent – A travel-sized luxury perfume, like Byredo or Le Labo. It leaves a lasting impression without overpowering.

Hydro flask in a neutral tone – Hydration, but make it aesthetic. Bonus points if it matches your outfit.

Protein bar or matcha to-go – Snacks are essential, but we’re keeping it elevated. Opt for a protein bar with clean ingredients or a homemade matcha latte in a reusable tumbler.

AirPods Max or sleek earbuds – Perfect for tuning out the noise between classes with a curated podcast or chill playlist, keeping your energy cool and collected.

In Class: Own the Room with Confidence and Intelligence

Effortless note-taking setup – Digital is where it’s at. Use a tablet with a stylus for sleek, organized notes that sync across all your devices. Bonus: it looks high-tech and minimalistic.

Command attention – Sit where you can engage, but it’s not about the front row anymore—it’s about being present and prepared. Contribute thoughtfully when needed, and stay poised.

All-in-one app for organization – Ditch the old-school planner. Use an app like Notion or Google Calendar to sync your schedule, assignments, and deadlines. Effortlessly keep everything streamlined and on point.

Refined confidence – Instead of always speaking up, choose your moments wisely. Command attention through well-thought-out points that showcase your intellect, not just participation.

Breaks Between Classes: Elevate Your Downtime

Mini face mist – A refreshing face mist with a subtle scent keeps your skin hydrated and glowing, giving you a post-class refresh. Think Tatcha or a rose water mist.

Quick mirror check – Always have a compact mirror to do a quick hair and lip check. It's about looking polished and put together without effort.

Reset with movement – Walk around campus to stay energized, but with intention. Pop in your favorite playlist, take in the surroundings, and use this time to clear your mind before the next task.

Digital declutter – Use breaks to clear out any unnecessary tabs, update your notes, or respond to quick emails. Keeping your digital life tidy is the new version of looking organized.

[zhongfile]

something’s missing. — Lee Donghyuck

PAIRING. haechan x fem reader

GENRE. smut

WARNINGS. blackmailing, dubcon themes, unprotected sex, crying, slapping, oral, degradation, forced breeding, stalking of socials, non-consented recording. big d!ck haechan agenda.

WC. 2.1K

A/N: miss the dreamies so bad it got me writing again😪 please enjoy this smut that i’ve been working on for a while that only @2cupids has known about LOL. feedback is so highly appreciated it’s been so long!! proof read but not rly oops. hope you enjoy:’)

Haechan scoffed when he viewed your story. Jealousy washing over his body when he saw you kissing another man on the cheek. the caption reading happy one month with a pink heart emoji. “Unbelievable” he mumbled to himself, tossing his phone. Surely you were only posting that to make him upset right?

You and haechan parted ways a long time ago. Two years ago to be exact haechan still believing you loved him and only moved on to get a reaction out of him. Which.. wasn’t true. You stopped worrying about haechan the day you two broke up. Threatening to get a restraining order made him back off a little, giving you the chance to call the quits. Haechan tried to rationalize with you saying he couldn’t live without you and wanted to remain good friends even if you two weren’t together anymore. You were easy to manipulate though that quickly came to an end.

Your ‘friendship’ lasted maybe a good week before you stopped returning his phone calls and blocked him on everything. Now here you are two years later in a happy relationship, new friends, and even a better job. Haechan hasn’t even crossed your mind since you’ve been with Jake, finally feeling safe in a relationship for once.

Haechan on the other hand still kept tabs on you. Though you blocked him and all his friends he still had an old burner account he used to stalk your socials. He was happy to see you happy but hated that it wasn’t him being there for you and all your new accomplishments. He hated seeing you under another man. He hated that you were purposely posting all this to make him jealous. To make him react this way.

He shakes his head, smacking his dry lips together, how could you just move on that easily?

Haechan had to think of a way to get you back into his life again.

You laid your head on your boyfriend's chest as you slowly began to drift off to sleep. Your phone buzzed ignoring the first two times it went off getting up to check it the third time it buzzed. The number that texted you was a number you didn't save or recognize, figuring someone just had the wrong number. Your eyes went wide at the three video attachments of you fucking haechan and giving him head. ‘Why does he still have these?’ You asked yourself. Your heart sank at the following messages. He found you yet again.

Unknown: Remember these?

Unknown: Oh how I miss you and your tongue. I still watch these videos to get myself off

Unknown: come on y/n don’t ignore me :((

Unknown: maybe i should send these videos to jake huh? show him how much fun we used to have.

You froze at the text.. How did he know who Jake was?

You: please delete those videos haechan. seriously please

Unknown: look who finally decided to reply!

Unknown: come over and maybe i’ll consider deleting

You: please don’t do this again. just delete them and we both can go our separate ways donghyuck.

Unknown: either you come over or i send it to him. your call

Haechan smiled to himself when you texted you were on the way. He was going to make you his again.

Haechan decided to tidy up the place before your arrival, spraying some cheap air freshener in his living room to make his apartment seem more comfortable. He wanted seeing you again to be memorable, setting up a camera in the far left corner in his living room hiding it good enough so you wouldn’t see. His hands felt sweaty and his heart rate was increasing, butterflies filling his tummy. He couldn’t believe he was actually about to see you, a grin slowly creeping on his face.

You had a horrible feeling about how this whole thing was going to go. Haechan never takes no for an answer and you had a gut feeling it was going to take everything in you to get him to delete those old videos. The pit of your stomach began to drop when you arrived at his apartment. Horrible flashbacks started playing in the back of your head when you parked your car. let’s just get this over with you thought to yourself as you approached Haechan’s door.

It’s like he could feel your presence at the door opening it before you even knocked. He smiled, “hi”

“hey..” you mumbled under your breath barely looking at him.

