#wanted to write A Thing so here is A Thing!

[illustraice]

someone save alphonse elric and may chang from a very long suffering year

[bananonbinary]

it's also pretty wild to say that WORK is the joy of living. not playing, or singing, or telling stories or feeling the sun on your face or holding a loved one close or a million other tiny miracles. no, it's writing busywork for a grade that truly makes ME feel alive. what are you, a capitalist?

Honestly, y'all, I'm begging you. Take the time to think and learn for yourself. Even if it's just something casual like knitting or cooking. Exercise your brain. It's important.

[madamechrissy]

Fucking Hiromi Higuruma's face <3

pairingss- Boss Hiromi x F! assistant reader

warnings- it's literally just a oneshot/drabble of Hiromi wanting you to fuck his face so he can de-stress from his busy day :') Oral (f receiving) some teasing, Hiromi being desperate for you, jerking off, panty stealingg

This is my first time writing for himm ahhh hope I do okayy!

Hiromi can't stop staring at his pretty law assistant - you - every time you bend over. He also can't help how irritated he gets when men in the office flirt with you. But, you're not his...

Yet.

"Mr. Higuruma, here." You're smiling as you hand him a stack of papers you've notated for him, looking too damn pretty in that red blazer and pencil skirt.

"Thank you, love," he murmurs softly, taking them from you, and you frown a bit. "What's wrong?"

"You look exhausted, everything okay?" He smiles a bit, thin lips crooking up as he eyes you, there are bags much more than his usual under dark eyes.

"I'm always tired." He mumbles, swiping a hand over his face.

"But you look very tired, is there anything I can do to help more?" You walk up to him now, a hand brushing his shoulder over his black suit jacket, his heart thrums in his chest at the contact.

If you knew the filthy things he thinks about you, the way he strokes his cock imagining you when he gets home, the way he glimpses those panties you wear when you cross and uncross those legs. He's thought of fucking stealing a pair, just to taste you, it's gotten that bad the obsession with you.

You're younger, you're bright and so energetic, perhaps the opposite of him, exhausted constantly from taking on far too many cases lately, throwing himself into his work. Your fingers are burning through the layer of his jacket, he faintly notices your breasts rising and falling with your breaths.

"I could rub your neck, it looks tense. Or is that too forward-"

"Can you fuck my face?"

"Huh!?"

"Huh?" You blink for a moment, so confused, your lips parted. "I said nothing," he clears his throat and yanks on that black skinny tie, veins pressing up under the tanned skin.

"Nothing, huh?" You lean down, tugging at the tie, yanking him just a bit so that he moans softly. "You sure it was nothing?"

"I'm very tired..." his breath is right against your lips now, you're tugging him right to you, making him lose it. He's already blurted it all out there, too.

Fuck he's so screwed.

"Say it again, Hiromi," the way that rolls off your tongue is way too sweet now. "Did you say you needed a massage?"

"No," he admits, cheeks more flushed the closer you get. "I said... I want you to fuck my face."

Your tummy clenches, letting go of the tie somewhat, he eases back in his office chair, you sit right up on his desk, shoving stacks of papers on each side. He licks his lower lip as you do, hands gripping your thighs and shoving up that pencil skirt. "Well, then, get down there and I will."

"Fuck, you're the best assistant ever, y'know that love?" You try to act bold, but when his breath is on your cunt over your panties, you whine out, his long nose bumping your clit over the cloth soaking. "Smell so sweet..."

"I do?" He moans, nodding, burying himself in your scent desperately, long tongue lapping as you grip strands of dark brown hair in one of your hands, head falling back as he soaks the fabric. "Mmnh!"

"Shh," he murmurs, a hand slipping up your calf gently, goosebumps rising along his touch in a trail, while he nuzzles your cunt. "Want people to hear you being so slutty?"

"Y-you're slutty," Hiromi chuckles against your skin, pulling back now, leaning in that seat, loosening the tie so part of his collarbone is exposed just a bit, watching you with dilated pupils under those lazy lidded eyes. "Mnh, get back there."

"Take em off, hmm pretty?" you can't tell if he's letting you take the lead or if he's keeping it. You bite your lower lip, shaking your head, making him raise a brow. "I said, take them off."

"Yes, sir." The way he commands you so gently has you trembling, thighs already sticky as arousal slips down from your little hole, aching from his teasing. You slip them down, leaning on your elbows and lifting your hips in the quiet little office, light filtering in through the blinds and casting shadows of your form and his on one of the cream walls.

He's exhaling when he sees your cunt for the first time, his cock leaking even more precum, glistening and puffy already. "Barely touched you yet," he taunts softly, dragging your panties down your ankles, right over your pretty black heels. "Why so wet already?"

You don't get to respond really, he's kissing you then, one because he wants to taste your lips, and two, he needs to sneak your panties into the pocket of his slacks. You are lost in his kisses, the lazy and leisurely way his tongue slips inside your mouth, your nails gripping his starch white dress shirt, fingers slipping between your thighs and rubbing your slit.

"Fuck, so wet for me, love..." he's whispering against your lips, leaving trails of saliva as his kiss gets messier, nose bumping against your before he leans back, sinking to his knees.

The sight of your boss like that is heady, his knees on the rug beneath you two, his hands spreading your thighs now, burying his face right back between them. He's hungry, messy, so desperate as he devours your pussy like he's starving, so intense how his tongue fucks your hole, how his nose bumps your twitchy clit, and you're grinding on him, so wet it's dripping all across his face.

Hiromi laps up every bit of wetness you have, his other hand palming his erection, throbbing and leaking, moaning against your slick heat and causing vibrations that have you almost screaming out. You bite down on your knuckles to prevent a scream, your other hand stuck in his hair as he moves his head side to side.

"H-Hiromi..." You're whispering his name, dragging him away from your cunt for just a moment, his eyes so lidded you can hardly see his irises.

"Yes, love, what do you need?" He's your boss asking you what you need, on his knees, the movement of two fingers slipping into your hole with a messy squelch making you whine out.

"Wanna cum, please," he smirks just a little, that tired smile he always gives you, face coated in your slick.

"Then cum for me, you deserve to, such a good law assistant, aren't you?" You eat up the praise as he eats up your juicy cunt, messy and sloppy with it. He's filthy in face, moaning into your hole as he spreads you so wide, and your hips arch up and down. "That's it, fuck my face."

You realize that is exactly what you're doing, fucking his face, his nose slips between your folds at certain points, tongue moving up and down in wicked stripes. You hear it, the wetness mixing with your soft whines and his hushed moans, buried against your cunt as he pushes you right over the edge.

"Gonna cum-" knock knock knock.

You curse, and Hiromi pulls back, scowling at the door. "I'm busy."

"Mr-"

"Busy." He says it so firm, making you even needier, throbbing around nothing as you stroke back his strings of hair falling over his now sweat covered brow. "Cum for me,"

You can't not cum, not when the knocks subside and the footsteps echo away, and Hiromi has his tongue curling inside your gummy walls, they convulse around the wet muscle, as you scream out into your palm, leaned back on the desk. Your entire body radiates from the sweet pressure in your core, until you're seeing black spots, back arching up as you ride it out against his long nose, his lips, his entire fucking face.

"Use me, fuck," you never expected those words, but you do just that, much to Hiromi's pleasure, pulling his hair so hard it's painful, just making him stroke his cock once, twice, so hard it's painful. You use him and ride out one orgasm into another, suffocating him between your thighs.

It's perfect.

"Oh my g-god..." you're shaking as you come to, movements halting, Hiromi pulls back and licks his lips, standing and hovering over you, pinning your hips to the desk while you swipe some of your cum off his face, cheeks heated at how much there was. "Did that really relax you?"

"Oh, it did." He tilts your chin up, kissing you, letting you taste yourself all along his lips, while one of his hands entangles in your hair, loosely fallen from its ponytail early. "Mmm, get back to work."

"Get back to work? what about you?" He just presses a kiss on your head, smiling.

"I'm well relaxed. Same time tomorrow?" You nod shyly, giggling a bit as he eases you down on wobbly legs. You're too fucked out to notice your missing panties, so Hiromi uses them to cum in right before his meeting with the new law interns, burying them in one of his drawer after busting his load, sighing and standing, stretching.

That was just the trick for his exhaustion.

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[littledes1re]

Hii love. Can you write something about Joel getting you pregnant.

Maybe at first he didn't want kids (but because of his age, he thought he wasn't gonna be the best dad for them). He always knew you wanted, and one day he saw how good you are with them, and desire in your eyes. Maybe some smut thaanks

Makin’ you a mama

Pairing: Old!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, BREEDING KINK, praise, pet names, soft!joel, talking about pregnancy, pinv, unprotected sex (obviously), age gap! (62 x 26), one time joel calling himself ‚daddy‘

A/N: thank you anon for making me write this. I‘ve always wanted to write something like this but never had the balls lmao

It‘s been two years since you and Joel came to Jackson. And you couldn’t believe how well everything was going. After surviving hordes and hordes of clickers, runners and raiders, having to put up with the temperature that keeps on changing, searching for a place to rest and the fear of losing Joel even tho at that time, you two weren‘t even together. He was a grumpy, mad, annoyed man who never let his feelings out. Surviving with him meant also surviving him.

In all kinds that was just the past and a story to tell whenever you were invited to gatherings. Joel and your relationship was strong, you were scared that people would get shy away from the age gap, but apparently they have seen worse in the apocalypse. Whenever you two were together, people looked at you with admiration, asking themselves why their relationship wasn‘t going that well. Joel was overprotective, always made sure you were well taken care of, always listened to you, never argued. Other men had none of that in them. You were happy, content but there was one thing swimming around in the back of your head that you—no matter what, couldn‘t forget.

„You really think I would fit into the father role with my 62 years once again, baby?“ his eyes were gentle, looking at you, searching for enclosure in your expressions.

„Yea, why not? You make me feel taken care of, you are a great man, I know that you would very well fit into that role.“ your voice was just above a whisper. There was a sigh leaving his lips and then he took his glasses of, running trough his hair at the same time.

„I—I don‘t think I can do that. Just give me some time to think about that okey?“

Yet, the answer never came. And you never wanted to push him. So you let it rest. He lost his child once, he once had all of that and went trough a traumatic event, you knew that he was still scared.

And if you were honest with yourself, did you really want to have a baby in this god forsaken place? You really want to have that baby go trough the same traumatic things you two went trough? It wasn‘t easy living here. It wasn‘t easy living else where.

Maybe it was the end of the world. You didn‘t know that.

So you forgot that idea. Out of your mind.

You concentrated on your job. Daycare. Not really the best way to let that thought out of your mind, huh? But you loved it, you loved the kids, the pretty toys that were scattered everywhere, the colourful rooms and the sweet parents that came in and picked their kids up. It was a great way to forget the outside world, to really come close with the humanity that was forgotten for some many years.

Joel was going to pick you up, like he always does after doing his construction work around Jackson. When he came to your workplace tho, he had to stop and was completely lost in his thoughts.

It was you. Having a toddler on your hip, while swinging from left to right, singing to him. Your eyes were full of love, the toddler was laughing with you. His small hands gripping your shirt, tangled in your hair, feeling comfortable with you. Joel subconsciously started to smile, standing there and really thinking about how you would look like as a mother. There was something so effortless about the way you moved, how you instinctively cradled that child with your warmth and certainty. As if motherhood always lived within you, waiting to be embraced.

What if it was your kid in your arms? What if your house was filled with the laughter of having a child. Joel stood there and pictured you, soft glow in your cheeks, carrying the baby beneath your heart. How perfect you would look with a belly, how perfect you would fit into that role.

Joel longed for that feeling. He would do everything in this world to make you happy, to make you comfortable. He would not let you work, he would be there and raise that child with you. He would love you two unconditionally. And suddenly— there it was. The longing to become a father and make you a mother.

„J-joel—what the hell has gotten into you.“ you muttered out, out of breath as joel abruptly pulled you to him, kissing you, just seconds after going inside the house. He didn‘t answer, too hungry to think straight. You yelped as he threw you into the coach, going on top of you and spreading your legs.

„Joel.“ you whined, his hands quickly unbuttoning your shirt, then your bra, his fingers landing on your nipples, gently pinching the nub. You whimpered, too lost in the sudden pleasure, your hips starting to move up against his crotch.

„Pretty breasts are gonna filled with milk.“ he groaned out, your eyes widening. What was he talking about?

„Joel, what the hell are you even talking about?“ his hands stopped on your tits, gently moving to your belly, stroking around, smiling to himself.

„gonna make you a mama, baby.“

„Wait, really?“ you weren‘t sure if you heard that right. The man who was just scared of being a father again, was telling you that he was going to make you a mother. Joel chuckled at your reaction, unzipping his pants, taking his cock out. It was all red, his tip pulsing as he started to jerk off, squeezing it and releasing a moan from his lips.

„Mhm. Ain‘t that what you wanted? C‘mon now, open up.“

„Joel, are you sure? Look I don‘t want to pressure you—”

„I‘m sure. Now don‘t make me wait or I ain‘t giving you anything.“ he teased, your face lighting up as you giggled. Quickly, unbuttoning your jeans, while joel focused on pumping his cock and kissing and biting down your neck line. You spread your legs further, pulling your soaked panties down and running your hands trough your mans hair.

„That‘s right. Look at you, already so soaked. Gonna let me give you a baby, hm?“

His cock rubbed along your slit, your breath coming to a stop as you looked into his lust filled eyes. He slowly fed his cock into your cunt, your mouth falling open at the stretch and fullness you were feeling. His thumb coming at your little clit, slowly rubbing, making you whimper into the silent room.

„shh, I know, I know. That‘s it. Look at you letting me in. Little cunt needs this, baby. Needs me to fill her.“

And you can do nothing but moan and whimper around him as joel sets a rhythm with his thrusts. His cock going in and out of your pussy, the squelching sounds filling the room. Your tits moving up and down, his thumb never letting up on rubbing your clit. His gaze never left you. Concentrated on your fucked out expression, while also focusing on the hard but gentle thrusts he was giving you. Your knees trembling, thighs quivering—he was fucking you with all he had.

Your heels dug into the couch under you, your hips going closer to him, wanting to feel him just a little bit deeper. His cock meets your spot this way, making you cry out.

„That‘s the spot, yea?“ he groans out.

„Mhm.“ you whimper as an answer, too lost in the pleasure to even look into his eyes. You squeezed them, putting your hands on your tits playing with them.

„Gonna be a gorgeous mother, I know it, angel.“

Joel knows you are close as he sees your tummy clenching, your thighs shaking. He feels himself coming closer too, so he pulls you just closer into him, his thrusts concentrating on that spot in you, his hands holding your back so he stays as deep as possible in you.

„Daddy‘s gonna fill you up, but I want you to cum with me. C‘mon.“

He whispers into your ear, your toes curling as you feel the orgasm coming closer to you in your tummy.

„Doing so so well f‘me aren‘t you?“

His thrusts were growing sloppy as he breathlessly whispered praises into your ear.

„Belly gonna swell, tits gonna be full of milk. Letting that old man fill her up to the brim. Yea, my good girl, baby.“ And that what it all took for you to snap. You cried out, gripping his shoulder, feeling his cock twitch in your cunt, releasing rope after rope of cum into you. You clench, squeezing him for all of his worth, while biting into his shoulder and coming down from your orgasm.

While catching his breath, he gently lays you down again, caressing your tummy but doesn‘t pull out. Without a word he suddenly grabs you, his cock still in you, he carries you to the bedroom.

„Need it to take, baby.“

And you know that it‘s going to be a long night.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

ROBERT “BOB” REYNOLDS x F!READER: Four times Bob let’s his true feelings for you go unaddressed, and the one time he doesn’t [3.3k]. » CONTENT WARNINGS: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy/nudity, bob’s sadness and self-deprecating thoughts. » NOTES: didn’t feel like my usual formatting today, it’s actually so much work?? why do i do this to myself? 😭 anyway, whatever lol. i was actually gonna take a break from writing (again, i know, i’m sorry) but i somehow managed to bang this out today at work so here you go, my first ever bob fic 🫶🏻 happy wednesday!

« truth be told »

The first time he touches you, he does it almost without hesitation.

Normally, Bob makes a point to keep a respectable distance. He doesn’t touch anyone or anything without the most careful of considerations first—even though he wants it, craves it.

But when you’re this close, when you’re leaning into him instead of away, when you’re looking at him like he’s just Bob and not the same guy who almost let the Void inside him swallow New York whole, his hands can’t help but ache for you.

He’s restless with it, his palms itching as though something was missing. He wants to know what your skin would feel like under his fingertips, whether your eyelashes would flutter under his touch, and if you’d sigh just the way he would whenever he imagined closing the distance between you.

So before he knows it, Bob’s already reaching for you.

His heart leaps to his throat the moment he makes contact, turning his hand over, using the blade of his finger to brush away the crumbs at the corner of your mouth.

You look up from your plate, the box of pastries you’d bought for the entire team as an early afternoon pick-me-up still laying open on the table, your eyes widening a fraction when they meet his.

“You’ve got a little bit of…” he trails off, not really caring or even knowing what it is. Bob’s never had much of a sweet tooth, but right now, you smell like almonds and raspberry jam and a touch of something that’s uniquely you… and he suddenly wants nothing more than to taste.

“Oh,” is all you say, staying still as he lets his hand linger instead, his knuckles brushing along the curve of your jaw. You smile, your eyes softening, and for a fraction of a second Bob swears you lean into his touch. “Thanks, Bob.”

He nods, not trusting his own voice or the temptation of your name on his lips, before very reluctantly breaking the connection. His fingers are already twitching with the need to touch you again by the time he puts it back down onto the dining table.

And although you never talk about it, there is an easing of invisible barriers after that. Now that he’s had a taste, Bob can no longer resist the warmth of your skin against his—no matter how chaste or innocent the contact is.

“You’ve got an eyelash,” he’d say, pointing to his own face, his lips twitching with the fib, and you’d simply lean forward at the same time he did, allowing him to swipe the tip of his finger down your cheek. Trusting, unsuspecting, and oblivious to the yearning expanding like a balloon in his chest.

What if, one day, he could lean in just like this and let his lips find their way to yours?

Impossible, but a man could dream.