Haechan opened the door wider welcoming you in. Everything was still the same.. the exact same. Same old raggedy furniture that he should’ve thrown away years ago. Even your old pictures of the two of you were hanging on the wall. All the memories between you two begin to flood your mind and you need to get haechan to delete these videos so you could leave and never think about him again.

“Come sit,” Haechan patted his thigh, that shit eating grin resting on his lips. You didn’t want to upset or trigger anything obeying everything he asked you to do. You sat on his knee, hands resting uncomfortably in your lap. “So tell me what’s been new? How are things with your little boyfriend?” he asked, moving your hair out of your face to see you better, making you close your eyes at his touch. “Things are okay...”

“Just okay?” he asked emphasizing on ‘just’

“things are good..” you corrected yourself trying to shift off his lap a bit haechan pulling you closer to him squeezing your thigh. “Why are you trying to run away from me?” He asked with a slight pout to his lips

“Haechan.. please” your voice was barely above a whisper refusing to make eye contact with him. “I just want you to delete the videos so we can go our separate ways again”

“Come on, you don’t miss me?” you didn’t reply quick enough for his liking making haechan pull you all the way onto his lap a gasp leaving your lips as you now straddled him.

“Haechan” you called softly “ohh now you can hear me” he let out a teasing laugh rubbing his hands up and down your thigh.

“please..” you begged once again. Haechan rubbed your cheek so softly and sweet like he actually cared about anything you were asking him for. He reached in the front of his pocket pulling his phone out unlocking it and showing you his messages. The video of you two already loaded up to be sent to jake. All it took was one press.

“Haechan please stop” you cry, “i’ll do anything!” you blurted out reaching for the phone.

Haechan locked it and looked down at you. And there it was. He knew you were gonna eventually give in.

He rests his arms on the couch looking at your head tilted to the side. “Get on your knees”

You hesitated getting off his lap kneeling between his spread legs. Your hands were shaking unbuckling his jeans only pulling his pants down far enough to free his cock. Haechan hisses at the cool air hitting his tip dripping in pre-cum. your lips glide over his length trying your best to fit him in your mouth. bobbing your head back and forth gently Haechan getting impatient with this little act you were putting up. You’ve sucked his dick plenty of times. Why are you acting like you don’t know what you are doing?

He grabbed a fistful of your hair making you yelp “Are you trying to piss me off huh?” he slapped you across the face making you close your eyes from the sting.

You shook your head no. “I can’t hear you” he slaps you again, a tear falling down your cheek. “no..” you sniffled.

“Then do it right” he pushed your head back down onto his cock doing the work for you.

“fuck” he mumbled under his breath pushing your face all the way down on his cock almost cumming on the spot watching you gag. You pinched at his thigh trying to get him to let go so you could breathe but Haechan didn’t care. He just wanted to get his dick wet by his favorite girl.

He finally pulled you up smirking at the way you gasped for air. He let out a moan at the sight of you. Drool and spit dripping down your chin and chest. Eyes filled with tears. He loved seeing you all messy like this. He swore his cock got harder from you crying. For him it was his favorite site. He grabbed you by the jaw guiding you back to his lap.

“Sit on it” you sniffled again wanting to tell him no but couldn’t risk making him more upset. Taking a step back to take your shorts and panties off. You align his cock up with your entrance gripping onto his shoulders to help steady yourself. Haechan surprisingly lets you take your time easing down on his cock the stretch feeling unbelievable.

Haechan let out a sigh when you finally sat all the way. Hands gripping your hips “still so fucking tight— shit”

“y/n— you gotta move or fuck— i’ll fuck up into you” you let your hands rest on his shoulder slowly beginning to bouce up and down.

“it hurts.. you’re too big” you mumbled in between sobs.

“Jake doesn’t fill you up this well does he baby?” you close your eyes at the mention of Jake. Feeling completely horrible for even doing this.

“You missed me didn’t you?” Haechan asked, thrusting up into you watching the way you bite your lip to hold back your moan.

your legs were growing weak and you felt like you could cum in any second. You wanted to keep your eyes closed but couldn’t help but look at the way haechan was so into it. His head was thrown back resting against the couch as he helped you bounce on his big cock. Lip snuck between his teeth watching the way his cock goes in and out of your sweet cunt.

“it’s so big,” you whimpered. “I know baby” Haechan cooed wiping at your tears.

“missed you and this pretty fucking pussy so much” he shook his head, “can’t believe you stayed this tight”

you tried to ignore his words grabbing at his shoulders so hard you were sure he’ll have marks in the morning.

“so pathetic your boyfriend can’t get you off the way i can”

“stop” you managed to mumble out. “What's wrong? don’t like it when i talk about your sweet boyfriend?” he teased.

“How do you think he’ll feel if he saw you right now? Whoring yourself out like this for me?” the tears wouldn’t stop. You hid your face in his shoulder begging him to stop bringing Jake up.

He let out a laugh at the way you hid yourself rubbing circles in your clit. “Haechan please.. stop” you weren’t even sure if you were letting out real words anymore. Your head was dizzy and full off of being a shitty girlfriend and Haechan.

“You’re so fucking close i know you” he laughed. “Cumming from the thought of your boyfriend seeing us fuck hm? Pretty fucked up way of thinking huh pretty girl?” The tears wouldn’t stop still hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“you’re only crying because you feel bad for enjoying this” you begin to sob harder because he’s right.

You didn’t miss haechan and you didn’t miss your relationship but you missed this. The sex life. His big cock that he only enjoyed abusing on you. You love Jake and everything about him but you knew for a fact he wouldn’t fill you up the way Haechan is right now.

“Gonna cum in you” Haechan groaned, closing his eyes shut. You jolted up at his words telling him no.

“Gonna cum in your sweet cunt” Haechan moaned again ignoring your first protest.

“Haechan you can’t! i’m not on the pill—“ he covered your mouth with his left hand tossing his head back as he came in you. Filling you up so good. You closed your eyes at the feeling letting another tear fall down your cheek. Haechan finally took his hand off your mouth trying to catch his breath.

He unlocked his phone showing you to your face that the videos are gone. Deleting all three. You still sat there cheeks puffy and eyes swollen red from all your crying. Haechan wiped your face and kissed your cheeks.

“You don’t have to worry anymore okay? it’s all done” you gave him a nod getting off to clean yourself up before heading home. You couldn't wait to be back in Jake’s arms again.

When you left his apartment haechan promised not to contact you. Apologizing for bothering you in the first place again. You felt pretty good about it this time not feeling the need to block him on anything.

Haechan reached behind his flower pot, stopping the video he recorded. He smiled to himself when he hit play hearing your sobs and pleads. God it was good enough to get him hard again but not tonight. He uploaded the video to his laptop adding to a folder labeled ‘y/n’ where he kept all videos and pictures of you over the past two years. He walked up to his calendar lifting up the page to October. Circling October 21st. That’s when he’ll text you again with another video, surprise. He couldn’t believe how easy this was again.

He finally had your trust back.

[buckets-and-trees]

I think game designer Bucky and game tester Reader should not only test the games, but also the new gaming chair Bucky's got... 😏

Eva, my dear, you dropped this idea my way 13 months ago, and it took a while for my muse to finally figure out how to serve this up, but I'm finally here to deliver.

Permissions

Characters/Pairings: Game Designer!Bucky x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.4k Summary: Situationship. Yes. There was something happening between you and Bucky. His acquisition of a new gaming chair seemed like the perfect reason to invite you over to his place for the first time... PART OF A SERIES BUT THEORETICALLY COULD BE READ AS A STAND-ALONE

Content/Concept Warnings: gamer AU; explicit smut (vaginal fingering, oral - female receiving, a little biting, orgasm denial); beefy Bucky who is kinda cocky, kinda soft, but a definitely a menace

Notes: The WEEK TWO offering for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2025! Serving up the "Did I give you permission?" dialogue prompt and orgasm denial.

previous part: Test Play | Series List

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You showed up to Bucky Barnes’ place for the very first time with a pack of energy drinks and a bag of sour gummy strawberries, both ridiculously nervous and yet somewhat calm. He opened the door in an impossibly tight t-shirt and sweats that are slung low on his hips. He stared at the gummies for a moment with a kind of offended reverence, then at you, and wordlessly stepped aside to let you in.

It was nearing the end of summer, but the inside of his apartment was cold enough to keep produce fresh. You wound your hoodie tighter around your waist, a reflexive urge to retain heat and maybe, if you were being honest, set up an opportunity for him to put his hands on you later. 

“I got the chair set up in the living room,” Bucky said, gesturing vaguely, though his face radiated a kind of single-minded pride. 

The new chair was the excuse to invite you over in this new thing developing between you two. 

You looked around to see the gaming setup: two monitors, a stack of unopened peripherals, a rug with a hexagonal pattern that looks both overpriced and necessary, and the new chair glowering in the middle of it all. You whistle, low and sincere.

“Did you assemble it yourself?” you asked, dropping your bag by the arm of the couch.

Bucky nodded. “Instructions were ass. Had to use a torque wrench and also, for some reason, a knitting needle.”

“I can’t believe you ordered this,” you said, standing in the middle of his exceedingly tidy living room and gazing at the monstrous, throne-like rig now squatting in the corner by the window. “Isn’t this just for, like, competitive streamers?”

He shrugged, a little sheepish despite the way his arms bulged against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “I had a coupon code.”

You snorted. “A coupon code? I know how much these cost.”

He didn’t answer, only grinned.

You looked back at the chair. “Honestly, this is a throne, Barnes. Am I supposed to kneel, or do you want me to sit on your lap?”

He barked a laugh, but his face also flushed a bright red, which made you squirm and bight back a giggle. “Right to the quick and dirty with you then, huh?” he huffed. 

You sidled up to the rig and ran a hand over the buttery armrest. "It's just… intimidating. A little intimidating, is all." But the look you gave him was anything but cowed: challenge, flirt, and a wink. “But you know I like a bit of that.”

He stepped closer, and you could feel the tension between you, coiled and humming. A summer ago you’d have fizzed and fizzled away, but he’d made it clear he was interested in you. With the new context, the heat between you was alive and kinetic. You turned the chair a quarter turn and dropped into it with a small bounce, swinging your legs up and crossing them, spinning slowly to face him as he prowled closer with your offerings.

He took an energy drink from the pack, cracked the tab, and took a slow, deliberate pull, eyes never leaving yours. When he handed it to you, his thumb lingered on your fingers a half-second longer than absolutely necessary, and you both noticed. 

Heat. That, and the chill, was all you could feel—like your body was ice and your blood was infused with caffeine, and you weren’t sure you cared which sensation would win the day. You took the drink from him and matched his stare, then took a deep, throaty gulp, neat as a dare. He watched your throat bob, and you watched his eyes darken in the process.

"Want to do a test run?" he said, voice a little hoarse.

You gestured at the rig, then at your own dumb self. "Am I being beta tested or testing your set up?"

"You're the only one I want touching the hardware," he said. He moved behind the chair to tweak the lumbar support, and his hands bracketed you for a moment, near enough that you could smell the clean musk of his deodorant and something sharp, synthetic, like ozone. You tried not to shiver.

You hovered the mouse in digital menus for a while, glancing up at him as he fiddled with the monitor tilt to angle it to your height. 

When his hand brushed your shoulder, you bit the inside of your cheek, stubborn about maintaining composure. He was so very close. It was almost cartoonish, how much he dwarfed the chair—how much space he seemed to take up, even as he hovered behind you. 

You toggled the settings up and down, but your focus was split—one half on the clicks, the other half on the lazy, weighted way his fingers traced the edge of the desk before finally, gently, pressing a gummy into your palm. You snorted a laugh, accepted the offering, and chewed it slowly, the sour sugar kindling microexplosions on your tongue. 