But sometimes there isn’t anything there at all, but he still dips slightly at the waist, beckoning you with his hand before removing the imaginary thing from your cheek, your nose, or the aching perfection that is your cupid’s bow.

And when you smile up at him expectantly, even when Yelena catches him in his little white lies one day, lifting a skeptical brow when she meets his eye over your head, Bob just carries on.

Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it.

—

The first time he ever holds your hand is on a Thursday.

It’s unseasonably cold for the time of year, and Bob’s shivering under his sweater. You have been sent out on an errand to restock the Tower with food and supplies, and Bucky insisted that Bob go with you.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you out there,” Bucky said to you, slapping a hand down onto Bob’s shoulder before turning towards him, “Right?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, feeling his cheeks going red because evidently his feelings were written all over his face, and now even Bucky, of all people, was taking it upon himself to nudge things along.

“Plus Bob can help carry your bags,” Yelena joined in, not looking up from the game of Scrabble she was playing with Alexei. “Dad, that is not a word!”

“Says who?” He said, gesturing to the gibberish he’d placed on the board, full of X’s, M’s, C’s, and V’s, but not a single vowel in sight.

Ava scoffed, her face scrunching up in both confusion and annoyance. “She can take care of herself. Just last week she kicked John’s ass—”

But then John nudged her, maybe a little too hard, almost sending her tumbling out of her chair. She glared up at him, before she caught the meaningful look on his face.

“Oh… yeah… erm, nighttime in New York is practically the Purge. Might as well take him with you.”

You gave them all looks of thinly veiled suspicion, but then you just shook your head and turned to Bob as you were winding a scarf around your neck. Smiling, you asked him, “Do you mind, Bob?”

As if he would.

Venturing outdoors is still rather daunting, which is probably another reason why the team’s been so eager to get him out of the Tower. The thought that someone might recognize him makes him sweat, despite the mid-morning chill.

And then the two of you approach a particularly crowded spot on the sidewalk, and Bob’s footsteps falter slightly. You stop as if you sense his hesitation, turning to him just before disappearing into the throng of New Yorkers. As naturally as breathing, you hold out a hand.

“Come on,” you prompt with a shake of your hand when he just stares for a few seconds.

Bob holds on quickly before you can change your mind. You tug him along, squeezing his hand tighter as you reach the thick of the crowd. Bob emerges on the other side of it with pink cheeks that should be almost numb from the biting wind, but instead they are warm with something else.

And even as the horde dissipates, the sidewalk opening up with more than enough space for the two of you to walk side by side, you don’t let go.

He catches your reflections in the glass windows of the nearby shops, you with your head turned away to admire the displays of a flower shop, but your hands still joined together.

Bob wonders what others think you are to him.

He wants them to know you’re special.

He hopes you know, too.

—

The first time he falls asleep next to you starts with him sitting in the dark of his room, his shoulders slumping a little further forward with each passing minute. The others have left on another mission without him, and Bob just wishes he could do something to help.

But he still can’t control his powers well enough yet; it’d be too dangerous for him to be out in the field with them. He understands this better than anyone—the last time he tried tapping into full extent of his Sentry powers, he almost murdered somebody (even if Alexei would argue that that person, Valentina, had deserved it), that god-like sense of superiority leeching ominously into his mind.

He is hopeful when Yelena says he’s improving, slowly but surely, tries to believe it when Bucky tells him that it will happen soon. He just needs a little more time.

But Bob can’t help but feel like a burden, someone they have to take care of rather than a part of the team. The voice in the back of his mind comes back, a few notes lower than his own, that slight taunting lilt of it latching onto the edges of his subconscious.

You’re worthless, Bobby.

You think they care about you?

You will always be alone.

It will always be just you and me.

He doesn’t know how long he's sat there like that, but the room remains dark now even though someone draws the curtains. Bob shrinks back, as though the beam of moonlight spreading across his lap hurts him, doesn’t even look up when someone calls his name.

“Bob?”

He sighs, closes his eyes against the habitual burn of shame, that familiar heat creeping up his neck. Because he’s never wanted you to see him like this—so sad, so pathetic, wallowing in his own self-pity.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask carefully, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse when he hears you kneeling on the carpet in front of him.

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” you tell him gently, patiently, so kindly, “do you want me to leave?”

Please don’t. Don’t ever leave me alone, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he just shakes his head again. Despite himself, he’s somehow relieved when he feels the mattress dip slightly next to him, the warmth of your thigh dangerously close to his.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees in the periphery of his vision is your hand, lying face up on your lap. It’s an invitation that’s too sweet for him to deny, and he slides his hand into yours, watching with a strange mixture of disbelief and euphoria as your fingers close around him.

That you would still want to touch him after seeing him like this. That he would find such comfort in the simple meeting of your palms.

His chin lifts when you turn, your other hand coming up to tuck a curtain of his hair behind his ear.

“Is this okay?” You whisper.

Bob nods, and for one treacherous moment he lets himself believe that you unconsciously seek him out too, that your hands itch to touch him just as his own do for you. And then you’re gathering him into your arms, and he follows without hesitation, falling into your embrace and burying his face into your shoulder.

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep but when he wakes, you’re still there.

“Hi,” you breathe, as though afraid you’ll disturb this peace if you speak any louder. Bob doesn’t tell you that he thinks he’ll only find peace if you’re around.

“Hi,” he whispers back, a smile lifting his lips as though you’re breathing life back into him. “Thank you.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Anytime.”

—

The first time you undress in front of him is, well, it’s not like that.

Because the entire time, Bob is furious. He wants to break something, feels the frustration crowding his lungs and resists the urge to just scream it out.

The whole team had frozen when he appeared in the doorway when they got home, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you. One of your arms was slung around Ava’s shoulders as she propped you up, and your other hand was pressed gingerly to your ribcage.

There was a bruise blooming along your temple. Your lip had split in two places, and there was dried blood along your hairline. He could smell fresh blood in the air, even though he couldn’t see any open wounds.

John took a step toward him, one hand up in what seemed to be a placating gesture. “She’s okay, Bobby.”

“Okay?” Bob asked shakily, “she can barely stand.”

“She made it home alive, that’s all that matters,” Yelena reminded him, and while it was somewhat reassuring, it did little to quell the fire in his throat.

“She just needs to rest now,” Bucky told him, inhaling sharply when Bob’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack under the pressure.

“I’ll be fine, Bob,” you said quickly, smiling at him through your pain.

That was somehow worse than your physical injuries. Bob wanted to know then and there who did this to you, because he would unleash the full and unrestrained wrath of his powers if it meant avenging you, consequences be damned.

For the first time, he wanted to see something burn.

Ava cursed under her breath when Bob’s eyes flashed gold, but then you were asking him, “Help me to my room?”

Just like that, his eyes returned to their natural blue, and the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.

And now, as he stands in your room, his hands are shaking as he pulls a clean set of clothes from your dresser. You limp toward the en-suite bathroom, leaning one hand on the counter and breathing deeply through your nose as you try to peel off your soiled tact-suit.

The second you let out a hiss of pain when the movement tugs at your stitches, Bob is at your side in an instant. He pushes down the panic clawing at his throat, the one that won’t quite settle down even though you’re right here, alive and breathing.

But he can spiral later; you need him now.

Bob gently, so gently, brushes your hand away so he can reach for your zipper. You make eye contact with him in the mirror, nodding, and he swallows the lump in his throat as he slowly helps you out of your bloody clothes.

“I’m going to be fine, okay?” You repeat and he just nods, his hands skimming over your shoulder blades, down your arms, as he helps you undress. His breath hitches as your suit falls into a heap around your feet, when he finds the square of gauze taped over your midsection with a spot of dreaded crimson seeping through. There’s a matching one on your opposite side. “It was a through and through. Missed all vital organs, the doctor said. It’s basically a flesh wound.”

“I should have been there,” Bob finally says when he finds his voice.

“Hey…” you turn to face him, “this happens. It’s part of the job.”

“I can help,” he almost pleads. He presses your hand to the side of his face, trying to hide the sting of tears. “If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. None of you ever would.”

He hates it, that feeling of helplessness as he’s forced to stay behind in the Tower. But what he hates even more is the thought that one day, you or Yelena or any one of the team could die out there—and he’d be here, safe and sound even though he was the strongest out of all of you, twiddling his thumbs waiting for you to come back.

“Don’t say I’m not ready,” Bob bites back a sob as he drops his forehead to your bare shoulder, “I’m ready. I’ll always be ready to protect you.”

He’s just found you.

He can’t lose you now.

“I know,” you turn around and your eyes shining just as brightly as his are. “And we’ll protect you, too. I promise.”

Bob’s never doubted you before.

He won’t doubt you now, either.

—

The team never leaves Bob behind after that, and when he first tells you what’s in his heart, it’s a quiet, almost unassuming thing.

He hadn’t intended to, although he’s always wanted to.

He wanted to tell you when you all boarded the jet, full of nervous but cautiously optimistic energy now that Bob was with you. He found his spot next to you, ignoring John’s teasing quip and Alexei’s beaming smile, his arm pressed to yours on the armrest between your seats.

He wanted to tell you just before stepping off the plane, when you gave him a reassuring smile and a confident nod, like you were saying you’ve got this. He wanted to call it after you as you rushed into the fray, weapons raised and ready, the others following closely behind you.

He wanted to tell you when he stepped in front of you, absorbing the impact of a bullet aimed straight at your forehead. It bounced harmlessly off him with a high-pitched ping, didn’t even leave a single dent or red mark on his skin, but you still gasped behind him and cried out his name.

But he couldn’t think straight in that moment, could only think about eliminating anything and anyone who’d try to take you from him.

He wanted to tell it to you on the plane ride home, when you brushed his hair back to double and triple check the spot where he’d been hit, undeterred by the splatters of someone else’s blood on his suit.

Bob thought about the man it belonged to. He hadn’t set out to kill anybody, but if that was the price he had to pay to keep you alive… well then, he’d pay it again and again.

“It didn’t hurt at all?” You asked. “Are you sure?”

He smiled, full of affection, exhaling on something of a laugh, “I’m invincible, remember?”

“That we know of,” you didn’t return his smile, “please, don’t do that again.”

Bob didn’t answer, because he knew he couldn’t promise that. Even if he could, it’s not like he ever would.

He wants to tell it to you when you pull him into your room the second you get home, standing close enough that he can count the stars reflected in your eyes.

He wants to tell you everything right now, everything he’s held onto so tightly all this time because he didn’t think that he ever deserved this.

Bob’s been made his whole life to think that this was never in the stars for him. The Void in his chest, the one that he manages somehow to keep at bay most days, still whispers it to him. Still sneers at him for even entertaining the idea he could ever have it, let alone with someone as good as you.

Then you kiss him. Just a peck, the briefest meeting of lips at first. You look up at him searchingly, waiting for him to push you away or say this is a mistake, but he would never. So long as you want it, he’d give you anything.

He’s the one to initiate your second kiss, more firmly this time, with the reverence of a man who believes he would never get to do this again. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pull him closer and closer until your chests are touching.

“Invincible, maybe,” you whisper once you pull away, your voice wobbly as you breathe the words into the quiet space between you, “but not replaceable. Not to me.”

Bob feels something crack open inside him then. He buries his nose in the junction of where your neck and shoulder met, hot tears dripping down the delicate curve there and soaking into your shirt.

He wants more, to let his body tell you what he can’t yet bring himself to say, but finds himself almost afraid of it. It has been a while since he’s been this close, this intimate, with someone he genuinely cares about. Maybe even longer since he’s done it with a clear head.

But you seem content to just hold him, like that first time, as though it doesn’t make him near desperate with want and weak with affection all at the same time. And later, before sleep can claim the both of you, he carries you to the bathroom to wash up. The two of you stay in the tub long after you are clean.

Steam curls into the air, hot water rippling as Bob sits behind you, caging you between his arms as you lean back comfortably against the sturdy planes of his chest.

He says it to you then, murmurs into your skin that he’s found love here.

Bob almost can’t believe it when you say it back.

That night, he falls asleep in your arms again, the side of his head pressed to your chest, listening to the steady beating of your heart against his ear.

The darkness in his own begins to recede that much further with each reassuring thump, as though chased away by the dawning of the morning sun.

And you.

Always you.

fin.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[nephynes]

enhypen as the seven deadly sins please please please! i love your writing so much PLEASE!!!! (aggression!!)

hyung line + jungwon as 5 of the 7 deadly sins

nfsw warnings: toxic behavior, power imbalances, sub/dom dynamics, panty stealing, dubcon, stalkerish behavior, mentions of mental health issues, humiliation kink, praise kink, degradation kink, obsession, jealousy, just lots of filthy smut.

MDNI

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ׂ╰┈➤ Sunghoon as Greed

You first met him at the firm, technically your boss's son, but rarely introduced that way. Everyone knew who he was. You didn't need a surname to understand what kind of power moved through him—the kind that didn't beg or apologize.

You were new, hired as a junior assistant with more nerves than confidence, still learning how to walk in heels without looking uncertain. He didn't speak to you at first. Just glanced in your direction when he passed through in tailored suits, cologne subtle and expensive, always with that sharp indifference. He was like the view from a penthouse; cold, impressive, and very far away.

It wasn't until one late Friday evening, after everyone else had gone home, that you heard the click of his shoes behind you.

"Still here?" His voice was smooth, clinical.

You turned, startled, clutching a folder to your chest. "Just finishing up."

He walked closer, no real urgency in his steps. "Come with me."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"For dinner," he said, pausing just long enough to smirk. "Unless the instant ramen you’re gonna have tonight is more to your liking."

You should've said no. You should've remembered the warning your supervisor gave you, the rumors whispered over coffee. That Sunghoon liked things pretty, obedient, and quiet.

But you followed him out of the building anyway.

That first dinner turned into two, then three. He was smart, sharper than anyone you'd ever met. Intense in a way that made it hard to breathe around him. He never asked questions. He made statements, and you either agreed or you didn't and when you didn't, he'd tip your chin up with a finger and say things like, "You look better when you don't try to talk over me."

He never said he liked you. He just started sending cars to pick you up. Ordering for you. Undressing you without ever being asked. One night, he took you to a penthouse suite you didn't know he owned, and that was the first time he laid you out on silk sheets, pushed your panties to the side and fucked you like you were his to ruin. You learn quickly that Sunghoon doesn't ask. He just claims. He takes you to five-star restaurants, seats you on his lap in the backseat of his car, whispers filth in your ear while his driver pretends not to hear.

He makes you sign an NDA. He buys you clothes you didn't ask for. You hate that you keep them. You hate that you want him.

One night after he's done fucking you senseless, and he's tucked himself beside you, fingers trailing your thigh.

"Give them to me," he said, voice low.

"What?"

"Your panties."

You laughed, but he wasn't joking. And when you slid them off and handed the sheer, pink and still damp panties to him—he folded them, slipped them into his coat pocket, and kissed you slow.

It became a pattern.

You started catching him doing it without asking. After he fucked you against the mirror in his office. After you rode him in the backseat of his car. You'd blink and realize he'd pocketed another pair. He didn't care if they matched. Didn't care if you noticed. He wanted them because they were yours.

And because, in some twisted way, he wanted to own every piece of you.

“You’re already shaking,” he’d murmur. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

And then he did.

Mouth between your legs, tongue greedy and relentless, hands locking you in place when you tried to squirm away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he’d laugh, breath hot against your thigh. “I’m not done.”

You came once, then twice. He didn’t stop.

Not when you whined. Not when you begged. Not even when your voice cracked from how raw and sensitive you were.

Sunghoon was greed. Not loud or showy, but indulgent. Unapologetic. Always reaching for more. He kept your lip gloss in his drawer. Your old earrings in a small box by his bed. He pressed bruises into your thighs with his hands and teeth and liked seeing them the next day.

He never said he loved you.

But he did call you "mine."

And when you tried to pull away, when things felt too fast, too close, too permanent, he found you at your apartment door one night, soaked in rain, hands in his pockets, his voice almost gentle.

"You can leave," he said. "But I'll still have all your little pieces." You opened the door anyway, he even stayed the night.

And your panties went missing again.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jake as Lust

You met him on accident. In the smoky back room of a speakeasy-style bar, with red velvet curtains and low lighting. You're not supposed to be here. Neither is he.

It's one of those nights when your friends drag you out to "the kind of place you go when you want to do something stupid." You expect not him, a random stranger in the corner booth looking like sin itself, leaning back with his shirt unbuttoned just enough, watching you like he already knows your secrets.

A wrong kind of night. Or maybe the right one, if you believe in things like fate. You were just looking for a quiet place to breathe, heels off, your makeup a bit smudged from dancing with your friends. But when you opened a random door, there he was—shirtless, sprawled on someone else's sheets, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey like it owed him something. Maybe that's when you realize the room isn't random at all, neither are the seven others across the hallway you presume also have beds in them.

Jake didn't ask why you were there.

He just looked at you with that tilted smile and said, "If you're gonna stare, you might as well come closer."

You almost laughed. Almost rolled your eyes and left. But something in his voice or maybe the heat in your chest, made you stay.

You told yourself nothing would happen. That you'd sit, talk, maybe flirt a little. But he reached for your wrist, pulled you into his lap, and made you forget how to say no.

Jake didn't take things slow. He kissed like it was a habit, tongue already in your mouth before you caught your breath. His hands were under your dress within seconds, fingers parting your thighs like he already knew exactly where to touch.

"You're soaked," he muttered into your neck, his breath hot. "God, you like this. You like being bad, don't you?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

He pulled your panties to the side and slid two fingers inside you without warning. Deep. Perfect. You gasped, clutching his shoulders, grinding down on his lap like your body was possessed.

He was rough but careful, hungry but focused. Every movement meant something. When he finally pushed you back on the bed and fucked you raw, your head tilted back and you nearly sobbed his name but you didn't even know it yet. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't soft.

It was lust. Pure, unfiltered and aching. He later told you his name when he spilled his cum over your stomach that night.

Jake saw you after that night. Often. Always in secret.

He liked you in red, even bought you lingerie that matched the marks he left on your neck. Sometimes he'd fuck you in the bathroom at parties you'd both find yourselves at. Other times, he'd call you in the middle of the night and make you come over, only to bend you over the kitchen counter before you could even take off your coat.

"Say my name when you cum," he'd whisper against your ear, cock buried deep inside you. "I want everyone in this building to know who's fucking you."