“You always this pushy?” you asked, through the bits of candy. 

He spun the chair a half-turn, and you swung with it; suddenly you were between his knees, his hands still on the chair, knuckles whitening, body close enough you could see how uneven his breathing had gotten. He was on the edge of something, but you couldn’t tell if it was restraint or anticipation or just the general frazzle of having you here, in his space.

“I’m not pushy,” he said, voice dropping a register. “I just know what I want.”  

“Which is?”  

“You,” he said, and it landed, heavy and real, like a gauntlet thrown onto the desk.  

You watched the line of his jaw, the quiver in his throat, the way his knee bounced faintly as he tried not to betray himself further. It was easy to be arch, easy to be glib, but this feeling—this weird, hovering intimacy—made you want to be honest, or at least a little less armored.  

“I want you, too,” you said.  

He exhaled. Some fractional tension left his body, but the rest of him stayed coiled, ready, a held breath of a man. 

"Show me," you said, soft but certain, and Bucky moved like something in him had snapped. He dropped to his knees, the chair pinched between his spread thighs, and his big hands slid up your calves, thumbs pressing in circles through the fabric of your leggings. He looked at you with an intensity that bordered on worship and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and peeled them down to your ankles. 

The chill of the apartment hit you, but then so did the searing heat of his breath through the cotton of your underwear, and then the wet, rough press of his tongue as he mouthed you over the thin fabric. You squirmed, powerless not to, as he mouthed you again, harder this time, and then with a quick, almost ruthless rip, he had your underwear balled in his fist and your cunt bare, already dripping for him. He groaned, low and husky, the vibration shivering through your pelvis as he licked a stripe from the base of you all the way up, then circled your clit with the flat of his tongue until you gasped. 

You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur in your vision, the whole apartment a fog around the too-real focus of his mouth on you. The chair creaked under your grip as he sucked your clit between his lips, slow and thorough, each movement measured to draw out as much sound from you as possible. He buried his face deeper, nosed along your folds, tongue fucking into you with a sweetness matched only by the wanton sloppiness of it—like eating you was an assignment, a pleasure, a calling. 

"Bucky," you choked out, and your hands found his hair, the soft pull just making him moan. He tipped his face up, mouth gleaming, eyes black with want, and leaned in again, licking you open before plunging his tongue deep into you and groaning like a man starved. The vibrato of it dragged a startled yelp from your throat that dissolved into shivering laughter, pleasure ricocheting up and down your spine. 

You bucked your hips against him, not out of strategy, but because something in you wanted him impossible-close. He was ready for it—one of his hands shifted up, palm flattening against your belly, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He licked you again, long and thorough, then flicked his tongue over your clit until your thighs shook and your eyes blurred. 

You let out a noise you’ve never made, high and ragged, and you barely registered when he pressed two fingers inside. He curled them up, pressed them right against where you needed, and pumped in lazy, devastating rhythm and you thought you might actually come apart on this very expensive chair, melt into the synthetic mesh and memory foam and leave a mark that would never quite come out.

You tried to be mindful of the world beyond the two of you, but the rest of the apartment faded into static, overwritten by the wet drag of his tongue and the rhythmic pressure of his fingers as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck—Bucky, I'm—" you managed, andhe stopped. Abrupt, like a door slamming behind you in a dark hallway. He pulled back, hands braced on your knees, eyes hot and unsparing as he caught your wild, desperate stare. You were right there, flailing in the slipstream, and the sudden absence of him was so sharp, so mean, you made a wordless, strangled noise. 

He licked his lips. “Did I give you permission?” he said, which was a new configuration of Bucky Barnes, and a terrifyingly effective one at that. 

You panted, air thick in your throat, and managed a shaky, “That’s not fair.” 

He smirked—wolfish and soft all at once. “Never said it would be.” 

You gaped, mind sputtering, a strangled whine caught in your chest. He arched an eyebrow, his grip tightening just barely, just enough to be felt as a promise.

“I—” you started, but there was no good answer in you, not with the way he was still kneeling at your feet, thighs splayed, cock straining beneath the thin cotton of his sweats, tongue glistening with evidence of your complete undoing. 

You gripped the arms of the throne, knuckles white and trembling, and glared at him. “You’re a goddamn bastard,” you managed, but it sounded more like a plea than an accusation, and he grinned as if you’d handed him the highest compliment.

“Say it again,” he murmured, rising just enough to flatten his palms against your thighs and push them wider, stretching you open under his gaze. “Say it like you mean it.” 

“You. Are. A. Bastard.” The words came out in staccato, punctuated by the slow push of his fingers, finding your pulse point inside and curling up. You moaned, the sound guttural. He moved with impossible control, his face soft with worship even as his hands worked precision chaos between your legs, returning you to the edge and holding you there.

You flattened a palm to his scalp, not because you needed leverage but because you needed to anchor yourself, stake some symbolic claim on this moment so you didn’t simply burst into flames and cinders. The heat between your thighs was a different kind of fire, stoked with each lazy, wicked pass of his tongue, the way he sighed into you, the way he watched your every twitch and quiver like it all belonged to him. 

You said it again, softer this time, nearly a gasp. “Bastard.” 

He smiled against you, the curve of his mouth obscene and perfect, then he pressed inward and set a brutal, indulgent rhythm with his tongue and fingers both. He wanted you to break, and you wanted to let him. The chair rocked under you with your gathering tremors, and he pressed your hips down, not letting you back away from the rush of sensation. You whimpered, then pleaded, but Bucky kept you right there, eyes fixed on your face as you. 

“Please.” You heard yourself say it. Nothing else. No elaboration, just the honest edges of the word. 

Bucky slowed, then stopped, withdrawing his fingers with deliberate, excruciating slowness. The ache in your cunt was so intense it bordered on grief. You reached for him blindly, but he caught your wrist, holding it in the air between you, his thumb pressed just enough to be present at your pulse. 