He was insatiable.

It didn't matter how many times you gave yourself to him, he always wanted more. You'd wake up with bruises on your hips, your thighs sore, your lipstick smeared across his sheets. Jake knew where to touch. Knew how to angle your hips just right. Knew how to whisper filthy things into your ear in between groans, how to press his mouth against your neck and make you cry his name like it was a prayer.

"You take me so well," he groaned, thrusting deep, your legs wrapped around his waist. "You were made for this. For me."

You came harder than you ever had. Twice. He didn't let you rest. Just rolled you onto your stomach and pulled you back onto his cock, panting against the back of your neck.

"Come on," he murmured. "I'm not done."

Even when you begged him to slow down, to let you breathe, and whispered that you were going to pass out if he kept hitting that particular spot with his cock, Jake just smiled, laughed even. Brushed your hair back and said, "Don't beg unless you're begging for more."

You knew what Jake was. He was Lust in every sense.

Not love. Not devotion.

Just raw, dripping need.

With Jake, it was about consuming.

And you'd never be untouched again.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jungwon as Envy

Jungwon wasn't loud about it.

Not his feelings. Not his rage. Not even the way he looked at you across lecture halls like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss you or crush your head under his foot.

You were always neck and neck—academically, socially, even in the way people talked about you. They called you brilliant. Beautiful. Precise. And he hated how often your name came up next to his like you were equals.

But you were.

That was the problem.

You'd been friends at a point, even hooked up once or twice. Studied together, shared notes, laughed over shitty cafeteria coffee. Until you started ranking higher. Until your professors started using your name instead of his when they handed back tests and said, "Perfect score."

He told himself it didn't matter. That he didn't care.

But Jungwon never knew how to leave you alone. No matter how many times he told himself he would. He'd tell himself that this was the last time. That next time you smiled at him with that bright, infuriating mouth of yours, he'd ignore you. Let you go. Let you be someone else's problem.

But he always came back.

You didn't make it easier. The way you sat in lectures like you owned the room—half-listening, half-smiling, chatting away with your friends and still managing to top every exam like it was second nature. Like you didn't even try.

It drove him insane.

Especially because he did try. He studied for hours. He lost sleep. He took notes in color, annotated every page, memorized every word. And you still beat him. Again. Effortlessly.

So when he showed up at your dorm one night, hoodie pulled over his head, jaw tight, you already knew something was wrong.

He didn't say even hi. Didn't ask to come in. Just stepped past you and turned, eyes sharp.

"What'd you get on the midterm?"

You blinked. "Hello to you, too."

"Don't play with me. What was your score?"

You tilted your head, sensing something coiled in him, tight and trembling. "Ninety-eight."

He went still.

The silence stretched before he spoke again, "I got a ninety-five."

You shrugged, light on purpose. "That's still good, Jungwon." "The score closest to yours is a seventy-seven." You really did try to reassure him. "It was just a midterm, anyway."

That snapped something in him.

"Just a midterm?" he asked, voice rising, hands clenched. "I studied harder than you. I didn't go out. I didn't sleep. I worked for it."

You crossed your arms, something bitter tasting in your mouth, starting to make you feel like you've had enough of Jungwon's attitude over grades. "You're not upset over a three-point difference, are you?"

Jungwon didn't answer. He stepped in close, grabbing your face with one hand—not gently. His fingers were shaking.

And then, in the jagged quiet of his frustration, a cold truth settled in his chest. It wasn't just that you were better. It wasn't just the scores or the effortless grace you carried through everything or the fact that you didn't even care.

He wanted to be you.

To carry your ease. To live with that natural brilliance and calm that made everything look so damn easy. He hated himself for it—the way his jaw clenched tighter, how the envy burned deeper, how he couldn't stop thinking about how effortless you made it seem.

But he swallowed the thought down. Locked it away where no one could hear it. Because admitting that would be admitting how deep this obsession ran. How much he wasn't just jealous or envious, but broken by it.

You opened your mouth, maybe to push him back, maybe to tell him to leave, but he kissed you before you could. Hard. Brutal. Not romantic but claiming.

He pushed you against the wall, hands under your shirt, yanking it off like he would lose his mind if he didn't. You clawed at his hoodie, dragged it over his head, all teeth and rage and heat. When his mouth left yours, it moved down your neck, biting hard enough to leave bruises.

"You make me fucking insane," he growled, pulling your panties down your legs and tossing them away. "You walk around like you don't know what you do to me."

"Maybe I do," you whispered, goading him. "Maybe I like watching you lose."

He shoved you onto the bed without answering.

When he fucked you, it was angry.

Hands holding your hips down, thrusts deep and fast, unforgiving. No teasing, no slow buildup—just raw, punishing need. His palm covered your mouth when you cried out.

"You wanted this," he panted against your neck. "You asked for it, running your mouth like that." "Getting higher marks when you didn't even fucking study."

You clawed at his shoulders. "Maybe I like seeing you break." He groaned, "I hate you so much, I fucking hate you."

He grabbed your jaw, forced your eyes to his. "You don't see anything. You don't know what it's like to want someone so bad you start hating them for it."

Your thighs shook as he pounded into you, your cries muffled by his hand, your body trembling from overstimulation. He didn't stop. Even when you begged.

"You beat me," he whispered, voice cracked. "And I still fucking want you." "Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. "So tight like you need this."

You moan, trying to push at his shoulders, trying to squirm away, but he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, forcing your knees to meet your shoulders and take every thrust exactly how he gives it—relentless, punishing, like he wants to fuck the difference in your scores right out of you.

"You think you're better than me?" he grits, voice breaking, hips snapping forward. "You think I don't see the way everyone looks at you?"

You can't answer—can barely breathe.

And maybe that's what he wants.

Because he doesn't slow down. Doesn't hold back. You're dripping down onto your sheets, the slap of skin echoing through the room, your body rocking with each deep, brutal thrust.

Jungwon groans low in his throat, like he's hurting too. Like your cunt is a punishment he's taking on, like if he fucks you hard enough maybe he'll stop wanting you, stop needing to be near you just to feel whole.

But he doesn't stop.

Not until you're trembling, walls fluttering around him, legs shaking so hard he grabs one to kiss your ankle, your eyes are wide at the gesture. Such a tender contrast to the brutal way he's thrusting his cock in and out of you.

He finishes with a growl, deep and violent, spilling inside you with his teeth sunk into your shoulder like he wants to brand you from the inside out, holding your wrists down, breathless and trembling.

After, he doesn't even move. Just stays on top of you, chest rising and falling like he'd just lost a war.

You thought he'd leave?

He didn't.

He stayed the night, curled around you like you were the one thing anchoring him.

And in the morning, when you woke up sore and bruised, he was already watching you. Still wanting and still hating himself for it.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jay as Pride

Jay is the reason the entire west wing always smells like turpentine and cigarette smoke. He doesn't even smoke indoors, but his scent lingers in the stairwell after midnight, when he slips out between classes to clear his head and sketch between drags. Professors give him too much slack. Students give him too much space. Everyone calls him a prodigy, a savant, the kind of talent that only passes through once in a generation.

You've seen his work. It's infuriatingly good.

Technically flawless. Emotionally devastating. There's one piece in particular, tucked in the corner of the senior gallery—a stark, enormous canvas layered in violent reds and pale, impossible light, you almost stopped breathing the first time you saw it. You'd never tell him that, if you ever spoke to him.

You're not better than him. You've never pretended to be. But you're good enough to matter. Good enough that when you get your own studio assignment, Jay shows up uninvited.

He leans in your doorway, sketchbook under one arm, a thin pencil between his fingers. He watches you like a critic would, sharp eyes skimming over your work in progress, half-finished oils drying on canvas, the shape of a face you're still unsure of.

"You should've left the jaw unfinished," he says casually. "It had more tension before." You stiffen. "You don't think I know what I'm doing?"

He shrugs. "I think you want it to be perfect. That's what's fucking it up." You turn to glare at him, only to find his mouth curling into a smirk. He loves that. That you bristle. That you care.

Jay walks in without asking, flips your sketchbook open like it belongs to him, and then—after a long pause—closes it gently, setting it down. "You're good," he says, and it sounds almost like a confession. "Better than most of the leeches in this place."

You cross your arms, small smile tugging at your lips as you think of the many ways you want to mess with him. "But not better than you?"

He grins. "No one is." He says as he turns on his heels to walk straight out, leaving a trail of his perfume in his wake.

The studio was meant to be yours—it is on paper.

Two months of solitary light, your name on the roster, your pieces hung at the next juried review. You're already weeks ahead on your concept. You've bled for it. Earned this. No one's supposed to be here.

But by the second day, Jay starts showing up.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't smile. Just drops his bag near the door, nods at your half-finished work, and sketches in the corner like the space was his first.

By day three, he starts speaking. Minimal and blunt.

"You're losing proportion." "The underpainting's too warm." "That's not tension, it's laziness."

You hate that he's never wrong.

Day four, he moves closer. Silent steps around your easel, watching. Eyes flitting over your work, your wrists, your breath.

You say nothing. You don't need to. He's the best in this academy. Everyone knows it. But that doesn't mean he belongs here.

By the fifth day, he crosses a line.

You're bent over the canvas, trying to finish a live study, your model long gone, the moment already slipping through your fingers, that's when he walks up behind you, picks up your brush, and drags it straight down the curve of a spine you've been perfecting for an hour.

"That's not where the weight lives," he says. Cool and dismissive. "She's collapsing here, not lifting."

Something in you goes taut. You turn, furious. "Are you fucking serious?"

He doesn't blink. "It was wrong."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Jay's expression doesn't shift. "You needed correction."

You shove him hard in the chest. He stumbles. His back hits the bench behind him, and he catches himself just in time, but you're already advancing, eyes dark.

"That was my piece."

He recovers quickly, tries to stand taller, to level the balance again, but before he can speak, you shove him again. Harder this time.

He actually falls. Hits the floor on his back, breath punched out of him. The brush clatters beside him.

And you step forward. You don't crouch to check if he's okay. You don't help him up. Instead, you plant your bare foot right on his chest, the heel of it pressing against his sternum.

He stares up at you, frozen, his breath shallow.

You tilt your head.

"Apologize."

His jaw clenches. "You shoved me—"

"Apologize," you say again, firmer this time. "For touching my work."

He tries to rise, a flicker of defiance still in him, but you press your foot down harder—enough to stop him cold. His hands clutch at the floor beneath him, caught between his need to assert himself and the ache rising visibly between his legs.

Because from this angle, he can see a lot of you. Your skirt has ridden up from the movement, your lacy panties now perfectly visible above the curve of your thighs. Sheer, delicate, soaked with heat.

Jay swallows.

He tries not to stare, but he does. And when your foot slowly drags from his chest down to the bulge straining in his pants—he gasps.

You press your foot lightly into him, right there, and his hips twitch. He lets out the softest sound—humiliated, aroused, and ruined.

"I bet you've never let anyone do this," you continue, voice like silk over skin. "I bet you're used to people fawning over your work, begging for your attention. But that's not what you want right now, is it?"

You press again, a little firmer.

Jay moans under his breath. His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

"Big," you hum, foot pressing just enough to make his hips rise involuntarily. "Of course you are. Pretty boy with a big cock. But that ego's even bigger, huh?"

He grits his teeth. But he doesn't stop you.

"Apologize," you say again, just above a whisper.

He chokes on a breath. "I—"

But still, no apology. Pride like armor, even now.

So you stop.

You left you foot and reach for your brush.

"If you can't say it," you murmur, dipping it in red, "maybe I'll paint it instead. Park Jongseong, crawling at my feet."

He makes a sound like he's breaking, before gathering himself and walking out, trying to pretend that you not looking at him after that doesn't affect him.

He doesn't come the day after. Or the one after that.

But then on the third day after, just when you think you've broken him too far, he walks in.

Same time as the last, 3:02 p.m. Same soundless tread of shoes on wood, same scent of clean linen and paint, same boy with storm in his eyes.

But this time he doesn't say anything.

You glance up from your sketchpad, narrowed eyes tracking his movements. "Here to correct my work again?" you murmur, dry.

Jay doesn't answer. He just walks over and sits beside you—closer than usual, silent. He doesn't take out his sketchbook. Doesn't touch a pencil. Doesn't even glance at the canvas on the easel. He just... watches.

His stillness and the quiet, it unnerves you. You try to work but feel the heat of his stare like a brand, tension creeping up your spine. After ten minutes, you can't take it anymore. You set your brush down, turn to him—and he kisses you.

So suddenly, so forcefully, your breath punches out of your lungs. His hand is at the nape of your neck, lips feverish, open-mouthed. You stumble a little on the stool, catching yourself on the table behind you. He follows, crowding into your space.

You shove at his shoulder, panting. "What the fuck are you doing—"

"Don't push me away," he says, voice wrecked. "Don't—just—kiss me back." His pride is trembling at the edges. You see it. He doesn't want to be here like this, doesn't want to need this, need you, but he does. And he hates that he does.

You hesitate for a beat, then lean forward and kiss him again. This time, slow, more controlled. His hands fist in your shirt like he's grounding himself. Like he's falling.

You break the kiss first, and your fingers trail down his chest, then lower, to the waistband of his pants. You feel him tense beneath you, breath shallow.

"Take them off," you say softly.

Jay's eyes flicker. "You're serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

His throat works as he swallows. You watch his hands move to his belt, slow and trembling slightly. When he's down to just his boxers, you press your palm between his legs. He's already hard—straining. You grin. "God, Jay. Is this what you were thinking about while I painted? Sitting there like a good boy, pretending not to want it?"

You shove him—hard. He stumbles back off the stool, genuinely shocked that you did this again, and when you follow him, your hand is already tugging his waistband down.

"Wha—" His voice cracks as your fingers dip into the band of his boxers.

"Don't move," you murmur, low and even, as you drag them down his thighs. "You wanted to be here. You kept showing up. So now you get to stay."

He's too stunned to protest. Too conflicted to push back. You catch the way his cock twitches as the cool air hits him, already half-hard and pulsing with tension. The humiliation in his eyes is palpable—and you drink it in like victory.

You give him a little shove to the chest, and his back hits the studio floor with a thud. The look on his face is pure disbelief, cut with something darker—need, maybe. Shame.

Jay looks like he wants to throttle you.

He's glaring up at you like you've committed some personal betrayal, like every inch of you genuinely offends him. The cocky curve of your mouth. The control you refuse to surrender. The way you look at him—not in awe, not in reverence, but like a challenge he hasn't yet won.

He swears, one day, he's going to wipe that look off your face. He just doesn't know if he wants to do it with his mouth or his hands.

His body betrays him, though. The sharp inhale he takes when you touch him. The way his back arches, sharp and desperate, when your hand strokes over his flushed cock again. His wrists strain under your grip when you pin them above his head, and the look he throws you is venomous. If he could kill with a glance, you'd already be a corpse.

"You know," you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "you can just admit you like being dommed."

Jay jerks under you, flushed and fuming. "Go to hell."

You laugh, smooth and low. "Everyone likes pleasure, Jay. Even you."

He hates that you're right. Hates that his body is already shaking, already giving in. His breath stutters. You don't stop. You move with slow, infuriating precision, stroking him with the kind of focus that says you have all the time in the world. You can feel him trembling beneath you. Tension coils in his thighs. His breath hitsched every time your hand glides over his tip, smearing his precum all over him.

The humiliation bleeds into every inch of him, his chest heaving, his face flushed and burning, eyes darting everywhere but your face. And the worst part? He's so close. On the edge. Teetering. His pride is in shambles.

"You gonna cum?" you ask sweetly, tilting your head.

He pants out a desperate, broken sound. "Y—you fucking wish."

Your smile is all teeth as you lean down and wrap your mouth around him, slow and steady. He gasps, all sharp and wrecked, and you feel him twitch on your tongue. His fingers curl helplessly into fists, wrists still pinned, every inch of him going taut beneath you.

"Fuck, fuck, I— I'm gonna—"

"Mhm." You pull back just enough to murmur against him. "Go on. Let go, Jay. I'm not done with you yet."

His pride doesn't stand a chance.

He cums hard, body arching off the studio floor, mouth dropping open in a groan that barely sounds like him. The sound echoes through the empty studio. It's loud, raw, and humiliating. His cum spills hot and heavy over your hand, and you ride out every twitch, every curse that falls from his lips like a plea.

When it's over, he's limp beneath you. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. His jaw clenched in frustration even now.

You swing a leg over his waist, straddling him again just to watch the way he shivers.

"Pathetic," you murmur, wiping your hand clean on his shirt. "And you still haven't apologized." He doesn't speak. He just stares, eyes wide and glassy, face red with everything he refuses to admit. But you see it. You see all of it.

And tomorrow? He'll be back.

ׂ╰┈➤ Heeseung as Wrath

You meet Heeseung in group therapy. Your therapist calls it a "community-centered support circle," but you know what it really is. Folding chairs, stale coffee and eye contact you don't want. You're only there cause your anxiety and panic attacks have gotten so frequent they’ve started giving your fingers tremors, but he's something else entirely. Something worse.

Heeseung's there for anger management.

He doesn't say much the first few meetings. Just sits at the edge of the room with his fists clenched and his jaw locked like his whole body is trying not to detonate. You don't know what's more unsettling—the fury rolling off of him in waves or the silence that contains it.

It was the one session where he spoke that changed everything. "I don't want to talk about what I did," he says evenly, eyes pinned to the floor. "But I remember everything. Every second. And I don't regret the reason."

No one says a word, but you look at him, and that's all it takes. After that, he's everywhere. He walks you to your car after group, hands shoved in his hoodie, voice quiet, never directly beside you.

"You don't check your surroundings. You should. That's dangerous."

He calls that night to make sure you got home okay. You never gave him your number, but it doesn't occur to you to ask how he got it. He starts coming to your apartment, always unannounced. Just shows up, leaning against your doorway like he lives there. Like he belongs. And maybe he does, because you start needing him—his calm, his rough-edged presence. His quiet protection.

Heeseung doesn't do love. He even tells you he doesn't date.

One night you laugh too hard at something a guy who works at the bookstore says. Heeseung watches it all from across the street, leaning against his car. Later, you find out that guy quit his job. No explanation. Just stopped showing up.

"What did you do?" you ask him one night, voice quiet.

Heeseung shrugs. "Told him to watch how he speaks to you. That's all."

"Heeseung, that’s… cruel."

"Maybe." He leans closer, voice dropping. "But I've never seen your hands shake when you're with me."

You're not dating, not officially. But it doesn't matter. Because no one else would dare touch you. And Heeseung doesn't ask permission when he kisses you, or when he finally fucks you.

That night is a blur of heat and confusion. He shows up at your door past midnight, fists clenched, in a compression shirt tight on his body. He doesn't ask if he can come in, just does, shuts the door behind him.

"You let someone else walk you to your car," he says, tone dead cold. You blink. "It was just—"

"Don't you fucking lie to me."

And then his mouth is on yours, brutal, consuming, the kiss of a man who wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave. He lifts you with ease, backs you into the wall, hips pressing in.

Heeseung doesn't fuck to relieve tension. He fucks to mark. To brand. Clothes scatter. His hands never stop touching you, even when you whimper under his touch, even when you try to slow him down.

"Heeseung—w-wait—"

"Don't run from me," he growls, thumb pressing between your legs. "You want it. You've always wanted it."

And God you have. You do.

He drops to his knees and rips your panties clean off. Doesn't ask or pause. Just buries his face between your thighs like a man starved, moaning softly like your body is the first good thing he's ever tasted. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and he lets you pull, lets you ride against his tongue until you're gasping, shaking. He sucks your clit into his mouth so harshly it has you breathless, he doesn’t stop for a minute, not even to breathe, he’s relentless in the way he drags his tongue through your folds—from your clit to your clenching hole.

He kisses up your stomach, breath ragged. His voice near a growl. "You let anyone else see you like this?"

"N-no—"

"That's fucking right."

Heeseung fucks you like he's furious about it. Furious that you let him in. Furious that no one else gets to. Every thrust is sharp, fast, almost punishing, his hand around your throat, his mouth at your ear.

"So fucking sweet for me. Innocent little thing," he murmurs, his voice trembling with restraint. "You drive me insane."

"D-Don’t stop!" you gasp.

He slams into you, hard. "Baby, I couldn’t stop if I tried." He groans

He's sweating, jaw clenched, body taut like a bow ready to snap. He fucks you into the mattress, the wall, the floor. You lose track. The only thing you know is Heeseung—the scent of him, the heat, the way his hands grip your waist like he'll break you if he's not careful, and the way his cock doesn’t soften even after he’s cum inside you twice already.

"Gonna cum," you whimper.

"Then cum," he snarls. "Make a mess, baby."

You do—body arching, shaking, falling apart beneath him. He finishes inside you, barely holding back a growl, collapsing beside you with breathless rage.

You lie there in the quiet for a while, your chest still rising and falling in shaky waves, limbs boneless from what he just did to you. There's sweat on your skin, and the ache between your legs is deep, curling. But it's not the bruises or the overstimulation that catch you off guard.

It's him.

Heeseung.

The same man who slammed you into the mattress like he wanted to own you is now staring up at the ceiling like he's seconds from unraveling. He's on his back, one hand over his eyes. The other's still linked with yours, fingers twisted tight like if he lets go, you'll vanish.

"You okay?" you whisper.

He takes a while before he speaks. "No," he says, voice wrecked. "Not even close."

You don't know what to say. You've never heard him sound like this before, like the anger is gone and all that's left is the wreckage it built.

He turns to you, finally, and his eyes are glassy. Not tears. not quite, but something scarily close. The look you get from someone who's spent years building walls just to be seen through in one night.

"I didn't mean to be like this with you," he mutters.

"Like what?"

"Crazy. Obsessed. Possessive."

He closes his eyes like it hurts to admit.

"You're the only thing that makes me want to be soft again. And I don't know how."

You shift toward him, press your palm to his bare chest over the rapid thump of his heartbeat. It's thunderous and wild.

"Heeseung," you say gently. "I never asked you to be soft."

His lashes flutter. He looks at you like you just cracked the sky open.

"I just asked you to be honest."

And for a second all the rage in him quiets. He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"I think I’m in love with you," he whispers.

You don't answer.

You just kiss him, slow and deep and this time, it's not about control or heat or needing to brand each other.

It's about staying.

Heeseung's wrath was always loud. But this? This is the part where he finally learns how to burn silently and only for you.

════════════════════════════

• a/n: when i say i got so carried away with this😭 that’s why some are longer than others, i was genuinely losing control as i was writing, i thought i was going insane! i hope you enjoyyy, i’d love to get feedback (it’s my first time ever writing anything like this)

[honeybelljar]

GOD SENT THE STORM.

: ̗̀➛ One storm opened the door, and nothing inside her life, or soul, has been quiet since.

A/n: Reader has a son, F!reader, single mother reader, breeding, spit/drool, mating press (rahh), dark imagery, pathetic!remmick, not beta read, I write because it’s fun, not because I’m smart :3

“Fuck! Get in the house now!” A shout erupts from you suddenly, ringing out through the green-tinted sky.

Wind whips against the creaking house, sending your handmade wind chime clattering against the siding. The air is heavy with finality. Trees bend. Birds silent. Your son’s expression slips into childlike terror at the command, and he sprints towards the porch. Red dirt swirls behind him. A storm is coming; it rumbles in the distance, barely contained.

“Go on in, wash up, and close all the windows.” You instruct. Your dress twirls around you as the wind picks up in sharp bursts. Storms out here in the plains were dangerous.

“Okay, mama!” Your son shouts, his tiny fists curled in determination. As if this were a game, a tired smile brushes your lips as he scampers away. The sound of his tiny feet puttering against the wood floor warms you. A small comfort in the midst of chaos.

The house groans beneath the gusts, swaying like an old man in the wind. It was the dead of summer, and storms like this often dragged twisters behind them. That sunk your soul. You’d have to be a fool to think this house could withstand a twister. It could barely stand tall during the worst weather, and you shook your head. Those thoughts served no purpose now; you’d do what you could.

That meant grabbing every old blanket and nailing them over the windows, towels rolled up under doors that sat just a bit too high, and preparing lanterns. Your son tailed behind you, helping when he could. The last thing was to turn on the wooden radio you kept; static pierced the silence, slowly but surely, the weather reports came rolling in.

“Reports of large thunderstorm off the East, locals confirm it could be the storm of the season…”

“What does that mean, Mama?” Your son tilted his head, round eyes peering up at you.

“Means a big storm is on its way, probably in the next few hours…” You murmured, eyes still glued to the radio. The house was washed in flickering orange light with the candle you both had lit. He shifted on his knees, hands clutching his stuffed rabbit.

“Are we gonna die?” His voice so small and soft. You turn to him, hands cupping his chubby cheeks. The last thing you wanted to do, was frighten him.

“No, my love, not at all, we are safe, including Mr. Carrots.” You tease and rub the rabbit's head lovingly. He giggles and playfully ushers your hand away. It was times like these that you needed to realize your son was still so small. He didn’t understand the haste or dangers of the world yet.

Wind licked up against the house again, growing stronger and stronger. One advantage of living so far from town was that you had an open view for miles. If a twister were to come, you’d need to be able to spot it.

“Grab Mr. Carrots, we are gonna keep watch on the porch.” You stood and lifted him up with ease, limited visibility was a death sentence in these situations.

“Just like the fire watch!” He cheers and bolts towards the door, and you nod and unlock it. The screen door flies wildly, and you drag one of the chairs to secure it down.

“Look at the sky, mama!” He points, and your neck cranes up. Ugly clouds twisted like snakes above, and it looked as if it was dusk. No hint of the sun peaking out. Unnerving rumbling shakes the ground ever so slightly. Powerful. Destructive. Terrifying.

“Stay under the porch.” You command. He shuffles back and plops down. His attention was now fixated on discussing the storm with his toy. The sky beckons, and your boots shuffle down the steps. Unable to tear your eyes from the strange cloud formation. It’s hypnotic and ethereal. One would think God himself had come to strike you down.

In that moment, you feel something shift. Quick and subtle. As if the horizon has eyes. Your gaze snaps towards the dirt pasture, searching. Dust hides almost all visibility. Another step forward. There’s no fencing on the border of your land; it’s open and vast. Another step. Something is wrong. The storm brews in the background, but this is different. That’s when your eyes lock onto a stumbling form, the form of a person. Something deep in your gut shifts, like the wind had turned in his direction before you ever saw him.

A step back. Even from here, you can tell he’s injured; his body buckles with each step, knees knocking together as he staggers like something half-dead. You shoot a glance back towards your son on the porch, and he is still engrossed in his rabbit.

“I’ll be right back love, stay there!” You announced. You didn’t want this stranger to get too close to the house, more so your son. Brow furrowed you stride forward,

“Hello? Sorry, Sir, but this is private property!” You shout over the wind, but he doesn’t slow. His movements almost look animalistic as he attempts to shield himself from something.

“Hello?” You try again. He is getting closer, close enough to see the tattered shirt and bloodstained pants. You balk, stunned. His bloodied face now in view, his eye swollen shut. He smells burnt, charred marks blooming on his skin. The scent makes your stomach slosh.

“Oh my god! Are you alright?” You gasp, hands hovering over your mouth. Never had you seen such carnage on a person. The stranger is no more than a few feet away before he collapses. His breathing sounds like it hurts, each rasp puffs the dirt smushed against his face.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You hiss, another glance back, your son stands by the porch stairs, puzzled. You groan and bend down to haul this man against you. The stench on him makes you gag; his deadweight arms rest against your neck. The storm is building in strength, and fat raindrops start their rapid descent. You’re soaked through your dress once you reach the door, your son bouncing on his heels at the stranger. It’s not often you have someone new around after all.

“Go get the first aid kit.” You nod to him and he darts off. Grunting, you push him off you and onto the sofa. He lands with a pained groan, and you wince. Perhaps you could be a bit more gentle.

“I got it, Mama!” You shush him and crack open the metal box. Gauze and aloe would be all you could offer at the moment; pain medicine was expensive.

“You gotta stay quiet, love, the man is hurtin’.” You rip off a chunk of gauze with your teeth, setting to work on his arms and upper body. Your son nods in understanding, carefully watching as you lift the stranger up.

Another groan. He doesn’t seem conscious, which does make this next part easier. You soak a rag in alcohol and press it to the gash on his face. He jerks, fists curling tight, teeth flashing in a silent snarl.

“I’m sorry…” You murmur, as painful as this was, infection would be much more brutal. Patching him is methodical, and you fall into the easy hum of moving and shifting him. Before long, he looks alive once more, so you leave him to rest and start dinner. The storm has morphed into a heavy downpour and howling winds, and your son shifts closer to your legs.

“Don’t worry, love.” You pat his head, but even you can’t hide the nervous glances towards the windows. Night twisters were something out of a nightmare; you prayed to whoever would listen to spare your home.

Tonight was stew, comforting and warm. A stark contrast to the flood beginning at your doorstep. About two hours had passed since the man lay on your sofa, and he had yet to move. Paranoia had you checking his pulse every twenty minutes to make sure he was even still breathing. You decided on rousing him up for dinner, who knows how long it had been since he ate?

Your son sits at the table, hands clasped in grace, before he practically attacks the stew. You shook your head and headed into the living room. The stew’s steam curls into your face as you carry a bowl toward the stranger, who still hasn’t stirred. He looked so peaceful, handsome too, without all that gore on him.

“Sir?” You whispered. Shaking him might hurt him further, you frowned. Not even a twitch in his face, you checked his pulse once more. Very much alive.

“Sir, wake up. Please.” You nearly pleaded. At last, he stirred, groaning as he threw a bandaged arm over his face. Relief bled into your limbs, your shoulders sagging with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His lips moved faintly, but no sound came. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he even knew where he was.

“Oh thank God, thought we might’ve lost ya,” you breathe, stepping back as he adjusts to the stiffness in his limbs.

With a grunt of exertion, the man slowly sits upright. Silence settles between you like a weight. He blinks hard, eyes scanning the room in jerky motions, head on a swivel. You shift on your feet, nerves buzzing. You’d be confused too, waking up bandaged in a stranger’s living room.

“You collapsed on my property. Your skin was… sizzling.”

Why does your voice sound so thin? You feel like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Finally, his eyes land on you, really land on you. Like he’s just now realizing you’re there.

“W-why?” He rasps. Voice as rough as dried gravel.

“Why?” you echo, taken aback.

“I couldn’t leave you out there. You’d have died,” you say simply. It comes out matter-of-fact, though your hands are still clenched at your sides. The lack of empathy was rampant in this world, still, his confusion surprised you.

He doesn’t respond, just presses his cracked lips into a hard line, gaze dragging slowly over you. Not like a man taking you in, but like someone still deciding if you’re real.

“That aside,” you say, voice steadier now, “I made you dinner. To get your strength back and all.”

You push the bowl toward him. He doesn’t take it. He just stares.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says, more a statement than a question.

You hesitate.

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know…” he breathes, eyes unfocused, as if the answer could be hiding somewhere inside him.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die on your tongue.

“Mama! Did he wake up yet?”

The elated squeal cuts through the air like a crack of thunder. The man’s eyes go wide; his head snaps toward the kitchen with almost inhuman speed. Your son bursts into the room, eyes alight when he spots the man. He bounds across the floor and wraps himself around your thigh, peeking out with a sudden shyness that warms your chest.

“Yes, love,” you hum, smoothing a hand over his hair, “but he’s still quite tired.”

The man blanches. His already pale skin turns ashen.

“Y-you have a child?” he asks, voice tight.

You frown at the question, but your son answers before you can.

“Yes! And I’m five!” he beams, holding up five fingers and waving them proudly at the man.

The man nods stiffly, his gaze flickering between you and the boy. Instinctively, you curl a protective arm around your son. The man notices. His jaw flexes, and then, slowly, he gives you a subtle nod.

“It’s twister weather out there,” you say evenly, your eyes watching his every twitch. “You can leave once the storm dies down.”

Another nod. Then finally, he looks down at the cooling bowl in his lap.

“Thank you for this, ma’am,” he murmurs.

His voice is gruff, unsteady, like he’s afraid one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. His voice is gruff, unsteady—like one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. You break your trance to usher your son upstairs.

“Go on and wash up. And don’t sit in the bath too long, there’s lightning,” you warn softly.

He giggles and bounds up the stairs, little feet thudding against the wood.

The moment he’s gone, it’s as if the light’s been sucked from the room entirely. Tension stretches thin between you. You shift your weight and finally speak.

“What’s your name?” Arms crossed, you lift a brow. Expecting something.

“Remmick, ma’am,” he drawls.

His voice rasps low, the syllables curling around your ears. You nod to yourself, tasting the name.

“Remmick,” you echo. You swear he stiffens just slightly at the sound of it in your mouth.

“Well, you can just keep callin’ me ma’am, since you’re so polite,” you tease, attempting to lift the heaviness with a touch of humor.

But he gives you nothing. Just stares. Blank, unreadable. You deflate a little. Maybe he’s not the humorous type.

“Is he yours?”

—“Who?” You tilt your head, eyes searching his face.

“The boy.”

As if he can’t quite understand the concept. A short airy laugh escapes you and you nod.

“Yes, he’s mine, through and through.” Amusement obvious in your response. A strange question from a strange man. It was almost as if children were foreign to him.

“And, his father…?” The question is softer now, less sure. Your gaze instantly hardens and your jaw clenches ever so slightly.

“Gone, good riddance.” You mutter quietly. Your son’s father was nothing more than some crime-obsessed lackey. Screwing over anyone and anything to get ahead. He was the reason you had to live so frugally, since it was just you providing now. Remmick watched a thousand emotions dance across your face as memories resurfaced.

“Shame, my apologies for that, honest.” His face is so open all of a sudden, raw sympathy practically painted on it. It’s jarring considering he’d been so unsure of himself moments ago.

“No need for that. We’re fine on our own,” you reply, voice firm. Not unkind, but clipped. You don’t accept pity. Not anymore. He nods briefly before leaning down to lift the shaking spoon to his lips. You take it upon yourself to head towards the kitchen.

“Place your bowl in the sink once you’re done, Remmick.” Your mouth cradles his name once again, and you don’t turn around to see his reaction.

You finish with the last dish as Remmick shuffles into the kitchen. His footfalls sound so strange against your floor. He sheepishly brings it to the counter beside you, unsure of where exactly to set it. Suds cover your arms, and you grab it from his shaking hands.

“You’ll sleep downstairs tonight, alright?” You eye him, and he only nods. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping much anyway, not with an unknown man in the house. Once you finish up, as if on cue, your son sprints downstairs to greet you both.

Remmick practically jumps out of his skin at the sound, and you snort. Quite scared for such a built man, with that notion your eyes slide over to his defined chest. He look sturdy, hands rough with use, he was definitely capable.

“You feelin’ better sir?” The boy drawls, grin as wide as can be. Remmick nods down at him.

“Much, thanks to you mama…” His reply sends a brief liquid heat through your veins. You cough out a hoarse laugh.

“Was nothing…” You wave him off and reach around to undo your apron. The boy jumps forward, ever so eager.

“So, do you like rabbits? This is Mr. Carrots, and he is-“ You raise a hand, halting his excitement.

“Now, love, it’s well past your bedtime, you best be going upstairs now, I’ll come tuck you in.” You hum, voice now like honey. The boy nods and steps towards Remmick, his small arm reaching out to hand him his prized Mr. Carrots.

“Since you’re new in the house, you can sleep with Mr. Carrots tonight.” He smiles up at Remmick as if the man hung the stars. A pang shoots through you; the lack of a father really does leave a wound, perhaps a wound your son didn’t even understand yet. You shift, eyeing Remmick.

“Ah, well then, I’ll be sure to take good care of him.” He nods to the boy, those large hands gently gripping the stuffed rabbit.

“Goodnight, sir!” With that, he’s gone like the wind, off to his bedroom. An awkward laugh leaves you. Remmick still stares down at the soft toy in his hands. He cradles it as if it’s the most precious thing on Earth.

“He’s just very excited to see a new face.” You say softly, heart still aching. He nods in agreement and finally looks up to you. The rabbit stays in his grip like something holy. You wonder if anyone’s ever handed him anything so soft before.

“Well, I’m gonna go tuck him in, I’ll be back down to make the sofa comfortable for you.” It’s slightly awkward, so much unsaid. With that, you rush upstairs desperate for air. Air that is suffocating with unruffled tension.