"You don't get to finish yet," he said, voice low and purposefully cruel. "You hate when a game is too easy. You’ve said so yourself." 

Your breath stuttered, a high, keening sound escaping your chest. You blinked at him, not sure if you wanted to cry or hit him or both. “But… this isn’t a game though.”

“No,” he affirmed, his tone more serious, recognizing you checking in with him in the moment. “It’s absolutely not a game.”

Your heart warmed and relaxed, and you both smiled at each other. 

But then a moment later Bucky was back in it. He rose up, looming over you with the intensity of a thunderhead, and a thrill ran through you. He hooked his thumb under your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “Open your mouth,” he said. 

You did, breathless, trusting. He leaned in and pressed two gummy strawberries to your tongue, sour sugar dusting your lips, and then he followed with his own mouth, tongue licking up the flavor before it could dissolve. You tasted yourself, the candy, his breath—clean and a little wild. When he bit your lip, gentle but hungry, you made a noise you didn’t recognize as your own. 

“Barnes,” you hissed, gummy half-melted and sticking to your cheek. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

He drew back just enough to see your smile. “Not kill. Ruin. There’s a difference.” 

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[copperbadge]

ADHD and (Communications) Productivity

Recently @goodnightmoonvale hit me up by email to ask about some of my processes for keeping myself from getting snowed under when it comes to digital communication. The main question was about finding ways to ensure that you stay in touch with people and, at work, give updates in a timely manner.

I sent back a long email about the systems I use, then asked if I could post up my response publicly as well, since a couple of other people both online and in brickspace have asked me similar questions. I've cleaned it up a little and included it below -- although I feel just slightly weird about posting it since admittedly outside of work I am still not fantastic about prompt responses to email.

Still, I feel like it's good to share this stuff -- I think people take away what they can from this kind of post, and it's nice when something works. So here's what I wrote, tidied up a bit for posting.

SHORT VERSION

When I have a backlog in email or asks or similar -- as I often do -- I set aside a time, between 15 minutes and an hour depending on how I'm feeling, to do "communication rotation". I open up every inbox I need to respond to in a separate tab, and crucially these are the ONLY tabs open -- I set up a new browser window if I have to.

So I have a browser open and I have tabs within the browser -- Gmail, Tumblr Askbox, AO3 Inbox, etcetera. If you have Discord you might open the DMs in Discord to see if you have ones to respond to there. If it helps, you can create a bookmark file of "inboxes" so you can open them all at once every time. Sometimes I have multiple browsers open so that I can have multiple Gmail inboxes (personal, fandom, work) open at once.

Then I cycle through them, answering messages in one inbox until I feel like I can't anymore, and I move on to the next one. I try to set a goal -- say, five messages from each platform, or one "difficult" message that I've been putting off per platform. Or trying to get every inbox down to under 20 messages that need response, or similar.

The goal is not to answer every single message, but to attack the mountain. If you find you're skipping one inbox because only the really hard-to-respond-to messages are left, close out the other inboxes and just focus on replying to ONE hard-to-respond-to message, then get up and walk away and give yourself a treat. Maybe come back and start again in ten minutes, maybe you're done for the day. The point is to reduce the backlog little by little while still retaining enough energy to respond to new things as they come in, so they don't add to the backlog.

There may be a better way for some people -- maybe some people would do better to pick one platform each time and just deep focus on that one, for example. I always say that people need to find what works for them, but the attitude in this case is what's important -- not "Gotta do it all now" but "Little bit now helps me later". 

NOW, for the long version that's more work focused! 

LONG VERSION

Responding to people and keeping them updated are two different things, and I think there's an implicit third thing, which is "making sure I make time to respond to messages". So in sequence what you need to figure out how to do is: 

1. Set up your workflow so that you are consistently reminded to read and respond to email.

2. Respond in a timely and appropriate manner to email. 

3. Set up your workflow so that you are reminded to provide update emails as you progress in various projects. 

So for 1, only you know what will trigger you to consistently read and answer email. For me, I just constantly have my work email open on one monitor (I have two) and whenever a new email comes in I see it. Sometimes I need to use both monitors for other things, and for that reason the only email notifications I get on my phone are work email notifications*. So if I'm working on something and my phone nearby dings, I know it's probably important, and I see what it is fairly quickly.

* Reader, if you have ADHD and have not tried turning off all but the most necessary phone notifications, I do recommend trying it. For some it might be difficult or even counterproductive, but for me, it helps enormously with brain fog and executive function. The only notifications I get on my phone are text messages, work emails, and alarms. Nothing from social media, nothing from retail or game or banking apps. Zippo.

Once I'm aware I have a new email, before I read it, I decide: do I want to read and reply to this now? If not, if I'm in the groove of something else, I leave the email unread, so that it's there nagging at me when I'm done with whatever I'm doing. If I'm in a good place to break, I open the email -- but only if I have concluded that I will respond to it immediately if response is needed. 

This is a difficult habit to form. It may not work for some people. The key is to figure out what will a) draw your attention to new email, b) allow you to decide whether to read it, and c) respond if you do read it. 

2 ("respond in a timely and appropriate manner") is actually the easiest of the three steps in my opinion because you don't always have to have all the answers at once. I sometimes fall into the pit of "I can't respond unless I have a full answer or a finished assignment" and have to pull myself back out. It helps that I have become master of the "acknowledgement email" -- basically if you open an email and you can't answer the questions in it immediately, or if you can't work on the assignment that moment, you fire off a quick email just to let them know you've received the message and are working on it.

For this, I have several stock phrases such as "Thanks for the email! Let me look into this a little further and I'll get back to you" or "Sure, I can get that done in [timeframe]." Importantly, if they have not given you a deadline, it's SUPER helpful to say, "I'll have this to you by [reasonable date in your opinion] -- if you need it sooner please let me know ASAP so I can prioritize it." (or "If you need it sooner let's discuss the scope of the project, since I have a lot on my plate.") 