By the time you enter his room, he’s fast asleep. Soft snores contrast with the rumbling thunder outside, and you smile. With a kiss on his tiny head, you softly shut the door and leave him to dream. Which leaves you with Remmick, and why does that make your chest hurt? Once you descend the stairs, you find him staring at one of the photos framed on the wall. You inhale, it’s a photo of your ex-husband and both of you, a family.

“You looked so happy.” He murmurs. You almost turn away it fight against it, some wounds never heal right.

“Yeah, he likes me to keep that photo up, waiting for the day his daddy shows back up.” The words feel bitter and heavy. Remmick finally turns back to you, the flicker of candle light dancing across his form.

“You’re a good woman.” It’s a statement, firm and unrelenting and it makes your breath hitch. Never had you ever heard that from another mouth.

“I-“ A crack of thunder interrupts you. He shifts closer, and suddenly you take notice that his various burns are nearly gone. You blink.

“Y-your skin-“

“Is the boy asleep?” His voice is tight, almost sharp. You nod dumbly, unable to voice everything flooding through your mind right now.

“When’s the last time you had someone care for you, the way you do for others?” Your mouth is instantly gravel dry. The change in his demeanor gives you yet another case of whiplash. He steps forward. You step back.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Your resolve is shaky, voice cracking where it shouldn’t.

“Yeah?” He taunts. Another step forward. He moves like a man, but something about it isn’t right. Too smooth. Too quiet. Like something remembering how to be human. An imitation of what once was.

“Remmick…” You don’t know why, but a whimper escapes your lips, a primal instinct overcoming you as he towers above. When did he get so close?

He hums at the sound of his name, eyes fluttering shut, as if savoring it. His breath is ragged. Loud. He leans in, and the wall behind you seals your escape. You’re trapped. Caged by his presence. Then he scents you. It’s vile, how your thighs clench. A betrayal. It’s almost as if he can smell the heat blooming there, knows what your body is doing without permission. A drop hits your cheek.

You freeze.

Slowly, you tilt your face upward. A thick string of drool dangles from the corner of his mouth. It glistens in the flickering light. You choke on a gasp. The whites of his eyes are nearly swallowed completely, and before you can truly peer into them, he’s on you.

His clawed hand twists in your hair, gripping your head back. A pained gasp leaves your lips, stretching your neck and exposing it. It's too much; it has you trembling. It's not human how he dips down, brushing his nose against the soft hollow of your skin. He heaves next to your ear, tingling bursts along your raised flesh.

"Remmick- please..." A plea for what, you aren't sure. Mercy. He chokes out a moan at the sound, completely hollow. Monstrous. You can't deny the fear that trembles from within you. There is so much more to this quiet man, so much bubbling beneath the surface, it's maddening.

"I-" A wet gargle rips from his throat, torn between monster and man. “I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to consume you. Mind, body, soul. I want your moans, your blood, your breath. All of it inside me.”

Heart thundering against your ribs, you say nothing. Rendered speechless. A clawed finger taps against the curve of your cheek, almost the beat of an unheard song. Your mind flashes to your son sleeping peacefully upstairs. You pray to God he doesn't wander downstairs.

“Say you’ll let me in,” he murmurs, voice shredded by desire. “Your cunt already has.”

You attempt to shake your head, anything to deny the burning truth slipping off his forked tongue. But he knew better; he could feel how you clenched around nothing, fluttering open for him.

“Perverse little thing.” He taunts, you flinch and try to twist away, but it only tightens. The tips of his claws make small punctures in your pressed cheeks.

Something must have possessed you, because before you realize you're nodding. Giving in to the sickness invading your mind, and Remmick couldn't be prouder.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

It all happened so fast, one moment you were standing, then suddenly you were locked into the meanest mating press of your life. Legs flailing uselessly over his bent arms, his hand pressed tightly against your mouth. Anything to silence the raw whines humming in your throat.

"Yes-" Remmick repeats it like a mantra, just barely audible over the squelch of your cunt. Calloused hands gripping your thighs like a vice, as if he couldn't get any deeper.

Oh, he was absolutely ruined, his jaw slack as he stared down at you half-lidded. You sweat, slick back sliding on the wood flooring with each powerful thrust.

"F-fuck-" He breathes shakily.

Push after push. You're nearly choking on your release, mouth still clasped behind his palm. But he never slowed, only faltered slightly with each clench. You wanted to scream, wanted to sob, it was too much. Your brain felt melted, as if it was going to leak out of your ears. He kept you quiet, though; only the sound of rolling thunder filled the house. You hadn't even realized he had moved you deeper into the house, further away from the upstairs.

Your walls flutter, the end creeping up through your toes. Something in him twitches, he gasps- he whines. Desperation was hot on his lolling tongue. He drives into you, chasing that release. He's ravenous, starved for the feeling of touch. Without warning, you arch. Lifting off the floor and into his clothed chest. Ecstasy curling through every vein and you cunt floods, his jagged thrusts growing sloppy. His tip is digging at your cervix as you convulse.

"Tell me no." He spits out, his teeth looking sharper than before. Tears stream down your cheeks, covering his hand in salty wetness. You shake your head, still unable to make a sound. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hah—fuck, tell me no, p-please…” he whimpers, stuttering mid-thrust, his control crumbling as he teeters on the edge. You clench your thighs, nodding dumbly. A strike of lightning illuminates the house, and almost as if on cue, he bursts within you. Warmth floods throughout your lower stomach; it's intoxicating. It's rough as he attempts to mindlessly fuck you through it. A thick rope of drool slips past his lips, trailing toward yours. You part them instinctively, letting it coat your tongue, shameful and sacred all at once.

Something outside crashes and you assume the storm has finally come. It takes a miracle for you to keep your eyes open, your head lolling side to side against the floor in exhaustion. Heaviness settles into your bones. You feel him retract himself from you, before leaning down to nudge at your face. Why can’t you stay awake? It’s almost as if he’d sucked the life from you.

“I won’t ruin what you have…” he whispers.

You catch the words, faint and far away, but they slip through your fingers as your mind begins to unravel. A pause settles, and suddenly you feel cold. Empty. The air has snapped back into whatever familiarity you are used to. You succumb to the blackness clouding your mind.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

Dawn is peeking past the nailed up blankets when you wake up, you shoot up like a bullet, still naked as the day you were born. You’re on the sofa, bare, sore, and hollow.

Memories wash over you and you jerk around looking for Remmick.

Remmick.

The house is still, just as it is every morning. Your soul tells you he’s gone. There’s no reason to search. It’s too much to early for your son to be awake, you pull yourself from the sofa to get properly dressed. Your limbs heavy as lead.

Why do you feel so sad?

It wasn’t like you knew that man, he was a stranger. At the same time, he made you feel so wanted it hurt. A small reprieve from the demand of your life, and it was addicting. It had been so long since a man had come and swept you up, bending you to his will.

He fucked like he loved you, and you knew to keep a small part of it tucked in your heart. You soak in the aching echo he left behind, letting it lull you as you slip on a loose nightdress. It flutters at your ankles, ghostly, like the emptiness humming in your chest.

As you step onto the porch, the boards creak beneath your bare feet, damp with the kiss of last night’s storm. The wind has softened, though it still carries the faint scent of scorched wood. Strange. A fire after a storm like this? You shake it off and turn to head back inside, but something catches your eye. Resting on one of the chairs, tucked neatly against the corner, Is Mr. Carrots. The stuffed rabbit your son had given him, the toy he had held like it was something holy. Dry and untouched by rain. You frown and pick it up with apprehension, why did he leave it outside? Your gaze turns towards the empty horizon, something tugging at your gut.

Was this a promise he’d be back? But before you a dwell on the thought, the soft pitter patter of small feet echo through the living room.

“Mama?” A sleepy voice calls out, you turn back and bring the soft toy inside.

“Good morning, my love.” You smile warmly, bringing your lips to the top of his head. The boy rubs his eyes, looking around.

“Where’d he go?” He asks, and you give a tight smile.

“He had to go back home, sweetie.” You say gently, his face falls and he huffs. It hurts you to see him disappointed, so you bend down and lift his chin with your finger.

“Hey, why don’t we go into town tomorrow, I’ll get you any candy you want.” Your words playful in an attempt to lighten his mood. He gasps, attention instantly diverted.

“Yes! Thank you, Mama!” He cheers. Standing back up, you clap your hands, almost as if to dispel the lingering heaviness.

“Now,” you say with a playful firmness, ruffling his hair, “let’s get started on breakfast.”

He squeals in delight, already dashing toward the kitchen, bare feet thumping against the floor. It’s almost as if everything is normal. But deep in your chest, something stirs, like a shadow refusing to be burned away by the sun. Even as you serve pancakes, finish cleaning up the yard, and tackle the laundry, your chest stirs. Unsettled by the longing in your chest, you feel dazed. As if some part of you had been touched from within, claimed and hollow, waiting for someone that may never return.

Night comes upon your house like a damp blanket. It drizzles from the sky wetting the Earth ad you hung laundry. To which you scowl at from the kitchen window. You’d just have to it again tomorrow morning. Dinner had already been served, porridge tonight. You turned on the radio, soft music fills the house, anything to overshadow the ringing silence. Your son had gone up to play in his room, deeming that Mr. Carrots felt lonely without his other toys. So that left you, sitting in a chair, looking lost in your own home.

A sudden knock jolts you upright.

Three slow, deliberate raps against the door.

You freeze. The music continues to hum softly behind you, but it sounds distant now — warped, like it’s underwater. You know, you know it’s him just from the heaviness of his knock. Your hands curl against the fabric of your dress, damp from dishwater and nerves alike. Slowly, you rise from your seat. Another knock — quicker this time, edged with impatience. You step towards the door, each step weighed with dread and yearning. He’s back. Just before your fingers grace the knob, you hear it. That voice. Low. Throaty. Possessive.

“…Open the door angel.”

It sends shock waves through your core, your hand still latched onto the knob, unmoving. The sound tears through you, a shockwave that leaves your breath shallow. Your hand stays frozen on the handle, trembling. He wasn’t entirely human, you knew that much. Yet, his voice calls to you like a siren.

Pressing the knob, you open the door abruptly. There he is. Tall. Brooding. Whole. Not a single mark on him. He looks…untouched by the world, untouched by the night he left you in pieces. You make no move from the door, no space for him to slip in.

He smiles down at you, head tilted, something sly dancing in his eyes. “I’m home,” he breathes, like a joke wrapped in velvet.

And just like that, the heat blooms behind your eyes. Anger flares sharp and electric across your face. You scowl, lips tight, every muscle screaming not to let him see how much you missed him. But you know better, how he can practically taste your emotions.

“Home?” You echo. Voice hollow and tense. “You think you can just run off, tear me open, and then waltz back here like some stray mutt scratchin’ at the door?”

That lands.

He falters.

The confidence in his stance stumbles, like he didn’t anticipate this part. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh. You’re not finished. Not even close.

“I took you in. I stitched you back together. And don’t even get me started on how you look perfectly healed now. Not a damn scar on you.”You’re breathless by the end, rage and heartbreak boiling too close to the surface. It shakes you.

He says nothing at first. Just stands there, the rain beginning to dot his shoulders, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He looks smaller somehow, not physically, but emotionally stripped. His mouth opens once, then closes again, like words have abandoned him.

“I didn’t want to…” He swallows. “Leave.” As if speaking pained him, his voice cracks on the end. Your hands shift to your hips, you watch him struggle for air.

“I didn’t know what I’d do if I stayed.” Low and hoarse. Your anger wobbles, his words striking a chord inside you. He laughs once, a dry, broken sound.

“But somehow I found myself back at your doorstep.” His gaze drags upward, meeting yours, and for a split second, something monstrous flashes behind his eyes, not rage, but desperation.

“And as selfish as it is, I want to come inside.” He breathes.

Everything he has, is laid before you. Your hand slips off the door knob, hands limp by your side. Your resolve had crumbled like paper within his grasp, his words tightening around like a vice. He takes a single step forward. The rain has slicked his hair to his forehead, but he pays it no mind. The tips of his boots toe the threshold of the door.

“I’m not good.” He says, voice wet. “You know that, you’ve seen it.” He leans forward, pressing closer.

“You’ve undone me, wakened something inside me that’s been quiet for life times.” His lip trembles, then stills. “Let me come in. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I just… I want to belong somewhere again. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

What more could you say? His words tasted like honey on your tongue, you were both parched for something. Desperate for partnership, connection, and touch. Opening the door felt right, his heavy boots echoing in the warmth of your home. It all felt right. You didn’t know what he was, you didn’t ask. He was gentle with you, easy in the presence of your son.

Never pushing too much. He would vanish here and there, and the first time had been for three days. Once he dragged himself back home, you sobbed angrily, hitting your fists into his solid chest. Slowly but surely it became a thing of habit, he’d leave, return with gifts, and a few splatters of blood on his clothes.

Tonight was one of those nights, he had left before the sun peeked over the horizon. However, it was late into the darkness now, the bed felt emptier. He should’ve been home by now. Tossing and turning, you couldn’t relax. Outside, the rain tapers to a soft drizzle and you can’t take it anymore. You throw your legs over the side of the bed and quietly creep past your son’s bedroom. Making sure to avoid the stairs that creak the loudest.

Padding through the house, you find him sitting at the kitchen table. Shirtless. Elbows braced against his knees. Blood stains the tips of his fingers, and his eyes are distant, glowing faintly in the dim light. Another thing you don’t ask about. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. Empty and hushed.

“I tried not to be what I am tonight.” A shaky breath. “But something out there was hunting. Something worse than me. And I had to meet it.”He finally glances at you, a smear of red along his jaw.

“It won’t come near this house again.”

You believe him. Silently grabbing a wash rag and cleaning him up, no questions asked.

This, whatever this was, protected you. Cared unconditionally for both you and your son, there’s nothing more you could ask for.

-

Fic playlist:

[draftbeerbibi]

FOR ME, IT WILL ALWAYS BE YOU - Sylus x Non MC! ( Part 5 )

Summery: you find yourself in lads universe after a particularly close interaction with truck kun. How does life go from here after arriving in the N109 zone leaders backyard when MC hasn’t arrived yet?

Disclaimer, Sylus might be OOC, since i’m not very good at writing so bear with me. This will be multiple parts!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

You were fiddling with your bracelet.

One you had been graciously gifted by Sylus for the auction under the pretense of it otherwise ‘gathering dust’ in his humble abode, but you had seen him looking online for it, searching for just the right one.

You heard the clock strike 12, but sleep would not come, tossing and turning, but nothing helping. You were certain you had exhausted all possible sleeping aids so you decided to just get out of bed and maybe grab a bite. Sylus and the twins are always asleep by this time, and the base was very big, so you weren't worried you would run into them.

Except for the fact you had forgot to factor in that with MC in the picture, Sylus wasn't very nocturnal anymore, his usual sleeping time now filled with trying to resonate with miss hunter, and not succeeding, and making sure she gets comfortable enough with him.

You're in your pj's, t-shirt drooping off of your shoulder as you shuffle into the kitchen. Though you had grown accustomed to the N109 zone's perpetual darkness, you missed the kiss of the suns warmth at times you felt so cold inside you wondered if anything would ever be able to warm you again.

The base is once again silent, his text from yesterday haunted your mind. You knew he wouldn't let this go, but you were a coward, so you chose to run away while you still could.

You sigh, shaking your head, as if that would make all the thoughts go away. You honestly weren't even hungry but you needed to do something to take your mind off of things. Wrapping your bedhair in a messy bun you shuffle around the kitchen looking for an easy meal.

Sylus being Sylus, he has a plethora of food sources up for grabs, so you grab a simple ready made porridge from the shelf. As you read the instructions you hear the front door open and muffled voices echoing through the corridor.

One obviously belonging to Sylus, and the other being much more high pitched you figure it was a female, specifically, the one who had shaken up everything you had just built up in the past 4,5 months.

Your shoulders stiffen without meaning too. Their voices sounded like sandpaper to you, grating past your skin, leaving your nerves open and exposed. But his voice, oh how soft it was, agitatingly teasing, but not directed at you. No, his precious miss hunter was now the center of his attention.

Your hands stop moving as your attention unwillingly centers around their conversation. To your surprise however, miss hunter hadn't sounded like she had warmed up yet at all. Curse you and your feeble hope. Though that didn't stop Sylus from almost cooing at his newfound 'lover'.

You will your hands to resume their task and pretend to be invisible. You hope he plays along. As the voices get closer you hear him faltering as he sees you in the kitchen.

You feel the blood rush to your ears, the sound so loud it drowns nearly everything else out. Heartbeat too fast, breathing once again to shallow. But then, he starts talking again, and moves away from the kitchen.

Your shoulders slump.

Without missing a beat, your eyes well up. Hot tears spill over your cheeks, and you don't even try to stop them anymore. It was useless anyway. You continued making the porridge, hands trembling slightly. How could he not even acknowledge your existence? You carefully put the porridge in the microwave, and just stare as the seconds tick by.

Numb.

That's the best way you could describe it at this point. It felt all wrong. You wanted to go home, but you weren’t certain you had a home anymore. You never really fit in. Neither here nor where you originally came from.

The microwaves harsh beep resounds through the kitchen, effectively snapping you out of your thoughts. You open the door and grab a towel to wrap around the now hot package of porridge.

You sit down at the kitchen counter and carefully open the package, nearly getting a third degree burn from the steam. You hiss as you blow on it. Moving so frantically you caught your own reflection in the oven. You looked horrid, dark circles encasing your eyes, cheeks hollower then you remember them being, and your hair disheveled.

You scoff at your own reflection. Pathetic. That was all you could think. You can’t even taste the porridge, but you shove it in nonetheless. Better something then nothing. It's become your mantra at this point.

The kitchen feels cold, the lack of companionship leaving the once warm and cozy kitchen feeling lost and deserted. The metal spoon feels foreign in your fingers as you softly poke your porridge. You discard the leftover half as you move to the bathroom. You decide it be best to take a shower, as to not draw too much attention to yourself.

You slowly undress yourself, turning on the shower to let it get to the right temperature. Once happy with said temperature, you brush out your hair and move under the shower head and let the borderline boiling water cascade down your body. You just stand there for a while, skin turning red and steam filling the bathroom.