You then need to make sure that you do the task in the allotted time, but that's a different ballgame -- we're focusing here on responding and updating.

People, truly, just want to know that you've seen their request and are working on it, and just sending that email goes a long way towards giving the impression that you are a prompt responder and strong communicator. Also if you have any questions ("before I proceed, can I ask") now is the time to ask them since that puts responsibility back on them to provide information before you go further and possibly waste your time.

3 ("Set up your workflow so that you are reminded to provide update emails") is where I struggle, because it's not just about remembering to Do The Thing, you have to also remember to update the person on the thing. The way I do this is to use my inbox not as a temporary repository for new emails but as a to-do list. Until a task is complete, the email regarding it does not leave my inbox (see next paragraph for exceptions). If it's important I might even mark it unread (despite having replied to it) so that it "bugs" me when I look at my inbox. 

If I have replied and can't go further until I get a response, I might file the email in a folder. I make a new folder for work every month, so for example any requests from February are in the 2025-02 folder, and for big projects with multiple emails I make a folder like "2025 Holiday Cards" or "2025 Database Audit". Since there's nothing I can do until the person hits me back, it doesn't need to stay in my "to do" inbox -- when they email back it'll get moved there anyway. However, if I have replied and need a response but can work on other aspects of the task, even if I'm not going to immediately, I leave it in my inbox. That way, whenever I'm concerned I've forgotten something, I can check my inbox and see all the stuff I need to either reply to or update people on.

I also use Google Tasks to run my life, and have it open in a sidebar next to my email, so any task I should be working on is generally noted there as well, but that goes back to the "make sure you do the tasks promptly" which again is a different issue. 

CASE STUDY

So, say someone asks me for a spreadsheet on Monday. I reply "Thanks, I'll have this for you by end of day Friday, let me know if you need it sooner." They don't respond so I assume Friday is fine for my purposes. I leave the request email in my inbox and start work on the task OR I put the task in my Google Tasks with "Due Friday EOD" on it. (Sometimes I do both.)

I work on the project all week and by Wednesday I've made reasonable progress but haven't heard back from the person who asked for it. Around the end of day Wednesday, I might open the thread again and send a quick email saying "Hey, I'm making good headway on this, still on track to have it to you EOD Friday." Or I might have a question, and shoot that off. For some people, you get a feel of whether or not they need that kind of update. I don't do this for, say, my super laid-back boss, but I do for the head of Data who definitely wants status updates. 

On Friday, I open that same email thread as the original request (for consistency) and send them the finished product. At that point I know I'm done with the task so I can shift the email into my 2025-02 archive for good. All the communication is in one place, and it's neatly filed away, so I no longer have to worry about it. 

CONCLUSION

The ultimate point is that you want to develop a system for your own personal use that reminds you to check email frequently, helps you respond immediately when you read an email, and reminds you to send updates as they're needed. Maybe that's alarms instead of Google Tasks, or a calendar app, or a handwritten to-do list in place of keeping stuff in your inbox. The point is to know what will cue you to do things you wouldn't do naturally, then implement those -- and change them if they stop working. What I wrote above is my system, but it's mostly demonstrating the framework I used to build it, which is what I hope other people will also find useful.

[ryukatters]

it's your fault for loving me — y. okkotsu ⁺˚⋆｡°✩

⟡ pairing: yuuta okkotsu x fem!reader

⟡ cw: /DARK CONTENT, /yandere! yuuta, /dubcon, /NONCON, ex-bf!yuuta, stalking, he breaks into your apartment, he /manhandles you (he’s strong), /implied babytrapping, /possessiveness, MINORS DNI

⟡ wc: 2.9k (someone sedate me)

⟡ song inspo: language by brent faiyaz

⟡ summary: Your ex boyfriend breaks into your apartment. What do you mean he needs to leave? He’s staying right here.

The slow, muffled drag of your feet ricochet off the hallway walls as you trudge along to your apartment. You fumble with your keys for a little bit, but find no resistance as you insert it into the slot. 

“Huh, that’s odd…I could’ve sworn I locked it.”

You chalk it up to exhaustion. You're only practically ever home to sleep due to the way you've been throwing yourself onto mission after mission. Even now, sleep is a luxury you can barely afford. You kick off your shoes lazily, not bothering putting them in their rightful place on the shoe rack. 

Maybe before, you would have cared more about keeping the house tidy. Or maybe before, your loving boyfriend would pamper and coddle you the minute you opened the front door, so you never had to worry about the little details like putting your shoes in the right place.

You were exhausted. 

You wanted nothing more than to wash up and plop down onto your soft, soft bed. You don’t even make it to your bedroom door before you pause, anxiety prickling your nerves. 

You sense him before you see him. Yuuta’s cursed energy has always had a tendency to seep out whenever he was around you. Whether it’s a testament to how he’s able to fully relax in your presence or a display of raw power, you’re not sure. 

"You're home," a certain black-haired sorcerer chirps. "How was your mission?"

In the past, simply hearing Yuuta’s voice would be enough to melt away the pent up stress from a hard day of exorcizing curses. It’d soothe your aching muscles and tired soul as you let yourself be enveloped by the weight of his affection. But right now, it did everything except that. 

The shiver of excitement that used to run down your spine is replaced by trepidation caused by the only person who used to be able to comfort you. 

You know better than to ask how he knew you were on a mission, much less ask how he managed to break into your apartment. It seems he's been in here for a while, with the way he seems to have made himself at home on your bed, much like the way he used to before. 

"Why are you here?"

The question makes him sit up. 

“Because I missed you. Is that so bad?”

You want to laugh. The whole situation is all sorts of fucked up, and the two of you are talking about it the same way one would the weather.

“Yuuta, we broke up 2 months ago,” you press, vexation lacing your words. You could never imagine yourself using that tone on him. Yuuta’s always been so meticulous in loving you, in making sure you were happy.  He’s never given you a reason to be upset with him. But that was then, and this was now. 

You could say whatever you wanted to say. You were tired and definitely not in the mood to deal with a supposed burglar that happens to be in the form of your ex-boyfriend.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” he says simply.

“You walked out on me!”

“Because I thought you needed some space. And now I’m back. But I never said we were breaking up.” 

Space was an extremely generous term for what Yuuta gave you. If you could consider watching your every move from a distance, keeping tabs on who you talk to, and making sure you stay out of trouble secretly, “space.” He would never let you know that though. It’s too much, too soon.

He couldn't help it, not when his precious baby could get hurt. He’d never forgive himself if that happened.

“Come and sit, my love. You look so tired.” He pats the space next to him. You will your heart not to flutter at the familiar nickname. 

Your body moves before your brain can catch up. It’s almost like listening to him was muscle memory. You pause in your step, cross your arms, and glare at him. 

“Leave, Yuuta. I don’t want to see you.” The words rise from the very depths of your soul and spill out of your mouth like bile, burning and spiteful. It hurts to speak to him like this, even after he’d abandoned you with no hopes of return. 

“Sit, love.” A little more demanding this time. “I’m not repeating myself again.” 

The tension in the air is palpable, so thick you can cut it with a knife.

You take a seat. Yuuta doesn’t miss a beat before he has his hands on you. 

“Missed you,” his hand reaches out to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing against the plushness of your cheek. 

You’ve always been so soft, it’s one of the things Yuuta loves the most about you. 

You flinch. Blame it on the adrenaline coursing through your body like wildfire. Your fight or flight response is shot. Yuuta’s touch seems to rewrite everything that’s been hardwired into your brain. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple, before moving down to kiss the tip of your nose, and both of your cheeks. Each press of his lips leaves feels like it’s being seared into your flesh, a metaphorical branding iron of sorts— to show that you’re Yuuta’s and Yuuta’s only. 

Your mind goes blank when he sucks a kiss into the side of your neck, whimpering pathetically as he grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin. 

“We can’t do this,” you assert, but the words get stuck in your throat, so it comes out more as a whiny sigh. Your body seems to have a tendency to betray you when it comes to him.

“But we can,” Yuuta coos, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress. He takes both of your hands in his, lifting them up until they’re above your head, effectively pinning you in place. “We’re doing it right now, aren’t we?” 

Yuuta can appear pretty unassuming to outsiders. He’s quiet, reserved, almost meek. If one were to take a closer look, however, they’d realize that beneath that unostentatious front was a more commanding aura, one that forces you to submit to his whims with his sweet tongue and sensuous touches. Perfectly calculated, perfectly executed. 

"I fucking hate you,” you spit, thrashing against his hold, but to no avail. 

"No you don't,” Yuuta shuts you down with conviction. Like it’s the absolute truth— the kind that can’t be twisted or broken. It almost feels like he’s chastising you for thinking otherwise. “Take that back right now.”

To be honest, hearing those words stung more than any physical blow you could have ever landed on him. Has he not shown you enough love? Or have you already forgotten? 

Isn’t what you have pure love? 

A hand wraps around your neck, lithe fingers inching up before they grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him.  “I said,” blunt fingernails digging into your skin, “take it back.”

You sputter out an apology with teary eyes, an odd mix of humiliation and regret seeping into your bones, stomach swirling with shame and to your horror, a tinge of anticipation. 

It’s pathetic, really, how easily you give in. 

“Now give me a kiss, sweetheart.” Yuuta bridges the gap between the two of you. He presses his already throbbing bulge against your clothed pussy, moaning into your mouth appreciatively.

You feel so dizzy you think you might explode. 

Yuuta makes quick work of the buttons on your uniform, releasing your wrists so he can throw the offending garment and all your underthings beneath it to some random corner of the room. 

Calloused hands roam your body, squeezing and groping, as if to map out the cartography of your flesh, committing each peak and valley to memory. He watches in fascination how your skin bristles with goosebumps in the wake of his touch. 

He ignores your pleading cries and attempts to push him off. Yuuta is being driven by pure instinct alone. That sick, twisted voice in his head that he’s always tried to suppress whispers. It goads him on to take what he wants, to make sure you remember that you’re his, and his alone. 

He knows that you haven’t been seeing anyone. You were always so loyal, even when you were upset with him. Anyone who did try was taken care of the minute they left your sight. 

It’s been far too long since he’s had you. His desire fills him with a sort of quiet rage, one that metamorphoses into something darker, more sinister and morose the longer he goes without you. Almost like a curse that’s gone far too long without feeding. 

Yuuta Okkotsu loves you to the point of madness.

He thinks he might literally implode in on himself any second longer without you.

It’s almost laughable how different the two of you are. An ethereal beauty too good for this world, yet here you were in between the legs of a cursed man with too much love than he knows what to do with. 

“Yuuta, please,” you cry out. You flail your legs in an attempt to kick Yuuta off. He catches both with ease, throwing them over his shoulder to slide your bottoms off, leaving you completely bare. 

He can’t suppress the groan that tumbles past his lips. You’re even more beautiful than he remembers. 

You’re dewy eyed and gasping, nails clawing at his forearms and beating at his chest in a last ditch effort to stand your ground. Nothing can deter him. 

Yuuta could easily heal himself if he wanted to. But the angry red welts and blossoming hues of purple on his pale skin are a badge of honor of the utmost prestige. It’s undeniable proof that you’re real, that his love for you isn’t just a fragment of his imagination, and that none of this was just some pipe dream. He could take a little pain if that meant you got to be his. 

He’s always been yours without any reservations. 