Finally you move to clean yourself off and wash your hair. It had taken you longer then it usually would. Once done you dry yourself off and moisturize your skin, you take a second to think. Maybe you should just go out? You haven't gone out for a drink since you've been here. For a good reason of course, but maybe you could somehow sneak into Linkon and find a good bar there? That idea really struck a cord with you and you immediately look to put on something remotely wearable for a night out.

Entering the walk-in closet, you look at your small corner of clothes in the big room, made to fit hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes. Unlucky for you, you had barely enough to fill up 3 shelves and have a couple clothes hanging. You do have a couple dresses but those are much to fancy for just a night out, so you hop into a short work skirt and a semi casual blouse and hold onto your heels as to not make to much noise when going out.

Applying a small layer of make up to hide the eyebags and make you look more alive, you feel adrenaline course through your veins. If Sylus caught you right now there was no way he would let you go. Or maybe he would? You weren't sure anymore. You check yourself out in the mirror, grinning softly when you don't look half dead and make way to the door as softly as you can.

In the hall you could hear Sylus's snores softly reverberate through the hall. Your heart clenches softly. The sound so achingly familiar, but no longer yours to dwell on. You call a cab, while surprised they even have cabs in the N109 zone. You put on your shoes and when the car arrives you get in softly and leave for Linkon.

~~~

The square is huge, and the sun was setting so beautifully. Sylus must be waking up right now. You missed the sun so dearly, so you just sit on a bench for a second, soaking up the lost time with your friend in space. The big fireball sets slowly, as if savoring the time with you just as much.

Taking a deep breath you realize you haven't smelled fresh air, truly fresh air, in months and a small smile graces your features. Once the sun has set completely you grab your phone and look for the nearest bar. Luckily for you, the nearest one was just a block away so you move from the bench to the bar.

For some reason your nerves are on edge, though you haven't seen Mephisto (You have learned all the birds hiding spots at this point) you felt like someone was watching you. Goosebumps form on your arm as you shake your head. You've just been on edge lately, your hormones and mental state are fried you tell yourself.

When you see the name of the bar illuminating the now darkening streets, you breathe a sigh of relief. Opening the mahogany doors your met with the smell of cigars, alcohol and cologne. Jazz music softly dances through the chatter of the people. You sit down at the bar and when the bartender asks you your order you ask him for a scotch neat, and as he walks away to grab your drink, you settle in your seat, focusing in on the way the trumpet conveys emotions that hit too close to home for your liking.

The clink of a glass makes you break your train of thoughts. You thank the bartender and take a sip of the amber liquid. The subtle burn flows down your throat and you feel yourself relax slowly. Though scotch would never be your first choice in other circumstances, it felt like it was called for today.

The chatter is consistent. You gaze at nothing really, letting your eyes cross the room as you take larger then necessary sips of your drink, and before you know it, your glass is empty. Ordering another one, you feel the familiar buzz of your phone still clutched in your hand.

You move it to your line of sight and your breath gets caught in your lungs when you see his name pop up. You don't even read the message, grabbing the drink that was just placed in front of you and downing it in one go. The burn was more significant this time and it makes you wince a bit. Tonight you were going to let go of everything, to the best of your abilities.

~~~

The cycle continues for a while, until you cannot read the time on your phone anymore and your positive that if you were to stand up right now your knees would buckle under the weight of the buzz in your brain.

It feels like it's been hours, maybe it has. You don't know anymore. When your certain you won't fall you get up to pay. The numbers felt astronomical to you, but you had gained Sylus's permission a long time ago to use his card, though you had never done so before, you decided today was the best time to do so.

The payment went through without a hitch and a lopsided grin dawns on your face. Your head was swimming and so was your vision, so finding the door turned out to be a bigger challenge then previously anticipated.

You not so graciously slam open the bar doors and inhale the fresh evening air. The temperature had dropped significantly, but being as inebriated as you were it didn't really bother you.

You walk. You don't know where, but for the first time in weeks, your heart didn't feel as heavy, and your steps felt almost giddy. Linkon was truly a sight to behold, technology far beyond what you had ever deemed possible, advanced to the point it was almost scary.

The buildings were tall, like, really tall. You marvel and look around in unabandoned glee. But then you feel it. An unfamiliar presence. You turn around as fast as you can without getting whiplash when suddenly your hoisted off the ground and tied up. You had no chance at resisting really so you let it happen.