“You can cry if you want, if it helps,” he says genuinely, but the gleam in his eyes shifts into something predatory. “But you should know you’re really fucking wet.” As if to prove a point, he slowly fucks his middle finger into your weeping hole, then his index, then his ring. They curl up to rub against that spongy spot just the way you like. 

You let out a sharp gasp, spine arching off the mattress. 

You tried to ignore him—detach yourself from the whole situation, let him get his fill, and be done with this whole ordeal. But it’s Yuuta— the man has a grasp on both the corporal and spiritual parts of you that you can’t bring yourself to understand. It seems like he knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. And right now, he’s managed to make a home in all five of your senses. There’s no escape. He's made sure of that. 

He pulls out his fingers with a lewd squelch. A clear sheen of liquid coats every digit, stringy as he parts them to show you. He smiles knowingly.

“You keep fighting me, but it turns out you want it after all, sweetheart.” 

Your cheeks burn in humiliation. Whether it’s from the situation at hand or the truth behind his words, you’re not too sure. 

“Don’t you know?” Yuuta rasps, fingers going back to work their way inside you rhythmically, bringing you closer and closer to the precipice, paying special attention to how you try to mask how your face contorts in pleasure. 

He presses his forehead against yours, willing you to look at him wordlessly. “I know what’s best for you. I know what you want. And right now, this little pussy wants to be fucked. Isn’t that right, my love?” 

He’s met with a breathless moan. You’re so close. Tears threaten to fall as your chest heaves in exertion, trying not to teeter off the edge too soon. 

You look so pathetic it’s insane. Yuuta swears he can feel his mouth water in anticipation for what’s bound to come next. He thrusts his fingers with calculating speed and precision, the heel of his palm slapping against your neglected clit just right. 

He leans down right when you cum, lips catching yours as you moan into his mouth. Satisfaction swells in his chest as your slick drips down his wrist. 

“You’re ready.” 

Yuuta unbuttons his pants, pulling it down just enough for his cock to spring free, tip slapping his abdomen as it leaks with precum. He fists it, jerking his hand up and down his length. He slaps it against your clit once, twice, and a third time before he slips it inside your weeping hole. 

Your walls spasm around his cock to accommodate his sheer size and girth, struggling a bit more than usual. You feel so full. It’s been far too long since he’s fucked you. You claw at his lower abdomen, trying to make space between the two of you. It’s all too much, all at once. Yuuta won’t have it. He slips his hands under your sweaty thighs, pinning your ankles on either side of your head, effectively folding you in half. You cry out at the stretch.

“Always take me so well, angel.” 

He sets a steady pace, dragging his cock in, pulling out, and then back in with an absurd amount of force. The sound of skin on skin ricochets against your bedroom walls like a sort of cacophonous symphony. You don’t get the luxury of the sweet, slow thrusts he usually blesses you with, while he coos about how good you are for him. 

“Where’s all that attitude from earlier? Am I making you feel that good?” 

You glower, refusing to acknowledge the fact that your body betrays your mind— that Yuuta’s bringing you closer and closer to nirvana the further he drags you down into hell. 

He slides his hand down your tummy, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts.

“Yuuta—!” You clench around his length, hurtling towards your second orgasm quickly. 

“You’re so greedy. Cumming again already?” 

He’s met with silence. He’ll forgive your transgressions this time around. He’ll just have to teach you how to be his good girl again. 

A particularly rough thrust has you choking back a moan.

“Thought so. Cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your peak hits you like a crashing wave. Your body tenses, leaving you gasping for air as you clench around Yuuta’s cock. You cry out deliriously, falling apart as Yuuta continues to pound into you. It’s too much, but you can’t pull away even if you tried. You’re stuck.

“I’m the only one that can make you feel this way, understand?” He grits his teeth, staving off his release just a little longer. He fucks you through your orgasm thoroughly as he chases his own. 

He presses all of his body weight on top of you, your legs on either side of his head as he folds you into a mating press. He groans at the change in position, allowing him to fuck into you even deeper. 

Realization cuts through your cloudy judgment like a sword. 

“Yuuta— Yuuta, please. Pull out–!” 

Your pleas fall on deaf ears. He’s rambling now, intoxicated by all you have to offer, yet you’re the one paying the price. The effects of overstimulation are taking over now, your body twitching involuntarily with each thrust. 

“I’m not leaving you, ever. It’s just you and me.” 

You shake your head in objection, mind too hazy to voice out any resistance. Tears well up, threatening to spill from your lash line. 

Yuuta nods with a grin, canines glinting, just like a predator that’s caught its prey. “It’s true, sweetheart. I’ll make sure of it. Say I’m it for you. That I’m the only one.” 

“Say it.” 

“You’re it for me, Yu. The only one.” You babble, tears streaming freely now. 

You feel the moment he reaches his plateau— the way his dick twitches inside of you right before your walls are being painted white with splashes of Yuuta’s hot cum. 

Your fate’s been sealed. 

He fucks into you a few more times, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he rides out his orgasm. A white ring wraps around the base of his cock, the copious amounts of seed he’s poured into you threatening to leak out. 

Yuuta doesn’t bother pulling out. In a quick show of dexterity and freak strength, he manages to flip the both of you so that your positions are switched, with you lying on top of Yuuta’s chest. The steady beat of his heart fills your mind. 

Your entire body is on fire. You feel numb. You let yourself be carried away by the prospect of sleep, hoping that you’ll wake up to find that this was all just some wild fragment of your imagination.  

He presses a hand against your head, like he was afraid you’d pull away and ruin whatever fantasy he’s deluded himself into believing. 

The simple truth is– Yuuta Okkotsu loves you. And he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that no one else gets in the way of that. 

He runs his hand up and down your bare back lovingly, admiring your spent form. You’ve always been so soft. So pliant, so willing to give in to his desires. 

It’s the thing that Yuuta loves most about you. 

a/n: i had to reupload bc this hellsite sucks. hopefully this shows up in the tags now

tagging @princess-okkotsu again hehe