Another deducted point in the battle between you and MC, because you could never fight your way out of this situation. So when the engine of the car your dumped into roars to life, all you can do is pray that Sylus still cares enough about you to come find you.

~~~

A/N: Y'all, thank you so much for the patience you have shown me! I'm very excited to know what you guys think of this new chapter! <33 Have a great day everyone💕

Taglist:

@jeondyy @animegamerfox @nm4565natty @famouschopshopgalaxy @supershygirl @justpassingdontworry @madam8 @babygirl-panda19 @sleepykittyenergy @corvid007 @bubera974 @t0rchknight @z3vl @lanxianschoenheit @paper--angel @dysphxriaii @strxw-bxrri @sillyfreakfanparty @cordidy @rynnpersonal @maria-elite @dana-nite @misselysia @phisen @wiosna88888 @hao-ming-8 @mentaltrouble2201 @gkfofucha @reni502 @0nychinus @lighting-and-shadow @harbingers-lullaby @yeahhemmings- @moonlight-dream54 @eialovescats @thisfeelswrong @cheshire-kitsune @nutshellera @mblaqgi @iunse @ninaaargh @tenaciouszombiewombat @sylusaethercore @000rpheus @udejoenrlddo @dyeinsomniadontwake @222410 @hon3yydew @angelwhizpers @dyeinsomniadontwake @starllight613 @pluto-890 a

[nagy-bari]

'writing our of love for a concept someone started and running with it and begin a creative journey on your own' and 'running with the familiar aspects of a character that possesses bits and pieces of your favorite tropes and leaning into them a bit more cause that's your comfort zone' and 'redressing your blorbo in new fandom clothes' and 'once a story is out there the original idea is but a suggestion' and 'emphatizing with a character so much you put them in your situations so you can figure things out' and 'loving the vibes you want to see them experience even if it's nowhere near "canonnically logical' and 'just wanna see them fuck nasty' and 'whatever possessed the fanfic writer for this set of horrors says way too much about both of us (the reader) but at least the blorbo is heading somewhere that almost feels like reassurence' and ' okay but what if-' these are all perfectly fine reasons that will lead to heavy mischaracterisation, complete switch of tone and set up and attitude and worldview the original setting gave to the characters you play with. and that's fine.

if the writer does not asked for reviews don't bother them.

But at times it makes you wonder. as in. did they even let the original story set in or is it another barbie house to play in?

rent lowering gun shots under the break

cause yeah have fun and enjoy and more power to you but did you actually let the original story settle in, did you get that message first and it made you answer in a way you wish was there? cause sometimes misscharacterisation feels like such a personal cozy place of someone that you can't help but wonder - did you get the story? i'm sour about misscharacterisation because of chatgtps and ai characterbots and the more and more ai-fanfics i stumble across on Ao3. i'm salty about grabbing a blorbo and turning it inside out so much it's actually a completely seperate character because of mass media churning out the same oversaturated tropes again and again and i love reading fanfic of neiche and specific little fuckers who are a particular flavor of messed up -but when you put them in the same coffee shop for the xxxth time and they start to slurr and don't give a fuck about their core questions i'm gonna turn bitter. not gonna bother the writer about it cause it's okay, it's my taste and they like it milder but here's my 'hater' take mischaracterisation is a problem when you take a character and sandpaper it to your taste so you can fit them in your blorbo house and take personal offense if someone points out the missing parts. hate me for it all you want but i'm worried about literacy and critical thinking when i'm salty about mischaracterization. call me whatever you want but sometimes the best version is what the 'original' writer dreamed for them. most times it's the most interesting take on them.

unless they specifically asked, you don’t get to tell a fanfic writer you think they mischaracterized the character by the way. because the second someone writes a fanfic about a character, that character becomes the writer’s own version of the character. canon is only a suggestion, but whether or not an author will follow it / how much of canon an author will take is entirely up to them. you don’t get to stick your nose in their world and tell them “hey this is not to my liking therefore I think you’re doing it wrong” when you can simply leave quietly and move on to something else you may enjoy

[plethorawrites]

can I request Damian x reader but reader is like the opposite she’s clumsy and messy (NOT DIRTY SHES JUST NOT REALLY ORGANIZED) and at first Damian is like no way I could ever like someone like that but then he’s like oh shit I think I like her you don’t have to do it but it was just an idea

(A/N- This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit because people are STILL calling me racist, so I've seriously considered wiping Damian from my page completely. But I love him as a character way too much to do that, so here we are!) (Requests are open again, btw!)

---

Despite being rather pretentious because of his upbringing, I think anytime Damian Wayne is assigned to do a group project, he'd want to go to someone else's house. They usually live in squalor (Middle class) but he deals with it for a few hours because it beats having his classmates fawning over his older brother's or asking his dad if he really used to date Harvey Dent or if that's just a rumor.

Usually, despite the condition of the house (Aka having a dish rack on the counter.) the room they'd work in was pretty clean. But you? Oh, no, no, no. He almost had a heart attack when he saw the state of catastrophe your study room was in.

Books on the ground instead of on the shelves, chair pulled out from the desk instead of tucked in, tons of sticky notes scattered on the walls and reminders pinned up. No one could have that short of a memory, could they? You seemed to.

The number of loose papers on the desk, the open notebooks with illegible writing, fidget toys to relieve stress or increase your focus, cups from when you needed coffee for a late-night study session that hadn't made it all the way to the dishwasher yet. (But it was on the sticky note! Right under the reminder to check your email.

Was that a thing people needed to remember to do?

He was utterly perplexed by the chaos you seemed so comfortable in. What he found most odd though, was how you never made any effort to fix it. He had been to your house three times thus far, trying to make a dent in the project that would take at least another week and each time, your room was the same. He even offered to help you organize (For his own sanity) but you turned him down, claiming you liked it how it was.

"How could anyone possibly like studying like this?" he questioned.

You shrugged. "I find having a pristine desk makes me uncomfortable, like I'm not actually doing work in a space I can relax in," you explained. "Plus, research shows environments like this increase brain productivity."

Damian wasn't sure if he believed that for a single second. But you clearly seemed to.

"But it's so messy," he muttered, motioning to your desk, so covered in God knows what that he couldn't even see what color the wood was.

"It's disorganized, not messy," you retorted. "And I know where everything is. Pencil sharper is by the white out because I use both rarely, erasers are where all the pencils are because I stab the led into them when I'm bored, highlighters are the ruler, which is.... under the syllabus I printed at the start of the year."

You pointed at everything as you said it and he slowly came to the realization that you weren't lying when you said you weren't messy. You kind of, in some weird way, had a system that worked.

Still, it felt uncomfortable for him. For a while. He'd watch you chew on your pencil and reach for tape that came from he didn't even know where, seemingly materializing things out of thin air. You barely even sat in the chair, he realized. He was always the one sitting in it, watching you sit or lay on the floor.

The only time Damian was ever on the floor was when Titus knocked him down or he got beat by his brothers during sparring. (Not that it ever happened..psh, no, don't be absurd.)

He slowly got a bit more accustomed to your room, even starting to find a bit of comfort whenever he stepped into it. It was welcoming, in a way, he'd come to think. When had that happened?

"Aren't you supposed to leave by eight?" you asked him, stretching your arms over your head as you sat on the floor across from him.

Damian frowned, looking at the time. He realized it was already 7:55. Had it already been four hours? It seemed like he just sat down on your rug, which, was surprisingly comfortable.

He hated to admit how much more productive he felt sitting on the floor than at a desk. "Uh, yes, right," he nodded, standing up and stretching as well. "I think we can probably get this finished by Tuesday," he added, feeling a weird pang of disappointment by the thought.

You nodded. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow at four, then," you told him, watching as he packed up his books neatly, the pages fitting back in the nice folder perfectly. "Unless you wanna stay," you suddenly found yourself offering. "For dinner, I mean. If...if you want to. No pressure."

Damian paused, caught off guard by invitation. He stared at you for a few minutes, lips parting but words not leaving his mouth. Dinner? That was probably going to last at least an hour or two. Longer if your parents were the kind to serve dessert or chat a lot. He might not get home until ten or later.

"Sure," he agreed abruptly, though logically he knew he should refuse. He was supposed to be asleep by nine so he could get some rest before patrol. "I'd love to stay for dinner," he remarked, setting his bag back down for what wasn't one or two hours like planned, but four and a half.

How he would explain getting home past midnight to his father, he wasn't sure yet. But he'd find a reasonable excuse. After all, his dad was the one who told him to find normal friends and he was just doing what he asked.

...You were just his friend, right?

[fangirlfuel]

The Internet's Favorite Couple

---

Lando Norris x Actress!Reader SMau

---

@.yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, carlossainz55, lando, and 4,682,561 others

Y/N Press tour life lately. Swipe for chaos.

Comments

@.landonorris: ok but I didn’t get credit for emotional support and snack delivery??

@.yourusername: you stole my chocolate bar and took a nap mid-zipping my dress.

@.landonorris: I was emotionally exhausted from watching you try on 11 outfits in 3 minutes.

@.haileesteinfeld: you two are insane and I love it

@.yourusername 💜

@.zendaya: power couple things.

@.yourusername : QUEEN! douple date when ? 🤭💞

@f1gossipupdates: you didn’t hear it from me but that man is love

@.danielricciardo: this is why I’m not allowed to stay in glam anymore

@.user1919: me waiting for my bf to simp like this

@.oscarpiastri: unfollowed for relationship envy

@.teamlando: Lando’s entire job is just being her hype man and I love that for him

@.glossier: hiring the king of backstage support?

@landonorrisfanclub: they’re always on "cutest couple alive" mode

@blakelively: ok but I’d watch a whole rom-com based on slide 5

@ user220: her red carpet >>>> but let’s be real we’re here for THE BF CONTENT

@.yourusername: y’all he’s still sleeping under that pile

@f1editqueen: posting this to my vision board as we speak

@femalepilot.f1: and here I thought love like this was fictional

@user4200: imagine being this pretty and dating a simp like Lando

@williamsgf3: can they just adopt us? please?

@ lilymhe: okay wait this is actually adorable

@.yourusername: we need to have a girl day !

@.user014: I want what they have and also that dress

@papayaqueen4life: THE CHEEK KISS PHOTO IS A WHOLE MOVIE

@lanloverrr: drop the unfiltered photo dump pls

@.yourusername: fine. next one is all him being chaotic.

@.landonorris: …I’m scared now.

---

Twitter Thread: @F1updates

@Username1: "Top 10 Simp Lando Moments for Y/N That Made Us Believe in Love — a thread"

|

@.username1: That time he stood behind a barricade with fans just to surprise her at her premiere and screamed louder than the paparazzi.

@.username3: When she posted a story of her learning lines and you can hear Lando offscreen going, "I. . Am. Shaking."

@.username4: During an F1 livestream when asked about his favorite film, he replied, "Whichever one she’s in ."

@usename9: The iconic Cannes moment where he fixed her dress train like a stylist, assistant, boyfriend, AND husband all in one.

@.username43: "She’s my whole personality at this point." -Lando during a McLaren interview

@usename67: In a vlog, he literally said, "I memorized your monologue just in case you forgot it."

@username9: Bonus: anytime she posts anything, he’s first in the comments ans likes, my man got post notifications on.

@usename54: They're what happens when a golden retriever boyfriend dates a goddess.

---

@.landonorris

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 2,389,528 others

Lando photo dump. ft my favorite person

Comments

@.yourusername: not the airplane oneeee

@.landonorris: I took it with love and a blanket

@.yourusername: fine. you’re forgiven.

@ user001: this is not a bf it’s a support system

@f1behindthescenes: he’s in his golden retriever husband era

@ user93: her in his hoodie is my new lockscreen

@.zendaya: this is how you DO soft launch every month

@.danielricciardo: lando ur making the rest of us look bad bro

@.landonorris: What can I say , I am the best boyfriend there is 😘 *liked by Y/n❤*

@.user3944: imagine having a man post YOU like this

@papayaaaqueen: he’s so down bad and it’s so beautiful

@user1911: ice cream dates and love notes ?,, this is rom-com behavior

@.yourusername: next post is YOU with whipped cream on your nose. stay tuned.

@ landonorris: lies. slander. I was framed.

@Y/N : I love you 🧡

@lansonorris: I love you more baby girl 🧡

@.user887: NO BECAUSE THEY FLIRT IN THE COMMENTS TOO

@ oliviarodrigo: I’d write a whole album about them if I could. *liked by landonorris and Y/N❤️*

@.user424: everyone say thank you to fate for bringing them together *liked by landonorris❤️*

@User: not lando liking this 😭🫶🏻

@.user1992: he’s so best boyfriend coded it’s not even funny anymore

@landosimp_4ever: the mirror photo ? the kiss ?? HELLO???

@.user900: my fav photo dump of the YEAR

@.yourusername: we just love a man who gets the angles right

@.landonorris: trained by the best

@.haileesteinfeld: okay but I’d pay to have this level of love

@.lilymhe: literal Pinterest couple.

@Y/N: 🫶🏻

---

Fan Tweets Compilation: #ynlando

@.user338: when he looked at her like she hung the moon on that awards night… yeah I felt that in my bones.

|

@.cinemagirlie: Lando watching Y/N on screen with his hand on his heart will forever be my favorite genre.

|

@.notdramaok: someone said they act like they’re in a rom-com written by Phoebe Waller Bridge and directed by Greta Gerwig and they were RIGHT.

|

@.papayaperson: remember that time he flew from Monaco to LA for 18 hours just to walk her to the red carpet? yeah. we don’t forget.

|

@ user827: I want what they have. And also her skincare routine.

|

@landosunshine: she called him her muse in that GQ interview and I haven’t known peace since.

.

[mixolya]

HIIIIII 🫶🏻so I thought Yk how sae is bad at this whole PR thing and he’s just very straightforward and not many ppl like it cuz they think he’s rude😭. what if reader was his pr manger���??? And she like gets pissed off quickly but also gets flustered and why quickly and sae is teasing or wtv

I was like i really wanna read sum like but since I follow lots of bllk writers I didn’t know who to send this 2 so then I thought “who writes sae the best?”then I thought def mixolya so here I am I’d really like it if u wrote this since ur work is really amazing 😭🫶🏻🫶🏻💖

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: ice prince !

synopsis: sae itoshi has a pr problem. and you're paid to fix it. too bad he's also the reason you grind your teeth at night and blush like a schoolgirl on the job.

sae itoshi x manager!reader ⭑ fluff + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: thank you sm IM SO HONORED NOW HFUIJKVFKJKV ily

the headline blinks back at you like a neon sign from hell:

SAE ITOSHI: Football's ice prince strikes again - says he 'doesn't care' about fans

you slap your tablet shut. you don't even knock before storming into the training facility, scanning the rows of white training kits until you spot him; the menace in cleats, jogging casually down the sideline like he hasn't just detonated another pr landmine.

"sae!" you call twice after he didn't look the first time.

his head tilts lazily toward you. of course he heard you the first time. he just wanted to make sure you say his name again. you march over, fuming.

"you told the press you don't care about your fans."

"because i don't," he replies coolly, barely breaking stride.

you scoff. "you also said the interviewer's breath smelled like 'expired vanilla milkshake.' what even is that?"

he finally stops, water bottle in hand. "accurate."

"unbelievable," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

"you hired me for honesty, didn't you?"

"you were assigned to me because no one else could handle your media tantrums!"

he takes a sip of water, entirely unfazed. "i don't throw tantrums."

"no, you throw careers off cliffs. mine included."

his eyes finally land on you, sharp eyes meeting your glare. "you're still here though."

"unfortunately."

he quirks a brow. "so why stay?"

you freeze. that smug expression makes your stomach twist. it's always like this with sae, a constant tug-of-war where you're supposed to be the handler and he the genius. and yet here you are, red-faced, pulse racing, hands clenching your clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

"why can't you just do as i say for once?" you mutter, spinning on your heel.

"cute."

you whirl back. "what?"

he shrugs. "you get all flustered. it's cute."

"you can't just say things like that to your pr manager!" you hiss.

sae's smile is barely there, but it is there. a rare sight, like a solar eclipse, beautiful yet terrifying, and liable to burn you if you look to long.

"maybe i can," he says softly, like it's a challenge.

⭑

you threaten to quit that night. you don't, of course. because the next morning, you wake up to a trending video of sae at practice gently helping a kid tie their cleats. the caption reads: "Maybe he's not so icy after all?"

you stare at your screen, stunned. was it intentional? and then a text pings from him.

sae: better? + attached photo of him with his bangs down

you stare. you're going to scream.

⭑

(two weeks later)

you're standing backstage at a sponsorship event, briefing him one last time before he goes live.

"no sarcasm," you say, ticking things off on your clipboard. "smile. thank the brand. don't call the ceo's shoes ugly."

"they are though."

"don't care."

he sighs. you glance up, only to realize he's already looking at you. not the room or the stage, you.

and his hair? bangs down.

you blink.

"you did it again," you said.

"what?"

"you put your bangs down."

he smirks. "why wouldn't i?"

"because you hate them."

"i don't hate them. i just didn't care."

"until now?"

he shrugs. "you like them."

you stare at him, chest tightening. and then he leans in just enough for only you to hear.

"by the way," he murmurs, voice low, "if i score in the next game.. i'll point to the camera, is that okay?."

your brows furrow. "do what you want."

"okay, i'll say it's for the 'cutest manager in the league.'"

you don't can't respond. you're frozen in place, clipboard limp at your side, face on fire. and he just walks away, grinning.

imagine he doesn't score

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[sizebrained]

I'm not sure if this is *supposed* to be a pair of giant legs the way the telephone pole and line make it look.

But I love this so much I had a little story idea pop up in my head I couldn't get rid of so I had to write it down.

Also great glow up from the last version, love tofupixel's stuff.

Whoops new g/t universe... CW: None, SFW

Word Count: 2,000

*** The town siren's crying wail filled the air. Easily heard over the increasingly louder and louder wind, even all the way out here. As if the angry sky wasn't enough of a warning of what was heading their way. The cows and horses on Jane's farm knew long before the siren had confirmed it. There was a tornado coming. First one of the season. Jane hadn't wanted to grow bigger before the storms, but the animals had panicked. They kept pulling out of Jane and her mother's grips. Desperate to follow their instinct to run away from the oncoming twister.

At her normal size of exactly 5 feet tall, Jane could never have managed to get them to the barn when they were this agitated. Even with her mother and ten year old littler brother Bobby helping.

Bobby's normally annoying demeanor disappeared in these kinds of situations. He was trying very hard to actually help. But one twist of the cow's head sent the poor boy flying sideways every time.

So she focused, held her breath, and grew. When she was done, she was four times her normal size.

It had been several years since Jane had discovered that her body had this "compunction" to grow bigger. She didn't know if it was nature, or magic, or what. She could just grow bigger. A few, mostly random, townfolk knew about Jane’s compunction too but they promised to keep it secret.

When she was big, Jane provided manual labor for them sometimes that would have either been impossible or very expensive otherwise. It helped ensure their silence.

It started shortly after her father died. Also right after she began puberty, like that wasn't hard enough without this complication. At first there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to what set Jane to growing, how big she would get, or how long it would last.

For lack of a better word, the family doctor had settled on what happened to Jane as a "compunction." There was nothing in any medical text that he had come across to explain it. Other than being a danger to low ceilings and tight places, he said Jane was otherwise a pretty typical, healthy teenager.

When their family doctor made the first house call after her first growth, he found a 20 foot, very embarrassed looking girl in pigtails looking down at him in the barn. He took it rather well. "Not the strangest thing I've seen to be honest," he told Jane's mother. It always made Jane wonder just what he had seen that her being bigger than an elephant didn't register at the top of his list.

When she first started getting her compunctions, she made the animals nervous in their stables. Even though Jane had cared and fed some of them for years, most were unnerved by her newfound size.

Eventually, the animals got used to Jane's bigger version. Now, most of them didn't seem to think it was unusual to be moved around as easily as a child's favorite stuffed toy.

Jane was currently walking with two cows under her arms towards the barn like they needed to be tucked in for bedtime.

Thankfully, Jane's clothes, and anything else that happened to be touching her body at the time, grew along with her when she did. They couldn't afford to go through clothes at the rate of her body's "compunction spells" otherwise.

One time she grew while she was brushing her hair. It ended up being 10 feet long. Jane had never timed it right to be holding it again when she shrank back down. So the 10 foot brush was hidden up in the barn's haystacks till she did.

Over the past several years she had learned to control it. Somewhat.

Better at directing it was more accurate. She couldn't really control it that much or for that long. It was like tensing a muscle or holding her breath. Trying to hold her breath seemed to slow it down sometimes. But sometimes holding her breath also made her grow.

Jane's body would do what it wanted to do whether her mind agreed or not. She felt like her body betrayed her. Sometimes in more ways than just getting bigger.

And getting back down to her usual size could sometimes take days. Jane was thankful to have finally graduated high school. She got tired of coming up with new excuses for missing so much school, waiting to shrink back down to her normal five foot nothing self. Jane's eyes passed by her bedroom's second story window as she made her way to the barn with the cows. Jane's mother had taken Bobby by his hand, heading as fast as she could manage across the open field between the barn and their modest farmhouse.

They passed each other heading in opposite directions. Jane with cows and her mother with Bobby. Jane's mother yelled over her shoulder at her first born. "Jane! Get those two in the barn now! And if you're not fixing to shrink down in the next 5 minutes to fit in the shelter then you need to make sure you're nowhere near that twister!" "Yes mama. Don't worry about me, just get safe in the shelter with the ankle biter."

At this size, Jane only had to speak in her normal voice to be heard over the increasingly louder wind. Her enormous red converse sneakers were making big oblong imprints in the grass with every step. It felt like she was just going outside in a light rain storm at this size. Bobby wasn't quite small enough to be a literal ankle biter.

Jane smirked about that while walking into the barn door. She was glad she didn't have to duck to fit. Jane carried the cows in like house cats, instead of several thousand pounds of beef. She set the cows down in a big pen in the corner with the three others she had wrangled inside. Jane shushed the animals, scattering some feed like spilt table salt in her enormous fingertips. She offered more calming reassurances down at them in her deep booming voice. Jane felt an overwhelming relief that they hadn't lost any of them. While she was distracted by that fleeting thought of gratitude, like she had jinxed it, their old mare Midnight got her stable door open.

The horse made a run for it out of the barn trying to get away from the coming storm. "Midnight! No!" Jane cried and stomped out of the barn after her. Unfortunately, Bobby also saw Midnight emerge from the open barn door. And while his mother was occupied getting the shelter door open with both hands, Bobby also ran after Midnight.

He started towards Midnight in a straight line as his sister emerged out of the barn shaking the earth in pursuit. Jane glared at the boy for his recklessness. "Bobby get your scrawny ass in the basement! I'll get her!" Jane boomed across the field at her little brother.

She grew noticeably bigger while she yelled. The ten year boy old froze in place at the sound of his big sister's much bigger voice giving him orders. Their mother rushed over to Bobby dragging him, slack jawed and staring at his huge sister, back and down into the basement shelter. Jane caught up to Midnight in a few rushed steps. She slid to a stop and scooped the scared horsed up with one hand. Her kicking hooves lifted up into the air frantically searching for the ground. Jane heard the clattering of the shelter's steel door. Her mother was having a hard time getting the shelter door shut. She looked over to the horizon. The tornado was in sight and it was getting closer.

It was a big one. She felt scared.

Then Jane felt the wrong thing.

"Aw crap," she thought to herself. Jane quickly set Midnight down on the ground again. The horse whinnied but stayed put, agitated but loyal. Jane didn't need to deal with an overgrown horse trampling everything on top of what she knew was coming.

Jane looked down at her shoes. She saw the ground racing away around them while the shoes stayed put.

Jane's mother and Bobby stared up at Jane for one long moment before shutting the shelter door and locking it from the inside. Jane felt queasy as the ground swirled below. Except that wasn't what was happening. Jane was getting bigger. And bigger. Jane looked at the 50 foot telephone pole on the side of the road in front of her house on the long dirt road leading into town. At first she was looking up at it. Then she could stare at the top at eye level without having to crane her neck at all.

In a few heartbeats more, Jane was looking down at it.

And down. And down. It got smaller and smaller as she went up and up.

She could feel her feet sinking into the ground as she got heavier and heavier with every passing moment. Midnight trotted around the growing set of shoes. The horse decided the safest place was in the gap between them. She settled there while they continued to get bigger.

Jane could tell this was going to be a bad one. She closed her eyes and grimaced feeling sick to her stomach like she was on one of the state fair's carnival rides. Jane didn't notice the old blue truck rushing into her driveway. It came to an abrupt stop at an odd angle next to the telephone pole. Another girl, the same age as Jane, stepped out of the truck and looked up at the towering figure filling the sky. "JANE?!" the girl yelled up towards the black clouds where Jane’s head seemed to be going, making Jane's name into two syllables instead of one.

To the girl, it looked like Jane was trying to have a grow off with the approaching tornado. It looked like Jane was fixing to win. She'd never seen her this huge before. The girl yelled again cupping her hands around her mouth, hoping it helped. Jane heard her own name like a whisper. She ventured to open one eye and slowly tilt her head down. She didn't feel like she was going to throw up anymore. That meant it was over.

But everything was tinier than it had ever been. Much, much tinier.

That meant she was big. Really big. Jane didn't want to hazard a guess at just how big. Seeing the 50 foot telephone pole barely reach her ankle told her enough. "Uh...Hi Bets..." Jane said looking down at the ground. She saw the girl cover her ears and cower as Jane's few words shook everything.

Her normal speaking voice at this size was as loud as the town siren.

Jane was suddenly thankful there was a tornado to help cover up her compunction. Jane looked over at how much closer the tornado had gotten and sighed.

She recognized her girlfriend's parked truck. It looked like one of Bobby's toy tin cars next to her huge shoe. "What are you...nevermind...there's no time..." Jane apologized while bending down. One huge finger extended from Jane's hand and gently pushed her girlfriend back into her truck's still open driver side door. Then she pushed the car door shut as delicately as she could manage with her finger tip.

Jane picked up her girlfriend's truck between two fingers, with her safely back inside of it, and lifted it. Up and up and up. Betsy screamed, holding on for dear life inside the truck cabin.

Jane reached down with her other hand and also, very delicately, picked up Midnight with just two fingers like she was picking up a house spider to take outside. Jane turned her head to look at the tornado. Luckily, it would pass harmlessly across the field between the barn and house. She got worked up and huge for nothing.

Mom, Bobby, the animals, and all of their earthly possessions were safe.

Jane lifted the truck up to her face and gave her girlfriend Betsy an awkward smile. Jane’s freckled face filled the smaller girl's windshield like the morning sunrise. Betsy waved back, still a little frightened at seeing Jane this enormous.

Then Jane carefully, and slowly, stepped over the telephone lines and dirt road parallel to her house. The enormous 19 year old took a few steps to the side and watched the tornado pass by her.

At this vantage, she could admire just how beautiful it was and was thankful that the tornado would help cover her enormous sneaker tracks a bit. ***

look at my forever wip

[buckysleftbicep]

letters through time (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: bucky being an absolute flirt, some angst

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.8k

author's note: chapter 2 is here!! i love this chapter so, so much and i hope you do too! thank you for stopping by my loves! i miss 40s!bucky so much.

series masterlist

It became a ritual.

Each morning, before brushing your teeth or even checking your phone, you opened the drawer.

Sometimes the letter was already waiting—tucked beneath the linen cloth like it had grown there overnight, the envelope still warm from some invisible warmth. Other times, you had to wait. Hours. A day. But it always came.

And with every letter, Bucky Barnes became less of a ghost and more of a person.

You learned the rhythm of his days. The sharp whistle that pulled him from his bunk before sunrise. The sound of boots slamming against pavement during drills. The warmth of the boys in his unit, the fear of the war hidden behind their jokes, the quiet way Steve carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

You told him about your own days. The museum. The cataloging. How every box of artefacts made you feel like you were touching echoes of a time you now saw through his eyes.

You joked about your coffee addiction, the neighbour’s cat who acted like it owned the hallway, and the fact that you were talking to a man who was born before sliced bread became a thing.

He told you he found that hilarious.

March 19th, 1944 Sweetheart, You said people in the future are obsessed with their coffee, right? I’m starting to think I was born in the wrong era. But you wanna know the real reason I wake up smiling lately? It’s you. Your words. Your voice in my head when I read your letters. I never thought paper and ink could feel like a heartbeat. I asked Steve what he thinks about writing letters to a girl from the future. He laughed and told me if anyone could charm a girl, it’d be me. So. Here I am. Trying. Yours, Bucky

Somewhere between shared stories and inside jokes, your letters turned soft.

You told him about your favourite books. The first time you got your heart broken. That sometimes you felt a little lost, like you were floating through life without knowing where to land. You asked if he ever felt the same.

He did.

You asked what scared him most.

Not coming home. Forgetting who I am, maybe. Being forgotten. Losing people I love. Losing myself. Does that count?

You wrote back that of course it counts. That he wouldn’t be forgotten. Not by history. Not by you.

He sent a dried daisy once. Pressed between the pages of his letter. He picked it, he said, from a patch behind his barracks, just for you. It arrived crisp and pale, as if time hadn’t dared touch it.

You said you like soft things, doll. Thought you deserved something pretty. Hope the flower’s not too crushed, I’m better at shooting targets than pressing petals. I like thinking of you with something I held in my hands. Makes this whole crazy thing feel real. You feel real to me, (Y/N).

You read that line more times than you meant to.

And then one night, after a long shift at the museum and the kind of quiet that makes you feel a little too alone, you sat down at your desk with a pen in your hand and a question you weren’t sure you should ask.

You asked him for a photo.

It felt like you were crossing some invisible line. But the way your chest fluttered when you read his letters, the way your cheeks warmed at his teasing, it made you want to see him. Not the black-and-white image in a museum. Not the name in a textbook.

Him.

You folded the letter before you could change your mind and tucked in a polaroid, nothing dramatic. Just you in the corner of your room, soft light spilling across your face, your favourite sweater slipping off one shoulder as you smiled, small and uncertain, into the lens.

You slid it into the drawer and closed it gently. You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the next morning, when you opened it again and there it was.

March 24th, 1944 Hey there, gorgeous. Is it allowed for a guy to be knocked breathless by a picture? ‘Cause I think I forgot how to breathe the second I saw you. You're beautiful, (Y/N). There’s this look in your eyes, like you already know me. Like you’ve been waiting for me. You asked for a photo, so I’m sending one. Just me, back behind base, jacket half-off because Steve said I look less like a “buttoned-up cadet” that way. Punk said I should look like the guy writing love letters to a girl in the future. He’s not wrong. Thought you should see the face that’s been stealing your time, sweetheart. Do I get another photo in return? Maybe one where you’re smiling that secret little smile you keep mentioning in your letters? Always yours, Bucky

You pressed the photo to your chest the moment you saw it.

He was handsome, of course, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, that soft curve of a smile. But it was his eyes that got you. Cerulean-blue and impossibly warm. Kind in a way photographs rarely captured. Like they weren’t just looking out, but looking at you. Through paper. Through time. Through everything.

You wrote back with shaking fingers and told him he wasn’t playing fair.

I don’t think you know what you’re doing to me, Bucky Barnes. Your letters make my heart race. And yes, I’ll send another picture. But only if you promise not to fall in love with me too fast. Kidding. (Sort of.) Yours always, (Y/N)

After that, the letters got flirtier.

You called him trouble. He called you trouble he’d gladly ruin himself for.

You teased him about the way he laced his boots after he sent a picture of himself leaning against a wall behind base, jacket slung over one shoulder, boots perfectly tied like he’d stepped out of a training manual.

You really lace them like that every day? you wrote back. No wonder Steve calls you a tightass. You joked after he had complained in the last letter about how Steve comments about his boots and how he laced them.

He replied that a man needed to be ready for anything. Especially if he was trying to impress a girl from the future.

He teased you in return about your obsession with peanut butter and how it came up in almost every letter, how he still couldn’t wrap his head around it being spread on toast.

Can’t wait to try it, he wrote, especially if you’re the one handing me the spoon.

You asked about his childhood.

He told you about Coney Island. Stealing candy from the corner store. Watching fireworks with Steve every Fourth of July. His first kiss at sixteen that made him laugh afterward because he sneezed mid-way through.

You told him about your favourite street vendor, how you always bought two hotdogs and left one for the homeless man at the subway entrance. You said it reminded you that kindness still existed in the world, even when everything felt overwhelming.

Bucky’s reply came back with a line that made your breath catch.

You're the kind of person I fought this war for. You make me believe there’s still good waiting for us on the other side.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

Just reread the letters under your covers like a lovesick teenager. Smiling into your pillow. Laughing softly at his dumb jokes. Heart aching at his soft words. And slowly, slowly, something bloomed.

You were falling for Bucky.

A man eighty years out of reach. A soldier caught in the pages of history. And yet, the way he wrote to you… the way his words wrapped around your heart like warmth in the cold.

It felt real.

And terrifying.

But you didn’t stop writing.

One night, you asked him a dangerous question.

If we could meet one day, if somehow the world let us, what would you want to do first?

His answer came in the next letter, scribbled quickly, like he couldn’t get the words down fast enough.

I’d want to touch your face. Just to make sure you're real. Then I’d probably kiss you. Slow. Like I’ve been waiting lifetimes. We could walk through Brooklyn, hand in hand. You could show me the future, and I’d show you the places where I left pieces of myself. I don’t know how this happened, doll. But I think I’m falling for you. Hell. I know I am.

You pressed your fingers to your lips as you read, like it might soften the ache building in your chest.

He was falling for you.

And god help you because you were falling too.

March 28th, 2020 Dear Bucky, I find myself thinking about you all the time. When I pass old brick buildings. When jazz plays from passing bars. You’ve become a part of my days without me even realising it. I fall asleep thinking about your words. I wake up hoping for another letter from you. And when everything around me feels too loud, it’s your voice in my head that quiets it. There’s something about the way you write, the way you talk to me like I matter, that stays with me through my day. It lingers and it reminds me of the warmth left behind after a fire. I keep your daisy tucked in my favourite book, it's delicate and a little crushed, but I love it because it came from you, because you thought of me. Maybe this is fragile and maybe it’s impossible too. But it feels real. And I don’t want to let it go. I don’t know what this is, not exactly. But I know how I feel when I read your letters. And Bucky… I think I’m falling for you too. Yours, (Y/N)

The reply didn’t come the next morning.

Nor the day after that.

Your heart twisted with worry. Every moment without a letter felt like a thread unraveling from your chest. But then—on the third day, you opened the drawer and found an envelope.

Thicker than usual.

And when you unfolded the pages, your heart nearly burst.

March 31st, 1944 Sweetheart, I’m being deployed. Steve and I are heading to Austria. Orders just came in. We leave in a week. I didn’t want to tell you at first. Didn’t want to break what we’ve built. But I can’t lie to you, I don't want to. You asked what I’d do if I could meet you? Well, I’ve started asking around, talking to Howard. He’s the smartest guy I know. He thinks that maybe there’s a way. A way for me to get to you. He said he’d help me, when we make it back. So, I’m writing this with hope, (Y/N). Hope that when this war ends, when I’ve done what I have to do, I’ll find you. Please wait for me. Yours, always, James

James.

You clutched the letter to your chest, tears stinging your eyes.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And wrote back with your heart in your throat.

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake

[flieslikeamoron]

I wish you would write a fic where Steve hangs out with Uncle Wayne.

Sorry, anon. This is so late you probably forgot you asked for it. I hope you see it and it’s sort of what you wanted. Around 2.5K. Rated M (for the steddie bits not the Wayne bits.)

--*--

Steve has always been good at meeting the parents. He’s polite. He wears the right clothes. He never forgets to say “sir.” He notices what needs complimenting. Did a mom spend a lot of time on her hair? Is the food homemade? Is the yard especially well kept? Are they proud of their car, their dog, their daughter? You can tell a lot about what’s important to people if you pay attention, so Steve pays attention. And he gives a compliment where it’s wanted. Nancy used to call him a suck up, but it works. Parents like it. They like him. 

Wayne’s different though. Steve tries all his old moves. Calls Wayne sir, and Wayne waves it off. Brings food that Wayne says he can’t stay to eat. He compliments the hat collection on Wayne’s walls, but Wayne seems so unimpressed it kind of puts him off from trying again. Maybe he’s doing something wrong. Or maybe Wayne just hates him. 

“Why does your uncle hate me?” Steve asks Eddie when Wayne’s out fishing one Saturday. Ever since Wayne got switched to days for the summer, Steve doesn’t get to spend as much time in Eddie’s bed. He snuggles deeper into the sheets, moving his legs against the worn cotton, his cheek against the pillow. Twisting a bit of Eddie’s hair around his finger. 

Eddie looks over, offering Steve the joint in his hand. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You give it to me.” Steve realizes too late that doesn’t make sense because Eddie’s already holding it out to him. But he gets what Steve means. There’s a lazy smile on his face as he takes a long drag and holds it, leans past Steve to set the joint in the ashtray beside the bed. Steve’s fingers slide along his arm as he reaches, touch down on his ribs, the heat of his skin perfect under Steve’s hands. He cups Steve’s neck, lips almost touching while he breathes the smoke into Steve’s mouth. He seals their lips together at the end. Steve holds the smoke until his lungs burn, and then lets it slowly out through his nose. Eddie deepens the kiss, chases the last of the smoke with his tongue. He kisses Steve again, slow and thorough. His hand warm on Steve’s throat, his thumb against Steve’s jaw. 

When he lies back down beside Steve, Steve runs his fingers across Eddie’s chest. Stopping to feel the slightly pebbled top of his nipple. He runs his thumb over it, back and forth, pressing. Fascinated by the abrupt solid texture of the little nub, the way it interupts the smooth stretch of Eddie’s chest. He runs his fingers over the sparse wiriness of the hairs around it. Eddie is his favorite thing to touch. He’s touched him so much. Must have touched every inch of him by now. But it still feels like he’s always finding the new edge of a scar here or a mole he hadn’t noticed there. Eddie makes a small noise in the back of his throat as Steve scrapes his fingernail over his nipple. Steve looks up. Sees Eddie looking back at him. That soft I love you look on his face. It makes Steve’s chest ache. Makes him feel so swollen up inside he has to fill his mouth with Eddie’s skin, bite down on his chest.

Eddie ruffles fingers through Steve’s hair, arching a bit into Steve’s teeth. When Steve lets go, he runs his fingers over his own toothmarks. The indents in Eddie’s skin drawing up something smug from deep inside him. Like looking at the tattoo Eddie got for him. He likes leaving marks. He likes having proof. That Eddie loves him. Not like Wayne. “He acts like he hates me.”

“Who does?” Eddie says vaguely. 

“Wayne.”

Eddie shakes his head, his fingers running through Steve’s hair, dragging along his scalp. “That’s just his way. He takes a while to warm up.” He grins and gives Steve’s hair a tug. “It runs in the family.” 

“Well, I can’t exactly win him over the same way I did with you.”

“I would rather he not know how good you are at fucking,” Eddie agrees.

“Gross. I meant I can’t buy weed from him.”

Eddie laughs and lays a kiss on the tip of Steve’s wrinkled nose. “Just give it some time.” A kiss to the edge of Steve’s eyebrow. “I’m telling you, no one can resist this face.” He’s still giving Steve that look. So so soft. “And he’s so good with his hands.” He presses a kiss to the side of Steve’s chin. “Such a hard worker.” A kiss to Steve’s mouth. “Such a sweet boy.” Steve circles his arms around Eddie’s waist and lets himself be kissed. A compliment breathed into his skin, his mouth with every one. 

-*-

Whatever Eddie says, winning Wayne over seems like a lost cause, so Steve keeps his head down. Tries his best not to look at Eddie too much when Wayne’s around, look at him like more than a friend. Tries not to say too much. Tries not to do anything that’ll make Wayne want to kick him out of the trailer.

He almost passes by when he pulls up on a Sunday and finds Wayne jacking up his truck. But Steve’s noticed the way he winces, slow to get up from his easy chair sometimes. That fold up bed can’t be good for his back. Or the long hours at the plant.

“Need any help?” Steve asks, coming over.

Wayne gives him a sideways glance as he stands up. “You know anything about cars?” He says it like he thinks Steve doesn’t know much about anything.

“I took autoshop,” Steve says, a little defensively. “I do all the maintenance on the Beemer.” He can see the flicker of something in Wayne’s eyes when he says Beemer, but hell, it’s not his fault he has a nice car. He’s not going to apologize for that. He makes the payments himself. 

“It’s nothing major,” Wayne says. “Just going to change the transmission fluid. Go on. Eddie’s inside.”

Steve could take the out. But Wayne’s going to have to get under the truck to drain the fluid. And he has a bad back. “I can help,” Steve says. He doesn’t mention the back thing in case Wayne is sensitive about it. 

Wayne gets a stubborn look on his face. Looks a lot like Eddie, actually. Steve thinks he’s going to tell him to get lost. But he cocks his head, and lets out a breath. He hands Steve a wrench and a pan, and gives him a nod.

Wayne’s not a big talker. He stops giving Steve instructions when he figures out Steve does know what he’s doing. Has actually done this before. He doesn’t bother to fill the silence with anything else. When Steve wiggles back out from under the truck, they pop the hood together. Steve watches Wayne put the new fluid in.

“Belt could use replacing,” Steve says tentatively, hoping Wayne won’t take it the wrong way.

“It’ll hold a while,” Wayne says. He doesn’t sound offended though.

“Well,” Steve says awkwardly. “Looks like you’ve got it from here.”

“Thanks for your help, son.” 

“Anytime,” Steve says, and means it.

It’s easier after that. It’s not like they talk a lot more or anything, but the silence feels different. 

Wayne gets home from work one evening just as Steve’s driving up after a shift at the mall. Eddie’s van isn’t outside, and Steve’s never really been around Wayne without a buffer. He can’t just leave now though. They come up the stairs together. The screen door doesn’t squeak when Wayne pulls it open. 

“That was you,” he says, looking down at the freshly oiled hinge.

“Could have been Eddie.”

Wayne scoffs. “Eddie’s a great kid, but he’s too busy thinking about those elves or hearing music in his head to notice if the laundry needs doing or the door squeaks.”

That’s about right. Steve waves it away with his hand. “Details. He’s good at the important stuff.” Steve smiles, trying not to look like he thinks about Eddie or what he’s good at more than a normal friend would. 

“Been meaning to get around to it myself,” Wayne says. 

“It was just WD-40.” 

Wayne tilts his head noncommitally. “You want some dinner?”

Steve hopes he’s not smiling more than a person who knows dinner isn’t that big a deal would. It’s kind of a big deal though.

“My nephew thinks a lot of you,” Wayne says, while Steve hovers in the kitchen, trying not to get in the way.

“I think a lot of him too.” 

Wayne sort of hums to himself, and looks at Steve like he finally complimented the right thing. 

-*-

Eddie hates baseball just like he hates basketball and football and anything else involving balls unless they’re Steve’s balls and they’re in Eddie’s mouth. Which is something he actually said to Steve once. But he’s still sitting through this Reds game with Steve and Wayne. Steve brought the fried chicken. Wayne brought the beer. Eddie brought half a pie from the diner and a few new stories from his job bartending over at the Hideout. He’s telling them in snippets during the commercial breaks, acting them out like he’s the show the baseball game is interrupting. He makes them funnier than they probably were at the time, rubber faces and fake voices like when he’s playing D&D. Steve hopes he doesn’t look more fond than a regular friend would be. Wayne looks pretty fond too though, that smile basically the equivalent of a laugh for him.

He finally does laugh out loud, waving Eddie away from his spot in front of the TV. “All right, all right, fucking sit down. We just missed a double. And I know you made that shit about the raccoon up.”

“Hand to God that happened.” Eddie flops down on the couch next to Steve. “He had it on his shoulder. He ordered it a beer in a shot glass.” He nudges Steve in the side. “You believe me, right?”

Steve isn’t sure if he does, but- “I’ve seen weirder.”

“Pray tell,” Eddie says. 

Steve can’t exactly talk about Dustin feeding a demodog candy. He changes the subject. “They look better this season.”

“Not that much better,” Wayne says skeptically.

“Why do you guys even bother watching a bad team play a boring game?” Eddie asks.

Wayne just shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve always had a soft spot for an underdog.”

_*_

Steve’s in Eddie’s bed a couple weeks later. Eddie overlapping him, with his face nuzzled into Steve’s neck, his spent cock nestled against Steve’s thigh. He’s mouthing idly at Steve’s moles, letting Steve drag fingers through his hair, untangle the tangles. It still feels like a gift to be able to touch Eddie like this. Hold him against Steve’s chest. Play with his hair or the rings on his fingers. See him soft and unguarded and looking at Steve like there’s nowhere he’d rather be. But Steve’s learning not to be surprised that he gets to have this. That Eddie wants him to have it. That Eddie wants it too.

“I missed you,” Eddie says. His fingers stroke over Steve’s hole, pressing against the sore heat of his rim.

Steve’s cheeks go warm. “You see me almost every day.”

“I know, but I don’t get to fuck you every time I see you.” Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie tucks two fingers inside him, making Steve’s mouth fall open on a gasp. He sets his chin on Steve’s chest, looking up innocently through his bangs. “Can you come over Friday? Wayne has his bowling league, and I want to make you come until you cry.”

Steve still doesn’t really know why Eddie talking about him like that makes a spike of heat go straight to his dick, but he’s learning not to be surprised by that either. Eddie presses his fingers deeper inside. Steve clenches, a sharp “Ah” knocked out of him as Eddie nudges against his prostate. “I actually-” Eddie does it against, presses in right where it makes Steve ache. He trembles a little, forcing himself to keep talking. “I actually told Wayne I would go with him. To his league.” 

“What?” Eddie’s brow furrows. “Can’t you cancel?”

Steve looks at him disapprovingly. “I’m not gonna cancel on him.” Eddie gives one more push against Steve’s prostate, almost vindictive, before he pulls his fingers out. “And don’t you have Hellfire?” 

“Gareth and Jeff are both out of town. Vacation.” Eddie’s pouting in a way Steve would find hilarious if he wasn’t trying to sabotage all Steve’s hard earned progress with Wayne.

“Come on. He’s barely started liking me.”

“Exactly,” Eddie says. “I’ve liked you so much longer. I should get first dibs.”

Steve laughs. Eddie scowls at him. 

“You’re being an asshole,” Steve points out. 

“I just think it’s a little weird how much you’re hanging out with him now,” Eddie says. “And why did he ask you to join his bowling league?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it hanging out,” Steve says. “Mostly I’ve been helping him patch the roof. You’re welcome by the way. The leak was in your room. And he asked me because I’m really fucking good at bowling.”

“Of course you are,” Eddie says. “Fucking perfect son. I bet dads try to pick you up at the grocery store to take you fishing or play catch.” Steve thinks about his own dad. How Steve’s started changing into his Scoops uniform after he gets to the mall so he doesn’t have to see his dad trying not to look at him. Not really trying to hide the disdain. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie says, all the sharp edges falling from his voice. 

Steve tries to wipe whatever Eddie’s seeing on his face away. 

“You were right. I’m an asshole.”  Eddie cups his cheek, runs his thumb across Steve’s lips. He lays a quick kiss on Steve’s mouth. “Will you forgive me if I share Wayne with you?” He offers his hand like they’re going to shake on it, then takes it back. “You just have to promise not to start liking him better than me.” He points mock threateningly at Steve to make it a joke, but Steve can tell there’s a little bit of something true underneath. “And promise not to make him start liking you more than he likes me either.” 

“That would never happen."

“I don’t know. You guys have a lot in common.”

“Mostly the thing we have in common is we’re both pretty big fans of you.” Steve shakes Eddie’s hand. And kisses him right in the middle of his wide grin. Catching more teeth than anything until Eddie scoots up, tilts his head to give Steve a better angle. Steve makes it a real kiss, lingering in the familiar curve of Eddie's lips. When he pulls back far enough to breath, he tilts his forehead against Eddie’s. “I love you the most of any Munson.”

“You only know two Munsons,” Eddie says. “But I’ll take it.”

“I love you the most,” Steve says, smiling.

“Good,” Eddie says. “That makes us even.” And kisses him again.

[merrily-radiant]

This post isn't about writing but I think it shows very clearly the difference between art that is done by a person and AI generated content in a way that is difficult to grasp when it comes to writing.

Like, this:

This is the draft. You can see that hours have been spent on creating this. The architecture, the colors, the puppets, the size, the positioning, the lightning. You can see it's a lot of work and dedication. And you can see that not all of it appears on the final piece; multiple elements here have been constructed just to appear on a small portion of the background.

Nevertheless, they had to be created, modeled, so the art feels composed, structured, grounded on something. And it is that grounding that gets lost when you depend on AI to generate something for you.

With writing, we work with words. We either use our own or someone (something) else's. In the beginning, just like every other activity in life, it is new. You don't know what you're doing, you might feel some unpleasant feelings about your performance, and the action itself is truncate, awkward. There is always something missing and you don't know what that is. But when you write down your thoughts as they appear to you, you are doing just as the 3D artist does with their puppets. You are giving your thoughts space to stretch out in words; you are getting to know your thoughts (the good, the bad, the funny, the sad, the angry, the shameful). As you word them out (and that in itself requires time and effort) and you decide to write a story, you realize that much of what comes through speaks to you. My, who hasn't projected on their stories? Headcanons, OCs, fanon, ships, blorblos; there's a piece of you in every one of the things that you like and enjoy. So, when it comes to writing, you are what grounds your story; you story is grounded on you.

Still, there's margin for people who use AI to create to lay claim to being artists or craftsman. (It wasn't once or twice I heard the arguments that "it is I who enters the prompt", "entering the right prompt actually requires a lot of effort", and "you actually have to spend a lot of time to edit the prompt and generate another more-right thing"). So what I am going to say is this: when you generate something through AI, you can only see the "final form" of what you want to create. The words you choose for your prompt will not be used as you intend them to, because AI works through comparison, and not interpretation. That's why you only get the something that is close-enough, good-enough, and when you look at the text you generated, you only see this:

And never this: