#*mournfully shakes head*

[nonbinoclard]

this is dumb, sorry (original post)

[retributory]

to me himbo does not mean male bimbo. people have changed it. is has a different connotation. when people say "himbo" it's like when white women say they have a "golden retriever boyfriend." they are not thinking of the idea of a vapid silicone toy. they are thinking of a man they would like to date (that is to say, handsome, kind, and slightly unintelligent, but never baselessly stupid). it's not the same. when i say a male character is a bimbo i mean it. if he wouldn't get breast implants and filler on command he's not a bimbo. that is a sacred word to me. himbo could never be her. with all that being said ☝️ binghe has the potential to create ye olde bimbofication if only he accesses the right memories in sy's skull

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

fanfic of the young valar before creation running amok as they explore the void. amused father eru makes occasional appearances

Why isn’t there more fanfiction that focuses on the Valar?! They’re a family of primordial deities who either run around like headless chickens or dissociate for 5000 years or destroy entire continents. Just the comedic potential is off the charts! I want to know where is my 10,000 word road trip au crack fic starring these chaotic weirdos??? 

[scarlet-star-witch]

His Sacrifice

Summary: Aemond makes the decision to save the one he loves over his brother.

Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and is in a secret relationship with Aemond

WC: 1.5 K

Tumblr is a piece of shit that deleted the request but to whoever sent this, hope you enjoy xx

Part 2

~~

The screams of men below were almost inaudible over the roar of her dragon. She felt powerful, she felt vindictive, a smug satisfaction washing over her as she decimated the Green army below, the traitors who dared to usurp her mother.

Yet her heart was aching. 

Her eyes scanned the skyline, nervously awaiting Vhagar’s presence, awaiting his presence. 

Her throat tightened and she blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She’d cried enough tears over him, over the divide that wedged between them, threatening to break them apart completely. She had to be done. 

A trill made her perk up, looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her chest aching, but as she caught sight of the smaller, gold dragon headed her way, her devastation soon turned to anger. 

Aegon. 

Her face shifted, her agony now hatred. Her teeth grit with effort as she pulled at the reins, swooping dangerously close to the soldiers below her, a smirk painting her lips at their cries of terror. 

“Vermithor… attack.”

The dragon below her roared, a mighty sound that shook the bones of those who watched from below. 

She distantly heard Aegon’s call and held onto the handles of the saddle in a white-knuckled grip as she swerved out of the way of the stream of fire Sunfyre spat at her. She winced, flinching away from the barrage of flames that met her too closely. 

The dragons fought a vicious and bloody fight, Vermithor’s talons tearing Sunfyre across her belly, her cries echoing, shaking the ground below. 

Over her dragon’s head that now had the other poor dragon’s neck in his jaws, she met Aegon’s eyes, her gaze alight with hateful glee as she noticed the fear in his eyes. 

But suddenly, his expression shifted, a smile growing as he breathed out in relief. 

Turning, she saw the enormous figure of Vhagar looming forward, like a killer stalking its prey, ready to devour her with ease. 

Her heart dropped, the grip on the reins slipping from her hands, as if she already accepted her fate. 

Swallowing against the lump in her throat that grew, she closed her eyes, refusing to see the look on her lover’s face as he ended her. 

~~

They met in the dead of night, as they always had, meeting on a nondescript island halfway between Dragonstone and King’s Landing. 

He was already waiting for her as she descended from the skies, landing Vermithor beside the hulking figure of Vhagar. 

He was approaching her before she could unsaddle herself. 

His hands were on her before her feet met the ground. 

She was brought into his arms before she could say a word. She embraced him as she always did, desperately, as if it would be their last. With the state of their families, it might just be. 

“Are you alright?” She asked worriedly as she pulled out of his arms, her eyes frantically searching for his face, finding only despair.

“You cannot go tomorrow.” He told her swiftly.

“What-”

“They commanded me to take Vhagar to Rook’s Rest.”

Her face remained impassive as she took in his words, though the storm that raged within her was devastating, shattering every ounce of hopeful excitement she’d felt when she received his raven to meet her that night.

“Aemond, I-”

“You cannot go. Please.” He begged her. 

Her gaze met his and the frantic desperation she saw in his lone eye stirred sadness within her, the divide between their families that had slowly been tearing them apart delivering another fatal blow. 

“I have to. You know I have to.” She answered quietly, mournfully, as if she was already accepting her fate. She couldn’t fight Vhagar, she couldn’t win against him. 

He cursed and took a step away from her, placing his hand over his mouth as he tried hard to rein in his anger, his fear of what would happen to her, to them, as they met on the battlefield.

They always knew it would happen eventually, but it didn’t mean they were ready for it. They had been content to live in a fantasy together, as if they could pretend they weren’t living their reality, that they could’ve lived a happy life together. 

He stepped towards her again, taking her face in his hands. 

“Please, you cannot- I cannot-” He stammered and let out a shaking breath, his tortured gaze locked on hers. “Love, please, don’t go.”

“We always knew this would happen.”

His anger flared at the resolution he heard in her voice, at how quickly she was willing to accept this, that they were to meet on the battlefield, with only one of them returning victorious. He couldn’t accept it, he wouldn’t.

He shook his head wordlessly, his brows furrowed as if in pain. Her arms wrapped around him and he was quick to return the hug, holding her to him tightly. He let out a shaking breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he held her, silently praying it wouldn’t be for the last time.

“We should’ve left while we still had the chance.” She spoke with a small laugh that held nothing but sadness. Aemond nodded, his hands gripping her firmer, his thoughts a mirage of what their life would be if he had taken her up on her offer to escape to Essos all those years ago.

He desperately wished he had agreed. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow-”

“Don’t.” He begged, his heart already aching at the thought of what they would face. 

“Whatever happens,” She repeated more sternly as she looked at him intently. “It won’t change what we have. Nothing will change how I feel about you, even if I cannot feel anything at all.”

He practically shuddered at the thought, the mere notion of losing her too much to fathom and bowed his head until his forehead met hers, their shaking breaths shared. 

“I’ll love you even after the end.” 

He couldn’t hear any more. He kissed her firmly, pouring every bit of love he had for her and had felt for her for years into every caress of his lips, every tantalizing swipe of his tongue, every heated touch that he bestowed onto her beautiful body he had worshiped in secret. 

~~

I’ll love you even after the end

The words echoed in his mind all night. As he left her side to return to King’s Landing before the sun rose, they wouldn’t leave his head, torturing him over and over again, until he felt as though he couldn’t take another breath. 

Now, as he sat atop Vhagar, eyeing the battle in the skies above with bated breath, he knew he had only one choice to make. 

A choice that came all too easily, a choice he would make again each and every time. 

He commanded Vhagar to fly, her large frame taking to the skies slowly, his eye locked onto Vermithor, his heart in his throat as he saw her small frame duck out of the way just in time before Sunfyre’s jaws locked onto her. 

He felt nothing but relief as Vermithor trapped Aegon’s dragon in his jaws, he felt nothing as his brother’s dragon cried out in pain. 

But the blinding rage he felt as he watched Sunfyre swiped her claws against Vermithor’s face, dangerously close to her, made his blood boil.

His hands clenched, his jaw tight, his lone eye dark with resolve as he soon accepted the consequences he would face, the judgment the Gods would place on him. 

But he didn’t care. He would slay his brother if it meant she lived. He would slay millions to save her, without thought. 

“Dracarys!” He yelled, his eye remaining on Aegon who tried to shield himself from the flames that descended upon him. He grunted as Vhagar crashed against Vermithor, harshly nudging the dragon out of the way, Vermithor growling menacingly at Vhagar, before jerking to the side, her command of the reins forcing her dragon not to engage. 

He watched, his heart racing, as she flew away from the scene, away from Aegon as he fell alongside Sunfyre’s broken and burning body. 

He paid little mind to anything else and followed after her. They flew for a few minutes, away from the chaos of battle, away from any prying eyes that would reveal their secret.

He descended just a second after her, landing Vhagar next to Vermithor, his hands shaking as he undid his ties, jumping down his dragon’s frame unsteadily. 

“What the fuck was that?!” She yelled as she stomped towards him, tears in her eyes, unsure of what to make of the emotions overwhelming her. “Do you know what you have just done?”

He ignored her yells and grabbed her hands, pulling her to him, his arms wrapping around her tightly. She squirmed in his grip for a moment, her adrenaline still thrumming through her veins,  before finally giving in as she felt him shaking against her. 

She let out a trembling breath, her arms coming up to wind around him. She let her eyes fall closed as his hand rested on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

“What did you do?” She asked wearily, her voice hoarse and weak with exhaustion.

“What I had to.”

[pathologicalreid]

caretaker | s.r.

in which you take care of your fiercely independent boyfriend after he gets shot in the knee

margotober

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: canon compliant injury, gun violence, alludes to spencer's past addiction, alternative pain relief, spencer's anthrax poisoning word count: 1.03k a/n: oh spencer reid who at certain points had to raise himself and never learned to let himself be cared for. i love you. this was a request <3. i hope you enjoy

A crash very rudely wakes you up, sharing the same level of poise as a cartoon cat while your heart very nearly bursts out of your chest, you jolt up from the cushions. Trying to catch your breath, you scramble on the couch and peer over the back of it, looking to the ground to find your boyfriend with a desolate look on his face, “What are you doing?”

Your eyes wander to his knee, secured with a complicated black brace, which he was supposed to be staying off of for the next week so that it could properly heal. “Lying on the floor,” he answers, staring blankly at the ceiling as he does.

Raising your eyebrows, you start to untangle yourself from the crocheted blanket you fell asleep with, “Why?”

Spencer sighs from his spot on the floor, “Felt like it,” he mumbles, bringing his arms up to cover his face.

“Did you fall?” You ask, getting off of the couch and crouching down next to him, noticing the way one of his crutches was twisted in the tassels of your area rug. Quietly, you pick both of his crutches off of the floor, resting them against the arm of the couch before reaching out and gently shaking his shoulder. “Do you wanna get up?”

All you receive in response is a groan, so you sit fully on the floor, maneuvering your hand around his arms so that you can smooth his hair back. “I want to walk,” Spencer complains, putting his arms down to his sides.

You frown at him, your ministrations on his head faltering, “Well, I can help you walk back to bed.” He insisted he was fine when you left him to go lay down on the couch, but obviously he had decided he needed something else.

“I want to walk alone,” he corrects himself, finally glancing over at you.

The tears in his eyes are enough to break through your cheery demeanor, “Oh, Spence.” You pout at him sympathetically, reaching out your arms to help pull him to a sitting position. “I’m sorry, baby,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your hand.

He simply held no familiarity with being taken care of. Spencer was an independent being first. Once a caretaker, always a caretaker, but now, the roles were reversed, he simply couldn’t get around without your help. “I just wanted to do something on my own,” he admits mournfully, “I can’t even get a book without…” his voice trails off, “Did I wake you up?”

You shake your head quickly, “No.” The lie easily slides off of your tongue, saving him from the guilt of waking you up. Honestly, it was time for you to make your way to bed anyway. “Ready?” You ask him, eyeing him cautiously as he leans to the side in order to put all of his weight on his good leg.

Taking both of his hands in yours, you pull him gently to a standing position, helping him hobble over to the couch so he can lean on the back of it for support. “Thank you,” he mumbles bashfully, ducking his head so that his hair covers his face.

“Do you want some tea before bed?” You ask, skimming your palm up and down his upper arm. You had scoped out a tea that was used in herbal medicine, ordering a bunch of it off of a sketchy website to help Spencer try and manage his pain.

He foregoes a response, shaking his head, “I can make it.”

You smile softly at him, “I’ll make it, Spence. I know you don’t like it, but I really need you to rest.” You squeeze his upper arm comfortingly, “You got shot a week ago, please let me take care of you.”

He looks up at you, “I don’t want you to have to take care of me.”

“Fine,” you acquiesce, “but you owe me.”

Spencer raises his eyebrows in confusion, “I owe you? What do I owe you for?”

Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you tilt your head back slightly, “Letting me take care of you is the ‘My co-worker had to call my girlfriend on a seemingly random Tuesday afternoon to tell me I had been shot in the line of duty’ tax,” you inform him dutifully.

“Okay, yes, Garcia could have worded that phone call better,” he cedes, flicking some of his hair over his shoulder.

Looking at him in disbelief, you cock an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, it’s right on up there with the anthrax poisoning phone call. You’re already on thin ice with me,” you warn him, mostly meaning it in jest.

Each of these phone calls had sent you into such a tailspin that the BAU had to send someone to get you, and they weren’t experiences you were likely to forget. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, studying your expression with sad brown eyes.

“Don’t be sorry,” you instruct him, “Just let me take care of you! You take care of me all the time—it’s only fair.”

He chuckles lightly at your comment on fairness, the sound enough to make the butterflies in your stomach flutter, “Okay,” he says, “Okay.”

Ducking your head and having him loop his arm around your neck, you beam up at him, “See how much easier things are when you agree with me?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, using you and the wall as support as the two of you make your way back to the bedroom, getting him down on the mattress with practiced dexterity. “I’m certainly seeing the benefits,” he says, smiling up at you as you sweep his hair behind his ears.

Leaning down, you press a tender kiss on his forehead before stepping away, “I’ll go turn on the kettle. What book were you trying to get? I can grab it and maybe you can read me to sleep tonight.”

“You want me to read you to sleep in Russian?” He asks after rattling off the title to you, a smile on his face even though you can’t see it.

You laugh from your spot in the kitchen, “God, yes. I can’t think of anything better.”

[appocalipse]

heyy if ur taking requests could u maybe do like bestfriends steve + reader where steve, eddie, nancy and robin have to pick up reader from a party and she’s like REAL drunk and just idk super clingy w steve and doesn’t wanna not be touching him. maybe eddie, nancy and robin all make fun of him for it but they acc find it rly cute.

thank you for your request! ♥♥♥ | 2.2k words

"Stevie!"

You collide into him suddenly, nearly knocking him back a step or two with the force of your momentum; there's a smile on Steve's face when you look up at him through eyes that are more than a little hazy with inebriation. You're drunk. Probably way past drunk, if the way the world won't seem to hold still is anything to go by, but you don't care. There are other things vying for your attention—like how warm he feels against you, how safe he makes you feel, how pretty he looks from up close...

"Whoa," Steve says as you lean even further into him and loop your arms around his waist in a tight hug. "How much did you have to drink, exactly?"

He doesn't mean it in a mean way, which is why you grin up at him from where you've got your cheek pressed firmly to his chest. You can feel his heart beating under the palm of your hand now, a steady and calming rhythm that soothes something inside of you.

"Dunno," you reply, grinning stupidly when you catch sight of maybe three copies of Eddie Munson standing off to Steve's left; all of them have identical amused looks on their faces. "Might've had, like, a couple..."

Steve sighs deeply, though there's no exasperation or disappointment to be found in his expression when he tilts your face upwards to look you over properly. You just beam dopily at him, because he's so pretty right now you don't know what else to do.

"Dude," Eddie speaks up, drawing Steve's gaze away from you while your own attention goes back to pressing yourself even more snugly into him, "she is totally sloshed."

You frown, shaking your head in fervent disagreement.

"Am not!"

"Sure you aren't, sweetheart," Eddie agrees placidly, but you get the impression he doesn't really mean it.

Before you can point this out, however, the blurry shape of Robin Buckley steps forward. The room is dark with flashing strobe lights and smoky with incense and cigarette smoke, but you'd recognize her voice anywhere.

"Who let you drink this much?" Robin asks as she lifts a hand up to brush some hair back from your forehead.

It's oddly soothing and so you lean into the contact with a happy hum. Robin and the others laugh — but then again, it sounds kinder than mean, the kind of laugh that bubbles up when you find something unexpectedly endearing, and so you don't mind as much as you maybe should.

"Nobody," you mumble as you press your face into the side of Steve's neck and take a deep breath in; his scent is the same as always, earthy and warm with an underlying hint of that stupid spray he likes to use sometimes. "I'm here alone. 'Cause Steve here blew me off for you guys, but that's okay," you say, even though, to be fair, it sort of isn't true — he didn't blow you off.

"Hey," Steve starts, sounding half-indignant and half-apologetic all at once. He's got an arm around your shoulder now, supporting you and keeping you upright, which makes you want to tangle yourself up in him completely. "You didn't tell me you wanted me to come hang out with you tonight!"

You sigh mournfully against his skin, feeling wistful all of a sudden. It's true. You hadn't told him. That was partially due to the fact that you had been trying to prove to yourself that you weren't so desperately and helplessly infatuated with him that you needed his presence constantly, but that plan had obviously backfired on you spectacularly.

"No," you mutter unhappily as Steve moves the two of you towards a nearby couch. "But I missed you. Don't wanna miss you."

Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, who are watching the two of you with expressions of varying degrees of amusement, exchange looks. Steve pretends not to notice, probably because he knows he won't like what they have to say if he hears it, and instead guides you down onto the cushions next to him. "You're drunk."

"You're pretty," you reply without hesitation, even though you're very clearly changing the subject. "It's unfair, y'know?"

You hear Robin snort, followed by a quiet thud like someone's just been slapped on the arm, and you know it's her who laughed, and that it must have been Nancy who'd shut her up. You don't know where Eddie is; you're not even sure when he wandered off, to be honest. You're too focused on Steve and the way his face looks under the colorful flashing lights.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely at your comment. His eyes are bright with laughter when you meet his gaze and nod confidently. "How do I get 'unfair', exactly?"

"'S all in the face," you say matter-of-factly, your own fingers trailing down his cheek in an almost absentminded gesture. "Kinda makes it hard to think about anything else sometimes, if I'm being real here. Like, it's not really fair, 'cause then what are we supposed to talk about? Oh, oh—and then there's your hair!"

"My hair?"

Robin wheezes somewhere behind you, which would have made you giggle if you were still paying attention to the people in the room besides Steve, but you're not.

"Mmhmm," you hum, your eyes running over the soft brown locks on top of his head. "Love it. Wanna touch it all the time. Y'see, Steve? You see? This is why it's not fair at all. And, and—" you trail off here for dramatic effect, squinting at him theatrically before leaning closer with your hand cupped to the side of your mouth, as if you're about to share something private. "—the way you make my insides feel? So, so unfair. Totally your fault, buddy."

"Wha-" Steve croaks out, looking alarmed and caught off guard by your drunken confession. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh," you regain your serious tone, frowning at him in a somewhat bemused manner when he continues to gape at you. "Not 'sposed to tell you. S'not the rules."

Eddie barks out a laugh somewhere off to your left, but Steve ignores him. "Rules?"

"Yeah, 's against the rules, dummy," you say, like he should've already known that. "Gotta follow the rules! Duh. Steve."

"Yeah, Steve, duh," Robin pipes up, earning herself a glare from Steve as well as a smirk from Eddie. "Oops, sorry. Please, continue."

"Can I touch your hair? Like, please, 'cause I might die if I don't, 'kay? If that's okay. Gotta test the theory. Just a little bit, though." You can tell by his expression that he wants to laugh, and that he's also mildly worried that you've lost your mind. "Please?"

Robin, Eddie and Nancy have their hands clapped over their mouths to contain their laughter. You're too drunk to notice, but Steve narrows his eyes at them in warning. "Yes," he says. "Just—yeah, go ahead."

With a little noise of excitement, you reach out to card your fingers through his hair. He smells really good — like clean laundry and fresh pine trees — and the feel of his hair in your palm is exactly what you had imagined, though you're loathe to pull your hand away now that you've felt it.

Steve goes unnaturally still as you press your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, a move he should have expected but didn't, and you sigh happily when the scent of his cologne hits you full force. He's like a living, breathing, cuddly teddy bear, you think, a combination of warmth, softness, and comfort all rolled up in one gorgeous, handsome, unobtainable package.

"You're warm," you mumble, feeling like you could fall asleep right now. "So, so warm. 'S like you've got a space heater in your chest, 'n that's like, so awesome."

He blinks a few times, momentarily speechless as he tries to come to terms with the fact that you are, in fact, drunk enough to be saying whatever the hell comes to your mind. "Uh, thanks?"

"Smell nice too," you murmur, hugging him tighter to you. "Like, wow. Love your hair, like, love love."

His cheeks are burning hot now, his heart beating erratically in his chest when he notices Eddie staring at the two of you with a knowing gleam in his eye. "That's—thank you, but, hey, come on now," Steve says, his voice faltering a little. "Let's get you home, okay?"

"I don't wanna."

"Don't you wanna sleep in your bed?"

You pause, considering his words, and eventually concede that, yes, your bed does sound lovely right about now, so you give him a brief nod in response. "I guess, but can you come too?"

He chokes on air, but manages to play it off by clearing his throat. "What—to your bed? No!"

"Why not?"

Steve shifts a little under your intense, alcohol-addled scrutiny; he feels strangely guilty, as though he's letting you down by saying no. "Because you're drunk?" he says, feeling flustered and unreasonably nervous all of a sudden.

You scrunch up your face in a pout. "Oh, that's a dumb reason."

Steve chuckles and you sigh happily again, because you love his laugh and everything else about him, and he seems to realize this, given the way his expression softens. "Come on, you drunkard. Let's go home," he says gently, tugging on your arm in an attempt to get you to stand.

You resist at first, shaking your head stubbornly as you hold onto him. "Can't. My legs don't work anymore. They're all wobbly."

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, huffs out a soft laugh, and you can't help but grin up at him. He's so pretty that, like, how is that even allowed? How can you be around him and not spontaneously combust or something?

"Well, what if I carried you?"

"Like a princess?"

Steve looks at you with an expression you can't decipher — it's halfway between incredulous and endeared, and it makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage.

"How romantic," Nancy observes.

"So long as she doesn't throw up on him," Eddie adds, nodding sagely in agreement.

"Oh, I hope she does," Robin says, with a devious smile, "he'd deserve it for being such a coward."

"I'm...right here, guys, and I can still hear you." Steve finally says, throwing them a scathing look that only makes them laugh. "If you're not going to be helpful, you can wait in the car."

"As if," Eddie counters.

Steve opens his mouth to tell him where exactly he can stick his opinions, when you grab the front of his shirt and drag him closer.

"Steve," you say, the smile falling from your face as a sudden thought occurs to you. "Are you mad at me? Because I can go home by myself. That's okay."

"Hey, no," he replies softly, "I'm not mad at you, sweetheart. Not ever."

"'Sweetheart'? Really?" Eddie mutters to Nancy, who elbows him in the ribs when he doesn't lower his voice in time. "Ow, okay, okay—just saying. Don't want them to keep dancing around each other forever, is all."

"I'm not dancing," you tell him, completely unaware of Eddie's snickering, "I don't have any shoes on, Eddie. Wouldn't be able to dance without shoes on. Silly."

"My bad," Eddie says, his lips twitching with badly concealed laughter, "forgive me."

Steve scowls at him before turning his attention back to you, his face so close to yours that you can momentarily feel the tickle of his breath against your skin. "Okay, come on," he says, "up we go."

And then, in one swift movement, he slides his arm under your knees and scoops you up into his arms. You let out a squeak of surprise and automatically wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

"Oh, oh, oh," you say excitedly, "you really are gonna carry me."

"Told you so." Steve adjusts his grip on you and makes his way towards the exit. "Are you good? Am I hurting you?"

You shake your head slowly, grinning as you stare at him from a whole new angle. "No," you tell him, feeling much more awake than you were moments before. "This is...this is like, actually kinda cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you repeat, smiling shyly back at him. "Feel like a real life Cinderella now. Whoa, you're, like, super strong."

"Yeah, Stevie, you're 'super strong.'" Eddie teases, waggling his eyebrows when Steve sends him a quick glare. "Aw, don't look at me like that. It's cute. The two of you."

Nancy doesn't tease like Robin and Eddie do. She walks behind Steve, making sure to stay a couple steps behind to give the two of you some privacy. Even so, when you look over your shoulder to make sure nobody's listening, she gives you a wink and a small thumbs-up that makes you smile.

The parking lot is filled with teenagers all wandering aimlessly in groups, so it takes Steve a while to navigate his way through the crowd. By the time he finds the spot where he parked his BMW, you've grown drowsy enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

Eddie immediately pops open the door to the backseat, slapping it a few times as he looks over at Steve and grins. "Hurry it up, lover boy," he drawls out, "she looks half-asleep already."

"She's fine," Steve shoots back, frowning in annoyance when Eddie and Robin both pretend to yawn exaggeratedly, "shut up. I hate you guys."

[stevieschrodinger]

Link to Part Two

Part One

Eddie stares down at the plastic doodad. It proudly declares the word ‘pregnant’ on the little screen, cheerily oblivious to the fact that it's just ruined Eddie’s whole fucking life. It’s a word as well, the actual fucking word, ‘pregnant’ shown oh so confidently on the little screen. Eddie’s done a test before, one time when he had a scare as a teenager, that had been the sort that showed one line or two.

One lines for not, two for...are. Two would have looked like prison bars, which would have been ironic given being saddled with a pup is probably pretty equivalent to 25 to life.

Anyway. Eddie shakes it. Looks again. Throws the fucking thing in the bin.

Well fuck.

Eddie contemplates, very very briefly, getting rid of it. His mind and body recoil from that thought the same way it would from, like, rotted tuna. Or someone else's puke. Or like...salad.

Eddie’s Omega’s got a lot of needs and no Alpha willing to fill them. Eddie gets by, fobbing his Omega off with with a couple of short term friends with benefits arrangements and the odd one night stand. Mostly his Omega can’t tell the difference between having an Alpha and having any Alpha, so he makes do. It scratches the itch.

Unfortunately, that means this pup could have been fathered by any one of three dudes, and Eddie doesn’t have a fucking clue which of them it would be. Eddie would really rather not it be Alpha A, Alpha B is a piece of work with a big dick, and what's behind door number three would be potentially catastrophic.

Anyway. Eddie makes a decision at two am in his apartment bathroom, and it starts with two text messages, an email, and a phone call.

“Thanks for doing this so on the spur man,” Eddie tells his landlord as he hands over the keys. Ex landlord. It was only a room in a shared place. Had to share the bathroom on this floor with two other dudes, but, meh. It had been perfect for what Eddie needed, and more importantly, within Eddie’s budget.

His whole life is sitting in the back of his van, barely filling a third of the back. Which is ideal really, made clearing out quick and easy and Eddie’s uncertain about weather or not he should be doing any heavy lifting right now.

He makes three stop offs before he leaves for good, shifting the very last of his product at discount prices. He mournfully throws in his last two boxes of cigs with the last deal; going cold turkey is going to be the opposite of fun, but Eddie’s in it to win it, and he’s going to try his best as of right now.

Wayne already has the door open when Eddie hops out of his van, beer in hand, eyebrow raised, “heya old man.”

When Wayne sees Eddie dragging bags out, he lifts the brim of his cap, puts it back again, and heads inside. Eddie sees him move a couple of things out of Eddie’s old room, and although it’s empty and the bed is stripped to nothing, it’s untouched, “how long you back for?” Wayne asks him, offering a beer.

Eddie looks at the offered bottle, dripping condensation, and very pointedly doesn’t take it “so, about that.”

There’s a long drawn out moment, and Eddie’s sees the realization dawn, “oh Ed.”

“You like kids!”

Wayne sighs, pulls Eddie into a hug, “I just hope they sleep better’n you did. Don’t think I can go through that again.”

Eddie snorts a laugh into Wayne’s shoulder, all relieved. He hadn't doubted for a second that Wayne would back his play, Wayne's always been unshakably team Eddie, but to hear it said in no uncertain terms is still a huge weight lifted.

Eddie’s got a slightest curve of a bump, small enough that it’s not nearly noticeable yet, especially with Eddie’s usual wardrobe. To go along with his bump, he’s got a scan booked at the Omega Health place, an insatiable craving for garlic mushrooms, and a job.

An actual honest job. Alright, a temp job, because he’s pregnant and no one in their right mind is going to hire a pregnant Omega for a full time permanent gig. So he is, conveniently enough, covering maternity leave for a beta girl at the record store. But that doesn’t matter right now, the moons aligned, and Eddie jumped at the opportunity. He’s going to have a secure pay check for the next seven or so months, and right this second, that’s what counts.

He can’t drink. He can’t smoke. He can’t do drugs and he’s most certainly not going to party. Eddie does the next best thing he can think of; he goes to the library. This is his reward now, his fun, his safe space; he’s going to reward himself with a good book. A good free book.

Turns out registering himself for a library card is a ten minute thing, and then he’s done, bit of plastic in hand, he wonders the shelves looking for the fantasy section. He rounds the corner into the main room only to find a dude reading and signing along to a bunch of little kids. He has the book propped up on a thing to keep his hands free and the pages open so the kids can see.

He’s encouraging them to sign along with a bunch of the words.

He has good hair...like, really good hair. There’s something familiar about the guy that Eddie can't place...until he does.

Holy fucking shit. That’s King Steve.

And he’s in a library...wearing fucking gold rimmed spectacles and a sweater vest.

And he’s hot. He’s still hot. He laughs at something and leans forward to help a toddler with the placement of her chubby little fingers and Eddie’s ovaries fucking explode.

He walks away. For self preservation he walks away. He forgets what he just saw because there was no way it was real. He’s been going through a dry spell, hasn’t got laid since he moved back to Hawkins and now he’s seeing mirages of his high school crush, that’s all.

That’s all it can be.

Until Eddie goes to the fancy scanner machine to check out his little pile of four paperback fantasy books and a deep Alpha voice is asking if he needs anything and he’s, like, right there. And he smells of library and Alpha and whatever nice thing he washes his fucking sweater vests in.

Jesus.

“No,” Eddie squeaks, “I’m okay.”

“Eddie?” Steve frowns at him, tilting his read and looking over the top of his glasses in a way that should be fucking criminal, “Eddie Munson right? I thought you moved away?”

“I have. Did. I mean, I did do that. Previously. Back now. Clearly.” Shut up shut up shut up and Steve can probably smell his embarrassment because he’s standing closely enough to clearly scent Eddie and Steve’s senses must be absolutely pinpoint because his eyes drop to Eddie’s stomach, then spring up to his neck. He frowns, like, the tiniest bit.

Eddie’s pregnant, and unmated, and Steve’s clocked that in about four seconds flat which, great. Humiliation complete.

But Steve’s face clears as quick as it had clouded, the whole thing passing so fast Eddie’s now not even sure he saw it, “so it’d been cool to catch up, you wanna wait a minute, I’m just about to have lunch?”

“Errr…I mean. I wouldn't want to impose or anything-”

“Steve!” And holy shit, if Steve is the ghost of Christmas past or some shit, the second ghost just rocked up in the form of Robin fucking Buckley of all people. Eddie doesn't even understand why they’re even friends, Steve was a topnotch jock and a total fucking dickwad, and Buckley was a band nerd.

This makes less sense than Steve’s sweater vest.

“Yeah, come on Eddie, lets go sit outside,” Eddie gets tugged along in their wake, somehow, and ends up sitting on a bench outside in the sun.

Robin had a bag of take out in her hand which she gives to Steve, and he takes out a carton of something that instantly makes Eddie’s mouth water, Eddie looks back up in time to catch Steve widening his eyes at Robin, tilting his head off to the side sharply in silent gesture for her to fuck off over there. She signs something, real quick. Steve nods.

Eddie doesn’t know a single lick of sign language, but he's pretty sure that even if he did, what happened was so fast he would have missed it anyway, “so, Eddie, great to see you, but I, shit, pretty sure I’ve left the...stove on.”

Eddie frowns at the take out and back to Robin but before he can point out what a steaming pile of bullshit that is, she’s already power walking off and shouting, “byyyyeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“I, ah, got garlic mushrooms and broccoli and some stirfry-”

It’s too late for Eddie. He’s done. Stick a fork in him. He has no idea what’s happening here but he zones in on the garlic mushroom part of that like a heat seeking missile. A secondary part of his brain is screaming loudly that the Alpha has provided, the Alpha wants to share his food with Eddie. Alpha Alpha Alpha.

Eddie takes the container and the bamboo spork thing Steve hands him, “sorry, I never get chopsticks, no fucking clue how to use them.”

“I can show you,” Eddie says, without thinking it through or registering the implication or stopping to swallow, which means he just spoke with his mouth full of food.

“I’d like that,” Steve tells him, “when can I take you out for dinner?”

Which, Eddie’s brain does stall out there. Because. Well. Lots of things. But he was pretty certain Steve had clocked his specific circumstances earlier, but now he’s not so sure, “I’m pupped,” his mouth supplies without his permission, so he shoves a whole thing of broccoli in there to try and stop it happening again.

Steve hums, eating his beef thing very neatly, “no bite though,” he points out, and Eddie makes an agreeable noise, “maybe we can fix that,” Eddie nearly chokes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: F*ck Machine - Bucky Barnes

Hey hey! This weekend (July 6 -7) I’m going to be playing drabble roulette! I’ve curated a list of characters, tropes, AUs, and kinks and I’m spinning the wheel! Hopefully I can do this once a month as a little writing exercise.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warnings: this drabble includes BDSM elements, sex toys, sexual acts. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+.

“You have to trust me, baby,” Bucky’s calloused fingertips brush down your spine. 

You whimper again. Every inch of you is overwrought, speckled in goosebumps, your veins hot but your skin chilled. The mingling of sensations and lack thereof has you close to mindless.  

His touch lingers along the curve of your ass. The imprint of his hand stings there still, thrumming as he tickles the tortured flesh. He snickers as you twitch. 

“Oh, baby doll,” he purrs and gropes you meanly with one hand as your lashes flutter against the dark fabric. The blindfold makes everything so much more intense; his voice, his touch, his very presence. “Don’t you trust me?” He pinches your ass and you squeak, thighs clenching as the stickiness cools in the creases. “You can speak.” 

“Yes, Sergeant,” you babble. 

“Good girl. Now keep the pretty mouth shut,” he slides two fingers between your cheeks and swipes down to your cunt. You spasm as he delves inside without hesitation, burying himself once more to his knuckles. The noise your flesh makes around him sets you alight. “Mmm, listen to you. You just can’t get enough.” 

He slides out and smacks your ass again. You yelp and your legs give out, your arms bending as you barely keep from hitting your stomach. He hisses and grabs your hips, lifting you to your knees. You push your arms straight again. 

“Up. Bad!” He spanks you again, the sound reverberating in your skull. 

“Sorry, Ser--” 

“I said mouth shut,” he snarls. “You want more? Fine. You’ll get more.” 

He moves and you quiver again. His footsteps are all that’s clear. The heavy treads landing decisively. Then a squeak and an odd rolling. Friction on the floor. You want to look so badly but you have to obey. Keep your hands flat and your knees locked. 

“I should do it myself,” he drones mournfully, “but you didn’t earn that.” 

There’s a coolness that trickles between your cheeks. You shudder and his fingers follow the flow. He smears the lube around your ring. 

“You should thank me for that at least.” 

“Thank you, Sergeant.” 

“Now say please,” he draws his hand away. 

“Please, Sergeant,” you babble. You don’t even know what you’re asking for. 

“Hmm, baby doll,” he tuts and you feel something along your ass. The hard silicon pokes at your puckered hole and you gasp. He growls. You seal your lips, biting down as you brace yourself. He rubs the top of your ass, “better ease up.” 

Click. A switch flips and you’re stretched by the artificial tip. Deeper, deeper, deeper. Slow but certain. You shake as it dips to your limit and your stomach knots. As it pulls back you quake out a breath. It starts again, in, out. Torturously. 

Bucky hums and his fingers crawl down your thighs. There’s another click. The dildo moves quicker. Not much, but enough to notice. He feels along your cunt as your insides clench. In, out, in, out. 

Click. The hum of the motor continues as he pushes the machine up another level. As he does, he pushes into you with his other hand. Two fingers, then three. He works in tandem with the toy. 

“Good girl,” he coaxes as he lines up the next finger and the machine clicks again. You pant in time with the dildo’s intrusion, shaking as you push your head back and arch your spine. “You like being full, don’t you, baby doll?” 

[literaila]

gojo is the type of scare kid megumi that the teeth that just fell out will never grow back again

“i need the first aid kit,” megumi says, a scowl already in his voice.

does satoru flinch away from the seven year old? well, um… maybe a little bit. but to be fair he was very distracted trying to pick out a new photo to set as his home screen.

should it be you wearing his glasses with a dopey smile? or tsumiki holding that kitten you said they couldn’t keep? he still can’t decide.

…and he’d forgotten that megumi was even home.

(when satoru decided to become a father, he didn’t think it would include several heart attacks and being physically tormented every day.)

after a moment of reflection, satoru scoffs, readjusting his glasses and sparring megumi a glance—the frown was expected honestly. “what happened to ‘hi, how are you?’”

“i don’t care,” the boy answers, shaking his head. “it’s not under the sink.”

“what isn’t?”

“the first aid kit.”

the look megumi is giving him is a little bit insulting, actually. it’s not satoru’s fault he wasn’t blessed with telepathy. or that someone lost the first aid kit (it was him).

“what’d you need it for?”

megumi huffs, gesturing vaguely to himself. he is a boy of many words.

satoru raises a brow. “do i need to call y/n?”

“no,” megumi’s arms are crossed, defensiveness a personality trait. “i just need some gauze.”

“for what, kid?”

“i lost something.”

satoru snorts, inspecting him. he doesn’t look all that different—he could use a hair cut but that’s nothing new. “your hand? an eyeball? elaborate.”

“i lost… my tooth.”

satoru blinks.

and then he leans himself on the arm rest, a smile making its way to his face. it’s a bit devious because satoru can’t remember the last time megumi had to concede to anything. or answered a single question, actually.

he’s so lucky you’re not home right now.

megumi is looking at him blankly, a slight pink to his cheeks—he absolutely hates it when satoru gives him that look. which satoru knows very well.

satoru gestures at the boy, tilting his head.

megumi sighs, looking towards the wall. and then, very reluctantly, he opens his mouth, leaning his head back so satoru can see.

the boy had already lost his front teeth before satoru ever got the chance to torment him about it, but he’ll take what he can get now.

there’s a little bit of blood coming from his mouth—which you would tell him is a tale tell sign that megumi has been messing with his teeth—but it doesn’t even look that bad.

satoru has seen plenty worse from cursed spirits, and besides, he doesn’t care.

“yup,” satoru makes a face, shaking his head mournfully. “looks rotten to me.”

megumi automatically snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening at him. “what?”

“where’s the tooth? i need to check it for disease.”

“what disease?”

“if you grind your teeth too much they start to deteriorate,” satoru says, tone overly condescending. “they can’t get infected. don’t you know that?”

megumi takes a step back, still crossing his arms. “i don’t grind my teeth.”

satoru laughs, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair—ignoring the push he gets when he does (he’s seven. why is he so strong?) “keep telling yourself that, kid.”

“i don’t.”

“your attitude problem is no secret, bud.”

“i’m not your bud.”

“you better go get that tooth,” he leans back on the couch, feigning indifference. “so we can mail it to your doctor.”

“that’s gross.”

“okay,” satoru shrugs. “if you want to die, it’s whatever. less work for me.”

“i’m not going to die,” megumi goes to stand in front of him, staring a hole into satoru’s head.

“we’ll see.”

“i’m not,” megumi kicks his foot, indignantly. “that’s not even how teeth work.”

“i think i would know how they work. you know, since im older than you?”

“and dumber.”

satoru only laughs—very entertained by the slight panic twinge to megumi’s voice—and doesn’t respond.

it works on megumi the same way it works on you—the silence absolutely must be filled.

satoru is a little gleeful, honestly. megumi very rarely falls victim to his tricks—or, at least, unintentionally victim.

“can you call a doctor now?” he asks, gruffly. “to get it checked?”

satoru glances at him, a tiny smile on his lips. “i thought you didn’t want to get it checked. i thought that wasn’t how teeth worked.”

“you just said that—“

and megumi is basically whining, foot stomping on the ground, anger something more like worry—but then the front door opens and he stops.

satoru throws his head back in a silent groan. of course you would show up just in time to ruin all of his fun.

“hey, megs,” you say as you walk into the living room, bag slung across your shoulder. “how was school? is tsumiki back yet?”

megumi goes up to you, frowning. “do i need to go to the doctor to get my teeth checked?”

you tilt your head, giving satoru a knowing glance. “did something happen?”

“our boy is turning into a man,” satoru says for both of them, standing up. “losing all of his teeth, greying hair. they grow up so fast.” a hand goes to his chest, and megumi pushes off the arm he tries to sling around the boys shoulder.

you give megumi a small smile, ignoring satoru. “did you lose a tooth?”

“gojo said that it’s infected. do we have to send it to the doctor?”

you frown, hard eyes meeting satoru’s. “why would it be infected, gojo?”

his hands immediately go up in defense. “hey, i’m just trying to teach the kid about the importance of dental hygiene—“

“he’s messing with you,” you tell megumi, patting his head. and then you look back up to satoru with a scowl. “and what would you know about dental hygiene?”

satoru crosses his arms. “i know all about—“

you shake your head, pushing past him. “does your mouth hurt?” you ask megumi. “is it still bleeding?”

“a little.”

“where’s the first aid kit?” you turn back to satoru, unamused.

he grins. “what’s that?”

you flick his forehead and turn away. “show me the tooth, huh? we’ll have to put it under your pillow so the tooth fairy comes tonight.”

you’re both walking away, heading towards the bathroom, and satoru hears megumi say, “i know that’s not real.”

“you know nothing,” you’re telling him, and satoru gasps as you both disappear.

“what do you mean ‘not real!?’” he calls, but no one is listening.

[bandgie]

Dolly From the Garden | Ep.4

MASTERLIST | Kink: Overstimulation

🗝 Reality is often cruel, much like the thorns you pick from the abandoned garden. The man who lives on the other side of the hill decides to pay you another visit, but this time, he brings gifts.

6.3k words

warnings! MDNI 18+, fem!reader, reader is a bit of a dom/mean with han, finger sucking (m!), cowgirl, mating press, PIV, no protection, sex outside, cumming on tits, pussy eating/play, multiple orgasms (f!), face riding (m!rec), hair pulling (m!rec)

notes! chat, I did not mean to make it this long 😔 we're getting near the end so there will be a bunch of info dumping sorryyy. is the smut as good as I wanted it to be? you tell me.

It’s been a while since you’ve had a nightmare. Not the kind where you wake up scared or in a cold sweat, but when the dread of your dream sits in your stomach. 

Something isn’t right.

Trying to shake off the feeling is harder than you thought. Even when kissing Chan and Changbin goodbye, you watch almost mournfully at the front door. The car engine runs and they soon drive off to the studio.

You wish they didn’t leave. Maybe if you kissed them harder and held onto them a little together, they wouldn’t have left you alone in the apartment. Each groan and crack of the old building sounds like laughter, mocking you in a way that feels silly and shameful.

You need to get out. 

You planned to clean the garden. The sky might not be the bluest, but you almost find relief in the dull colors. The sun is covered by clouds, which would be gloomy in any other instance, but cools down the sweat dripping down your back.

Pull by pull. Weed by weed, you tug the plant from its roots.You’re not wearing any gardening gloves, but the dull pain of thorns helps your mind from wandering to your nightmare. The black cat. The blue eyes. His warnings.

If you come back here again, we won’t let you leave.

But they can’t keep you hostage in a dream. All you have to do is open your eyes and be back at home with Chris and Changbin, safe and sound. You’re the one dreaming about these guys. You're making them up in your head because you can’t keep it in your pants. The thought of them being real, of everything being real, that’s just not possible.

Is it?

“You’re gonna need way more than one person to clean up this garden.”

You scream before the words register. You hadn’t even heard Jisung’s footsteps. Not if they crunched the dead leaves or squashed rotten fruit. His wide eyes are all you see when you whip your head, arms out like you're ready to shield yourself from the threat.

“Jesus fucking christ! You scared the shit outta me!”

He puts his arms up in surrender. “Fuck! Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Jisung brings his hand to his ear, rubbing it in soothing circles from your screech. You only feel a sliver of guilt, but when you remember this is the second time he’s scared you in a matter of a week, it fizzles away.

“Are you following me again?”

His cheeks flush. “No! Stop saying that! This garden doesn’t belong to you!”

“I live here! So it does, actually.”

“You’re wrong. I own the Pink Palace, so technically, it’s mine.”

You would like to keep going back and forth just to see his cheeks pout, but you raise an eyebrow instead. “I thought you said your grandma did.” 

Jisung blinks, “Same thing.”

Weirdo. “I don’t see your little cat anywhere.” You look around the garden. “Did he finally grow a brain and run away?”

Teasing Jisung is too much fun. You grin when he lets out a huff and crosses his arms. “He didn’t run away and he’s not my cat. He’s on time-out.”

“Time-out?” You laugh a little. “What’d he do?”

Jisung’s fingers squeeze his biceps anxiously. His eyes dart around before they land on the ground. “Just be a bad kitty.”

They like things that listen. They want a pet. And I’m hardly one to behave.

And you have to ignore the mischievous glint in Jisung’s eyes when he says ‘kitty.’

You clear your throat. Memories of your…dream rush back. As creeped out as you were when you woke up, your underwear was still drenched. “A-anywho, help me clean this garden up. An owner is supposed to take care of their things, right?”

He shrugs. “I try.”

Jisung rolls his sleeve and grabs a garden shovel, kneeling on the dirty ground just like you.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. The point of his tool hits the hard dirt, barely making a dent. He stabs the ground with murderous intent but only specks of dirt fly.

He notices you watching him. “What?”

“You’ll need a way bigger shovel, but I can have my roommates do that part. Just get the hose.”

You hear him mumble something about the fact that he can do it himself, but he listens anyway. Jisung reaches for the hose and hands it to you. “Now what.”

“Turn it on, doofus.”

“Oh.” 

You giggle when he stands, walking towards the edge of the garden to twist the faucet. It doesn’t take long to hear the water running, but nothing sprouts from your end. You hold the pipe to your face and close one eye.

“Is it on?” Jisung’s voice carries in the air. 

“No.” You shake your head. “There might be a kink-”

“Oh shit. I’m standing on it.”

Water shoots on your face almost immediately. You open your mouth to yelp, but you end up choking. You can feel the coldness run down your neck, soaking your shirt and the top of your shorts.

At least you aren’t sweating anymore.

“Oh my god.” Jisung’s approaching steps are cautious. “I’m so sorry. I- I didn’t know you were holding it.”

The hose now lies on the ground, turning the dirt into mud. You stand and wipe your eyes, flicking the droplets off your fingers. The shirt clinging to your torso feels uncomfortable but you don’t notice how Jisung’s eyes fall to your chest. The first thing you see is his blushing face and gawking stare.

Your bra is evident underneath. Although wearing a white top isn’t ideal while gardening, it was an old shirt you didn’t care to dirty.

You didn’t plan on it turning transparent.

“What? Never seen a girl in a bra before?” You try to sound snarky, but it comes off flirtatious. 

Jisung gulps and struggles to make eye contact. “I just- I didn’t expect that- I didn’t mean-” His brain goes haywire when you step closer, smiling like you caught his hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re a real perv, you know?” You prowl towards him. “Stalking me, watching me, accidentally getting my shirt wet...”

“It-it-it was an accident!”

“Now look,” you ignore his panicking. “You can see everything.”

You have to keep yourself from laughing when his eyes bug from you pressing your breasts together. Water drips off your shirt from the squeeze, but the sight is arousing. You grip yourself in slow circles and let the material hug your body as it pleases. 

“You could have just asked, you know?”

With your hands trailing to the bottom of your shirt, you peel the dripping shirt off. It lands on the dirt with a wet plop leaving you in your bra.

A bold move you would never do so openly, but there’s no one for miles. There’s only you, Jisung, and his half-boner poking through his shorts.

He covers his eyes and walks backward. “Wait! I didn’t- this wasn’t my intention.” You can see the flush in his neck as you stalk towards him. “I-I’m not a perv and I said I was sorry!”

“Oh.” You pout. “So you don’t like them?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t say that- Ah!” He trips, falling on his ass with a thud that makes you wince. You kick the loose brick away and get on your knees, straddling Jisung’s lap and pushing him down until he’s flat on the dirt.

His entire face is red. He’s still hiding his eyes behind his hand, but you can see his quivering lip and pink ears.

“Aww, are you okay?” You mock sympathy, rubbing your hands up and down his torso. “You should really look where you’re going.”

You laugh when he whines, pathetic and anxious. Jisung has enough bravery to lower his arm just slightly, revealing his teary eyes. 

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.”

You grin. “Maybe a little. But your dick’s poking me pretty hard, so I think it’s safe to say you like it.”

It’s been a while since someone’s looked at you so submissively. You’ve been on the bottom for so long now that you can’t help the way your cunt buzzes from Jisung’s doe eyes.

A grind from your hips makes him gasp. 

“Right here?” He has to whisper it. “Don’t you live with roommates?”

Geez. Maybe he is a bit of a stalker. “They’re at work, but I can call them to come back if you want.”

“No!” Jisung shouts this time. “D-don’t be mean.”

But it’s hard not to. He’s too easy to tease. Jisung can only whimper when you slowly rut against his cock, gripping onto his pecs for leverage. He opts to cover his mouth instead of his eyes, muffling the mewls that sound like music to your ears.

Jisung only moves his arm away from his face when you reach for his elastic band. You think he might stop you, but his fingers dig into your waist instead. Jisung helps you hover just enough to pull his shorts down, his bulge prominent in boxers.

“For me?” You laugh when he blushes again. All that scaring you and whining about how mean you are was simply him trying to hit on you.

The pitiful attempts are almost cute.

Jisung doesn’t say anything as you reach into the slit of his boxers and pull his erection out, hot and heavy. He hisses from the cold air, but your warm hand is quick to soothe it. 

There’s a dab of precum on his flushed tip that you roll over with your thumb. His hips buck from the sensitivity, but he keeps his hands on your hips obediently.

“Such a good boy, huh?” You tug upwards on his cock, watching his back arch and thud on the ground when you stroke down. “Good boys are my favorite. You know that?” 

He shakes his head, a bit of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth. Your free hand reaches for his pink face and scoops the saliva back into his mouth, popping your thumb between his lips.

Your shorts are loose enough to pull them to the side, abandoning his cock for a moment. You pull your underwear along with it and plant your bare, wet pussy on him.

Jisung sucks your thumb with a groan.

“Yeah.” You find momentum easily. “Keep sucking it, baby.”

You briefly think about how much fun Chan would have with him.

Jisung’s tongue rolls over your digit encouragingly. It must taste like sweat and dirt, but he moans at the flavor nonetheless. The tip of his tongue flicks your thumb quickly, mimicking how he would if it was your clit.

You can feel how your pussy throbs at the thought. His cock is more than hard enough beneath you, but his mouth is so warm. If you close your eyes, you can perfectly picture his tongue and cock rubbing on your cunt, licking at your nub, and prodding your entrance.

Moving into a squat with your feet planted on the dirt, you angle his cock upwards. His eyes lock with yours and he squeals with your thumb in his mouth.

“Don’t cum too quick.”

Jisung’s lips release your digit when you sink down. Every vein, curve, and dip of his cock drags between your walls. You break eye contact and watch how your cunt opens for him, folds spreading and lewdly squelching.

His cock is the perfect medium from Chan and Changbin. Not quite as thick, not quite as long, but still good. It makes you clench around his length when you settle fully on him, thighs burning.

“Oh! Oh oh oooh.” His eyes roll back and he can’t help but press his hips up, flush against you. It makes your legs quiver, but Jisung has the mind to move his hands under your thighs for support.

“Tight. Y-you’re so warm. Mmm.” He lifts his head to see where you connect. “D-don’t move.”

You scoff. He’s twitching inside you, pulsing rhythmically. His hazy eyes and drooly lips make it seem as though you’ve been bouncing on his cock for hours when in reality, he just slipped in.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Slowly, you raise a few inches. He thrashes his head side to side when you slide back down.

“Wait! Please! I wanna be good. Let me be good! I can’t- I’ll cum.” His voice breaks off in a whine when you keep bouncing.

The slide of his cock is too addicting. The last dick you had inside of you, awake, was almost a week ago. As much pleasure you feel with your cunt gripping and leaking, there’s a sense of relief having sex outside of your dream world.

Both of your hands land on his shoulders. Your legs scream for a rest, but putting some weight on your arms helps. It’s easier to rock rather than bounce this way. Your hips roll deeply until Jisung begins to move with you.

“Thought you said you didn’t wanna finish.” You pant. The sun beams on your back uncomfortably, sweat gathering on your bra. You use a hand to swiftly pull your tits from the cups, right in Jisung’s view.

Eyes lock with your breasts immediately. A guttural sound leaves his chest and the grip on your thighs tense, making your body bounce again. Jisung’s skin slaps on yours harshly until your tits jiggle uncontrollably.

You moan so loudly it almost sounds like a scream. Jisung’s thrusts force you to match his pace, to feel his tip hit the deepest part of you repeatedly. Even if your legs burn, it’s nothing compared to the fire building in your stomach.

He doesn’t have to use both hands to support you anymore, choosing to use an elbow to prop himself up until his mouth can swallow one of your tits.

Thrusting into you is a lot harder in this position, but you’re grateful for the slowness. You can feel how his cheeks hollow and suck. Even when his teeth lightly bite on your nipple, tugging until he can feel it harden in his mouth. 

And when he flicks his tongue on it harshly, you clench around him.

“Fuck. ‘m trying. I’m trying so hard not to.” Jisung sits up more, popping your breast from his lips and wrapping his arms around your torso. You don’t have an option other than to wrap your legs around his thin waist and let him guide you down, reversing the position until he’s on top of you.

He licks your boobs again. “But your pussy’s too good.”

You nearly laugh, but a sharp thrust has you keening instead. Your ankles cross around his torso and you arch your back, having his cock hit a gummy spot that makes you see stars.

Jisung’s doesn’t have to rub your clit to bring you close. He fucks you so deep that his pelvis rubs your peak perfectly. It makes that desire in your belly grow, clenching and leaking until you think you‘re going to finish first.

“Yesyesyes. Fuck me, Hannie. Feels so good.” You tug on his hair as he sucks on your nipples.

A desperate whine leaves him, looking up at you with boba eyes. Jisung licks over your boob one more time before he lets go, eyes shining. “Yeah? Am I good?”

“So so so good.” You pull him up until he’s inches from your face. “Gonna make me cum.”

Maybe it’s the close proximity or the heat of the moment, but Jisung kisses you. His lips crush yours uncoordinatedly, but you welcome it happily. You can taste your sweat on his tongue. He runs the muscle over your own and swirls his tongue.

The two of you pant and moan into each other’s mouth until he pulls away, strings of saliva connecting your lips. You chase him for a second, looking up at him in a daze and biting your lower lip.

“Can I- can I cum on your tits?” Jisung’s out of breath. He’s steadily pounding into you like he’s a pro, but you can tell his need to cum is getting to him.

Yours too, if you’re being truthful. The back of your shorts is soaked with arousal and your underwear is far worse. Even with all the sweat and drool seeping down, you can feel that your cunt is the wettest.

And the picture of him finishing on your breasts has you oozing more.

“Only if you make me cum first.” You smile only a little evil. “You’re almost there, Hannie.”

His moan is a mix of need and understanding. You think he’ll go back to your chest or lips, but he straightens his back and lifts your legs. You uncross your ankles and let him take off your shorts and underwear to push your thighs back until your knees are close to your face, spread and open for his cock to bully into.

Oh, he’s going to fuck you.

You didn’t think he could have it in him, but you’re proven wrong by the first thrust. It goes deeper than you thought was possible, straight to the back of your throat. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, eyebrows pinched, and upper lip pulled back until you see his gums.

Every slam of his hips, every drag out and in, it feels too hot. Like the inside of your pussy is melting from his pistons. With his hands gripping your thighs and your hands helplessly clawing his back, you can’t do anything but take it.

Cream slides down your ass, pooling on the dirt you know will be a pain to clean off your skin. The sounds you’re making can hardly be considered moaning, closer to a panting dog, but neither of you cares. Jisung gets his dick to fuck your sweet spot until you’re pushing at his shoulders instinctively to stop, and you’re glad he doesn’t.

“Oh my god! Fuckfuckfuck! You’re so fucking deep. Hannie! Hannie I’m-” Your toes curl, your hair sprawls in the dirt and Jisung thinks it's beautiful in the most poetic way.

His pretty flower in his garden.

He lets you squeeze on his cock, convulsing and twitching until the only sound you can make is babbling.

It’s not for long that he lets you ride out your high. You’re still creaming and clenching when he slips out. A surprised squeal tumbles from your lips when he releases your legs and straddles your torso, cock in hand.

He’s so wet, still dripping with your orgasm and white arousal on his cock when he strokes himself. You have to reach between your legs and play with your clit to come down properly, but it doesn’t bother you too much.

You open your mouth and watch Jisung fuck into his hand. He squeezes his tip, getting that pre cum to ooze on your tits until his climax builds again quickly. It hardly takes more than a few tugs before he spills on you, groaning and panting with his head thrown back. 

He moans again when he picks his head up. “Oh wow. Fuck. You look so pretty.” Jisung smears his cum with his tip. “Perfect.”

You blush, pulling your fingers from your cunt. Jisung carefully gets up from you and helps you sit up. 

Your hair’s a mess, your tits are sticky, and your bra is nearly off. Jisung doesn’t have to do much but tuck his soiled cock back into his boxers. You’re a little jealous.

“Maybe the water hose will come in handy,” he jokes. Jisung reaches for the running hose and helps you stand. You have to pretend that it’s not cum he’s spraying off your naked body in broad daylight, but it doesn’t help that your nipples harden under the cold water and his cheeks flush from the sight.

“This is by far the weirdest aftercare I’ve gotten.”

He smiles a little, awkwardly meeting your eyes. “Yeah. H-here.” He tosses the hose back down when he’s done, shrugging his shirt off and handing it to you. 

You could feel his muscles underneath the shirt, but you didn’t think he’d look so fit. His hips are a drastic difference from his shoulders, almost hourglass-like. You blink a few times before you put his shirt on, the end going barely past your ass.

“Thanks.” You try not to stare at his soft stomach. “Hopefully your grandma doesn’t ask where your shirt went when you get back.”

Jisung laughs genuinely this time, gums showing and eyes pinching. 

Maybe it’s the sun, but he looks cute.

Or maybe it’s because he’s shirtless.

“Oh! That reminds me.” Jisung rummages in his pockets, pulling out what looks like a toy. 

You step closer to him and look. It’s not just a toy, but a doll. A small, stuffed doll with jet-black hair, sharp cheekbones, and gray buttons for eyes.

Your heart drops to your stomach. 

“My grandma found it and said to toss it, but when I saw it, I thought of you.” He smiles sheepishly. “A house-warming gift, maybe.”

He’s beaming so sweetly, but you can’t stop the fear coursing through you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re awake or asleep, those damn buttons can’t leave you alone. 

…we won’t let you leave…

“Hey,” Jisung sounds concerned. “Are you okay?”

You can’t find your voice. You're choking on whether to lie or tell him that his grandma’s apartments are haunted. His eyes look so sincere, so worried. But the fact that he gave you a doll like this can’t be a coincidence.

“I’m…yeah.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, sorry. I just remembered that I have to unpack more boxes right after this. I’m gonna be so tired.”

You try to smile with Jisung, but everything feels wrong all over again. He apologizes profusely about getting you wet and ruining your plans to get the garden done. The two of you share goodbyes, the doll in hand as you walk back to your apartment.

You need your best friends. Chan and Changbin would know what to do and what to say to make you feel better. But when you look at your phone, you see a text saying they’ll be staying at the studio well late into the night. 

Don’t be needy, you think.

You thumbs up the message, blinking back tears and hurrying to your room.

Unpacking the remaining boxes might help distract you, but everything feels so overwhelming. It’s been so long since you felt this anxious, this lost. You and your friends moved here for less stress, but all you’ve felt is a pit in your stomach that never seems to fully go away. 

You throw your dirty clothes in the hamper and toss the doll on a chair, flopping on your bed and ignoring the lump in your throat. 

It’s just a bad day. You’ll feel better after a nap.

-

The space between your legs is hot. Everything up to your chest feels on fire with every swipe of a tongue. You groan softly, blinking until your vision focuses on the ceiling. The shadows on the walls tell you it must be nighttime. 

Maybe one of your roomies found you passed out, underwear missing. You can’t decide if it was Chan or Changbin who put their mouth on your cunt, but it doesn’t feel like either.

It’s too messy. Chan is coordinated and intentful whereas Changbin is hungry and desperate. This tongue is…eager. Eager to get your taste and suck on your clit. It almost reminds you of the first time someone would ever eat you out.

Finally, you lift your head. The dark does little to help, but you can make out the black hair. It isn’t curly when you thread your fingers through it, and the eyes that look up to you aren’t eyes at all.

But buttons. 

You yank him off your cunt brutally. He comes up with a groan of pain, dark gray buttons looking offended.  “The fuck?”

“Who are you?!” You cross your legs, tucking them into your ass and grabbing a pillow for defense. “How did you get into my house?!”

His hair sprawls in different directions from your tugging, but the mess looks strangely good on him. His jaw ticks with irritation like you’ve interrupted him from something very important. His chest is bare, everything is nude. The deep lines on his stomach are similar to Chan’s, strong and urging you to reach out and trace them. This makes the shadows on his face deepen. The buttons, the cheekbones, the hair…

You look to your chair, noting that the doll is nowhere to be seen. 

“This isn’t your house.” He rubs his scalp, sitting on his knees and crowding you until you back into the headboard. 

“Not yet anyway.”

“How did you get in?” You ignore his comment.

The doll narrows his eyes. “Do you normally ask this many questions? Everyone’s been telling me you let your pussy do all the talking.”

He laughs when you turn red. A large hand rests on your knee, slightly urging you to spread your legs again. But you can ignore his slender fingers a little longer. 

“So then…I assume you’re from the Other Side?”

The smile is enough of an answer. 

“But that doesn’t make sense. I didn’t go through the door.” You shake your head in disbelief. Is it possible you slept-walked into the tunnel? No, that can’t be. Your room is still the same and the clouds that you can see from your window aren’t as bright as the ones from the Other Side.

“Go through the door,” he snorts. “Haven’t you been telling everyone that this is a dream?” His hand goes up your thigh, under the material of Jisung’s shirt, and smoothes over your hip.

You shiver from his touch.

“Is it really?”

“Does it matter? Lay back down and let me take care of you.” He grabs your waist and yanks you down, surprising a yelp from you. He’s strong, but he never overpowers. It doesn’t take much effort to spread your legs. For his digits to find your clit and rub.

“I…I need to know what’s going on.” You grab onto his wrist, stopping his movements. 

He doesn’t look annoyed like you thought he would. His buttons are curious, a dark wonder that sends shivers down your spine. The deft fingers on your cunt swirl on your clit again, and you have to dig your nails into his wrist to get him to listen properly. 

“Why don’t we play… a game?” His teeth are sharp when he grins.

You breathe heavily, loosening your grip on his hand just a bit before questioning, “What kind of game would it be?”

“The quiet game. You stop asking questions and finish on my tongue, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Too easy. “That’s it?”

“That’s one question. Three strikes, you’re out.”

You huff, glaring at his cocky smile. It's only a win-win situation for you. You win, you cum and get answers. You lose, you still cum and move out. 

“Fine. But you have to tell me who you are first.”

He raises an eyebrow.

He laughs, resuming his fingers to their rubbing. He moves until he’s flat on his stomach, inches from your cunt. You spread your legs enough to have him fit, but your thighs still rub on his cheeks when he wriggles closer.

“Someone’s trying to find a loophole.” Still, he smiles endearingly. “But it’s Jeongin. My friends call me I.N though.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m not your friend.”

Jeongin giggles. “Maybe not. But I think you’ll like my tongue.”

His teeth gleam in the moonlight when his pink tongue breaks through. You watch as it plants on your cunt, flicking upwards. The tip of his tongue swirls on your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. 

The pleasure hits you like a ton of bricks. A small gasp echoes in the room and you widen your legs, allowing Jeongin to scoot up more and open his jaw until his tongue can lick from your clit to your entrance.

His mouth is warm on your cunt. It doesn’t take long for your hips to match his pace, catching every suck and lick. 

Your back arches off the bed and into his hot mouth. Jeongin has to tilt his chin up to follow you, saliva and arousal dripping down to his neck. Every gulp is followed by a moan that makes you shake. Your legs only tremble more when his tongue glides up and down your folds.

It’s so soft. It’s perfect on your cunt when he smears your arousal on your skin. You run your fingers in his hair and guide him, getting Jeongin to follow a pace that makes you clench around nothing.

“Oh, fuck! Right there.” You plant your feet on the bed and shove his face flush against you. “Harder.”

You wouldn’t sound so demanding if you were allowed to ask questions, but neither of you mind. Jeongin obeys and wraps his lips around your clit. The suction makes you instinctively shy away from his mouth, but his fingers hook on the underside of your thighs and force you to stay still.

You squeal, wrapping your legs around his head and squeezing his face. Jeongin’s buttons look to you, but they’re not panicked. They almost seem to glow with delight, wiggling his head deeper into your cunt until you can feel his hard teeth beneath his lips. 

He’s trapped between your legs. He doesn’t seem to mind how your hips buck on his face, nose touching your clit until it shines with your wetness. 

Jeongin doesn’t have to suck anymore. He knows all you need is a tongue to ride on, opting to stick his out and follow your erratic movements. You clit twitches in his mouth. The grip on his hair is so strong that he thinks you might rip some strands out. 

But you don’t, of course. You’re too busy face-fucking him to realize that his groaning is mixed with pain and pleasure. All you want to do is chase that high building in your stomach, rubbing up and down until pleasure bursts.

You freeze with a moan, letting your body spasm from your orgasm. But Jeongin doesn’t let you rest for long, latching his lips back on you and swirling his tongue on your throbbing nub. 

He picks up your thighs and pushes your knees by your face, exactly how Jisung did hours ago. 

He must have been watching. 

So he knows that this position makes you vulnerable and forces you to feel pleasure beyond what you can handle. Cream slides down your cunt and to your ass, but Jeongin keeps twisting his tongue on you until more arousal drips down. 

“Jeongin! Wait! I’m- I just came!”

But he doesn’t care about your sensitivity. Doesn’t care how your moans turn into cries from his relentless licking. The crude sounds of his sucking and your hiccups fill the room. You can see with bleary eyes his wet face. There’s white cream on the tip of his nose that he buries into your cunt once again. 

You tug on his hair weakly. “Pleeasee. ‘m so sensitiveee.”

A mean suck has you gasping. You convulse in his mouth, trying desperately to twist away. It’s only when you grip your breasts instead of his hair that he lets go. 

You don’t even moan in relief. It feels like his tongue is still on you when he lowers your hips slightly, angling his pretty, pink cock in your entrance.

“God. I almost came eating you out.” He licks his lips hungrily. “Been so long since I ate pussy. You won’t mind it I cum in it, will you?”

He laughs at your babbling response. Pinching your nipples through the shirt keeps you somewhat sane. It helps you focus on the feeling of his head sliding on your swollen pussy, finding your entrance, and slipping through your folds. 

You can’t even moan, mindlessly opening your mouth and looking down at him splitting you open. Inch by inch, he settles in, not stopping until his pelvis presses against you. 

You fall back on the bed and look at him, vision blurring and bottom lip caught between your teeth. 

“Uh-oh.” Jeongin grins. “Did my cock break you already?” He adjusts on his knees and pulls out a few inches, pushing it back in torturously slow. “Looks like I’ll have to put you back together again.”

He doesn’t start slow at all. The way his cock bullies into you makes you think this is the only thing you’ll feel for the rest of your life. You’ll know nothing but clenching, the endless cream that oozes from your pussy and drips down his balls.

Jeongin grunts with effort, sweat gathering on his forehead and dripping down the sides of his face. His abs tense from the movement, finally convincing you to reach and touch him.

His hard stomach quivers from your fingers. You can feel every vein, every muscle that works in earnest. It proves to you that everything you thought was a fantasy was real, but your brain can only properly comprehend the twitching of his cock between your walls.

“Mmm, you feel that?” Jeongin moans. “Gonna cum all in your pussy. So much in here, baby. I could taste Han’s, you dirty girl. It’s never enough for you, huh?”

He’s close. You can tell by his sloppy thrusts and veiny neck. If his words are meant to make you feel gross and used, it has the opposite effect. You pussy clenches on him happily. It’s not your fault you’ve had so many different cocks in a week.

And judging the moaning from Jeongin, he likes that fact too.

Hot spurts of cum flood your cunt. Jeongin throws his head back and buries deep, making sure every pulse of his cock is inside you.

The walls of your cunt are so numb that you can hardly feel him finishing inside, but you can feel how hot your pussy gets. Jeongin slams his hips to ensure he leaks everything inside before he pulls out.

You shiver from the sensation. The head of cock slips out wetly and you can feel the arousal dripping from your hole almost instantly. Jeongin keeps you spread by the ankle to watch it, smiling proudly to himself.

“Good pussy. Eats so well.”

He lowers back onto his chest, ignoring how your legs still tremble and playing with the cum instead.

You have to force yourself to keep your eyes open, to make your brain work. Your body is still glowing in the aftermath. Remembering why you let him do what he wanted in the first place is a challenge.

Slowly, you raise to your elbows and clear your throat to get his attention. “I think…I think I deserve my question now.”

His buttons blink to you. Jeongin’s finger mindlessly plays with your slit, but he nods. “Go ahead. But remember, only two left.”

His finger is only slightly distracting. You let him play with the cum ask, “How did you get here?”

“You brought me here, remember?”

“No-” you groan. “Like here. On this side or whatever. I thought you guys were only in the Other world.”

He grins, “Do you believe in magic?”

“I’m not messing around.” You glare at him.

“Me neither. We’re mostly on the Other Side, bound to it. But The Beldom likes to grant us wishes sometimes. Only if we’ve been good.”

The Beldom. You’ve heard of that word. An old folklore about a witch or fae that steals people. But why? There’s too many different answers on the internet that don’t give a clear reason.

…they want a pet…

You don’t want to waste your last question on something he might not know. You pull apart his answer, trying to grab onto a clue that can help.

“Bound to it, huh? Are you guys…stuck. On the Other Side?”

Jeongin stops his touches, buttons turning hard and almost sour. He scrunches his nose and lays on your thigh, focusing back on your cunt.

“Now that’s a good question.  Let’s just say we made a deal with the devil. We wanted an easy life. It gets hard out here, you know? Like you’re suffocating. Living on the Other Side, sewing buttons in our eyes, it seems like a small price to pay.”

You have to hold back your shock. The pain they must have gone through. To choose needles in their eyes rather than deal with harsh reality. 

Hesitantly, you console him by massaging his scalp.

“Stuck is…a tough word. The other guys can’t really leave, but they can see. Seungmin and I are the only ones that can come and go as we please, but not in our human form. Not entirely at least.”

It only makes a little sense. You have to refrain from prying too much. Instead, you decide to focus on the other mystery. “Seungmin?”

Jeongin tilts his head up. “The cat? I’m sure you’ve seen him around. He’s a bit of an ass.”

You recall the cat with Jisung. The cat that warned you. 

“He…he told me not to go through the little door anymore.”

“We know.” His voice drops an octave. “He got a lot of shit for saying that. The Beldom wasn’t too happy with him.”

He’s on time-out.

Was that…a coincidence?

“The Beldom. Is that who you made the deal with?”

No response. 

“Who is The Beldom, I.N?”

He sits up abruptly. The sudden movement makes you jump, flinching as he grabs the covers and tosses it over your body. 

“You’re out of questions, pretty. And look, you called me I.N. Guess we are friends after all.”

A wave of sleep hits you. You know it’s not your own tiredness. This is probably what they did every time they were done, putting you to sleep to get you to stop thinking.

Your eyes close without you willing them to. It’s like a strange form of paralysis, hearing steps, and being stuck in your body. 

Slipping into the dark unconscious feels so close, but you hang onto a single thought for a moment longer.

That you can free them. Or try to.

[nadvs]

　　💔　⊹　❀　︵　∘　 better off (alt ending) ⟢

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you and rafe take time apart to try to get better for each other. when you meet up, you realize your relationship is beyond repair.

content warning toxic relationship, mentions of parental abuse, all hurt/no comfort

this is an alternate sad ending to better off, inspired by this ask!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Rafe sits a foot away from you on the trail peak you used to always come to together. The sun is setting soon. The air is thick.

It’s been eighteen days since you decided to take time apart to work on yourselves. You haven’t said anything. It’s like you’re both afraid of breaking the silence.

You stare out at the horizon of where sky meets sea. Then, you meet his gaze and finally ask what’s been turning over in your head.

“Are we done?”

Rafe mournfully breathes your name, sounding defeated when he says, “You tell me.”

“What does that mean?” you say. You realize you sound just as exhausted as he does.

Frustration flares in him. He’s the one who’s always being strung along, loving you more, refusing to let you go. It’s always been like that. Now, you’re talking as if he has any power?

“I’m not the one who decides anything,” he says sharply. “You decided to break up. You decided to stop talking. You’re seriously fucking acting like anything here is up to me?”

His tone is so cutting. Mocking. You’ve been speaking for mere seconds and he’s already blaming you. He’s already angry.

But this is Rafe. He’s always angry. Maybe it’s something he’ll never change about himself. Either he can’t or he won’t.

“I’m asking because you blocked me,” you say, trying to keep your tone even, trying to have some sympathy for him.

“Not a good feeling, is it?” he snaps.

You shake your head to yourself and clasp your hands together tightly.

“So, you did it just to hurt me?” you ask.

Rafe’s jaw tenses. He doesn’t answer. It wasn’t the main reason, but he enjoyed knowing you could be trying to contact him and feeling rejected over and over again. Just like you used to do to him.

“Have you done any work on yourself? Like, at all?” you say.

The lack of belief you have in him stings. He angrily pulls out his phone to prove you wrong.

“This is what I was fucking doing, alright?” he mutters, opening his conversation with you.

A string of undelivered texts are on the screen. He blocked you just to send messages that couldn’t actually get to you.

Friday, 5:46 pm

It sucks not talking to you

Saturday, 3:01 am

You think youre so mmuch better than me and it oisses me the fuck k off

Sunday, 12:11 pm

I would take back a lot of the shit I did if I could

Sunday, 9:20 pm

I always fought to make this work and you never did. I always fucking cared more

Monday, 4:44 pm

I think about you every second. I’m going crazy

Tuesday 9:57 am

I miss your laugh

Tuesday, 3:01 pm

I wonder if you noticed

“If I noticed what?” you ask.

“That I wasn’t at that stupid party last weekend,” he admits.

“I noticed.”

He reaches for his phone.

“I’m not done,” you say, looking back down at the screen. His body tightens in irritation.

Tuesday, 11:30 pm

Obviously I love you and it’s so annoying every time you say I don’t say it enough

Yesterday, 1:20 pm

I would choose being sick together over being healthy alone. At least I’d have you

Today, 10:22 am

I just wish I was good enough

You realize your eyes have started to burn with tears. Your insides twist with a painful mix of hopelessness and a yearning to understand.

In the whirl of everything he wrote, you can’t get it out of your head that he said he’d choose being sick together. You’ve always had a fear he actually preferred dysfunction.

And while this is something you’d usually brush past, as you became an expert at ignoring his red flags, you need to be sure. Because now, you’re committed to being well.

“You’d rather be sick together?” you ask.

Rafe roughly takes his phone back. His heart feels like it’s getting wrung out.

You didn’t say you miss him too, that you love him too, that you agree that not talking sucked. You just found the flaw, the hole in him, like you always do.

He wrote all those messages and showed them to you just for you to judge him?

“Of all that,” he says with an angry exhale, “that’s what you nag me about.”

The pain of watching his anger grow right in front of you and you being desperate to stop it is too familiar.

“Sorry,” you say. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not trying to fight. I just want us both to want to be healthy, you know? I wrote - I wrote things for you, too.”

“What?” he snaps. “What did you write? How it’s never your fault?”

“No,” you reply, your voice getting louder. You take a deep breath, still so afraid of being vulnerable in front of someone who has a habit of arguing against your feelings. “The last thing I wrote was that I hope we find our way back. I miss you. And I love you, too.”

His muscles lose a bit of their tension.

“What else?” His voice is rough, almost strained.

You look out at the view again, thinking about all that you’ve wanted to tell him.

“I wrote that I used to feel good about myself around you, and then at some point, I really didn’t like who I became.”

It makes everything in him hurt.

“But I blamed you and I shouldn’t have,” you continue. “We both fought unfairly, but you didn’t bring anything out of me that wasn’t already there. I’m sorry that I made it your fault when I was mean.”

He blinks, staring at your profile as you continue to speak.

“And I didn’t like how controlling and jealous you could get,” you admit. “You didn’t trust me. I never actually did anything to make you question my loyalty, did I?”

Rafe chews on his lip. Tears prick at his eyes. He hates how you never understood this; how if you’re with him, if you love him, you shouldn’t give another man a second of your time.

“You still shouldn’t talk to other guys,” he says. “If you’re in a relationship, what are you doing smiling at some asshole who just wants to fuck you?”

You shake your head in disappointment, forehead creasing. You know you’re speaking differently than you used to, apologizing and explaining yourself carefully. But he’s the same. Rude. Domineering. Argumentative.

And he has yet to say sorry for anything. He’s still hung up on a twenty-second conversation you had with a guy at a party weeks ago, back when you weren’t even together.

He did this all the time. You’d talk to a male friend for a moment and he’d get angry. If you spoke with one of his friends, he’d visibly get tense. He’d even go through your following lists on social media and ask you why you followed every guy on the list, one by one.

You’re afraid he truly hasn’t improved one bit.

“Did you do any reading about jealousy or control?” you ask. “I can show you what I read if-”

“You act like it’s crazy to not want your girl talking to other guys,” he interrupts.

“Having a conversation with a guy doesn’t mean I’m flirting,” you retort, your own anger building now. “And it’s not even just guys! You’d even get pissed off when I went out with my friends. I’d spend the whole night texting you.”

“And blocking me,” he adds.

You let out a frustrated groan.

“Because I needed a break, Rafe. I was glued to my phone because of you,” you mutter. “It’s like you purposely started arguments so I couldn’t enjoy my night. And they all said-”

You stop yourself. You’re trying to be better and not spiteful. Not cruel.

“What?” he snaps, his voice dripping with contempt.

You can’t resist the urge. You want to hurt him.

“They all said you’re psychotic,” you say. “And that I could do so much better.”

Rafe tenses up again, looking away. His eyes are bloodshot now. You can do better. He knew that from the first date.

Guilt grips you. He was always painfully insecure. Maybe even more so than you realized. But he made you pay for it time and time again.

You don’t want to be this spiteful girl anymore. You want to be kind. Understanding. You never cared to be the bigger person before. You do now.

You think back to all the reading you’ve been doing about toxic relationships and how to dig yourself out of them.

“Jealousy is insecurity,” you begin, “and I think it’s important that you reflect and ask yourself why you’re insecure. Could it be from stuff at home? I know your dad didn’t always give you a lot of attention and that he hit you and-”

“Are you fucking serious?” Rafe mutters. Hearing you recount the traumatic stories he shared with you in confidence is too painful. He can’t hear it anymore. “You’re such a bitch for using that against me.”

You try to inhale again, but your breath is shallow and broken. Bitch. That insult is so simple, yet so vile. So dehumanizing.

This is how it always happened. The few and far between times you put your effort into having a calm, reasonable conversation, he’d explode, and then you’d explode, too.

“Don’t call me a bitch,” you snarl. “I wasn’t using it against you. I’m trying to understand you. Do you even understand yourself?”

Rafe scoffs in disbelief. You watch a tear quickly roll down his cheek. He wipes it away angrily. He doesn’t answer.

“Do you know why you act like this?” you say. “Have you thought about it at all these past few weeks?”

Rafe hates this feeling. He has lived it every day of his life. The harrowing pain of being neglected, the helplessness of being unable to control what he thinks and how he acts.

Nobody understands him. And that includes himself.

“I get it, alright?” he says, his voice cracking now. “There’s something wrong with me. You said it all the fucking time.”

Despite everything he’s hurled at you, you feel your heart break, looking at him almost curled up as he sits beside you, his cheeks streaked with tears.

You think of his texts. He said he wishes he was good enough.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” you say. “You’re good enough, okay? You’re more than good enough. I just want to understand why you treated me so bad.”

“You treated me bad, too,” he counters.

You grimace. Immediately defensive. No accountability. Just blame. He hasn’t changed at all. And you’re falling back into bad habits just by talking with him.

A few moments of silence pass between you, both of you sniffling but saying no words. You have no hope left.

“I was really hoping we could bring out the best in each other instead of the worst,” you finally say. “But if you don’t actually do the work to get better, it’s not going to happen.”

Rafe meets your eyes. He’s shattered. He’s never felt smaller. And it’s all your fault. Being with you just hurts at this point. And he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

“Then it’s not going to happen,” he answers, tone low.

You blink away tears. You look down at your lap. You exhale. And you say the hardest possible thing.

“This is over,” you half-whisper. “Goodbye.”

You stand and he doesn’t stop you. Even though going down the trail in the dusk on foot is dangerous, he doesn’t stop you. You start to walk home and he doesn’t stop you.

Eventually, a motorcycle roars past you on the street. You know it’s him. You know he passed you and didn’t care enough to at least offer you a lift home.

But of course that’s the way your mess of a relationship ends. He claims he cares, then when it matters, he obviously doesn’t give a fuck.

As you walk home, wiping away your tears, your heart broken over the fact that he didn’t have the decency to drive you home or the love to actually try to improve himself for you, you tell yourself that eventually, you won’t give a fuck, either.

You won’t talk to him anymore. You won’t touch him anymore. You won’t ask about his day or run your fingers over his hair the way he likes or laugh together. Ever again.

One day, this won’t feel like a loss. Because whatever you had with Rafe wasn’t love. It was poison and you can’t willingly drink it anymore.

(continuation)

[ladykailitha]

Staking a Claim Part 2

Hello! We get a resolution to the last cliffhanger and add a second less dire cliffhanger.

I will be posting this on Sundays and Tuesdays until it's completed for a total of six parts. Thursdays will be reserved for whatever story I want to update that week. It might be the soulmate AU, the werewolf AU, or even omega AU. Wednesdays are still for WIP Wednesday.

Part 1

***

Steve woke up with a pressing need to throw up. He sat up in a hurry and looked around. He didn’t recognize his surroundings and didn’t know where to go to empty his guts.

Someone thrust a bucket into his hands and he gratefully puked into it. A warm hand rubbed his back and that person began muttering encouraging inanities.

Finally he was able to stop and he looked up to see who his rescuer was.

“Eddie?” he murmured. “What happened?”

“Hey, babe,” Eddie whispered back. “Don’t worry about that right now. I just need you to keep throwing up whatever’s in your stomach, okay?”

Steve blinked at him a moment before he was forced to vomit again. It came out through his nose as well as his mouth. His nose was raw and his throat wrecked. But he couldn’t stop.

Tears ran down his face as he body continued to reject whatever it was that was causing this.

“That’s right, let it all out.”

Again Steve stopped and he looked up at Eddie mournfully. “I hate this.”

Eddie pulled him into his arms and held him tightly. “You think you can make the short walk to the bathroom?”

Steve nodded and went to go set down the bucket but Eddie stopped him.

“You might want to hold on to that just in case.”

Steve looked at Eddie then back at the bucket. He nodded.

“You hold onto your new friend Mr. Bucket,” Eddie said lightly, “and I’ll hold onto you. Okay?”

Steve nodded again and let Eddie help him to the bathroom. Eddie took the bucket and set it in the bathtub. He opened the toilet seat so if Steve needed to throw up, nothing would impede that and went in search of a spare toothbrush. He didn’t think that any of the guys would want Steve touching theirs and he wasn’t about to let him touch his.

“Eureka!” he whisper shouted. “When you feel up to it, you can use this to brush your teeth.”

Steve stared at him blankly like putting anything in his mouth would be a nightmare right then.

Eddie took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “Right, that’s not important at this moment. Got it. Priorities, Munson. Get it together.”

Tears streamed down Steve’s face and he whispered, “I’m sorry. I tend to ruin everything.” And then promptly began throwing up again. He started to shake as the vomiting and the cold got to him.

Eddie walked out and Steve really began to sob.

Then there was a warm blanket placed around his shoulders. “You didn’t ruin anything, Stevie. I promise I’ll tell you all about it when your well enough to hear it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve sobs became hiccups then the hiccups became sniffles and then Eddie looked down to see that he had fallen asleep.

Eddie rocked him back and forth on the cold bathroom floor, trying hard to not fall in love with this man.

*

When Steve woke up a second time, he was in a cramped bathroom, wrapped in a warm blanket and pressed to Eddie’s side.

Eddie must have felt him stir. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”

Steve buried his face into Eddie’s neck. “Like I’ve been run over. I didn’t think I drank that much to get this hungover.”

Eddie carded his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Do you still feel like you need to throw up?”

Steve lifted his head as he thought about it. “No. I feel like shit, but not like my guts are going turn themselves inside out.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad. Why don’t you take a shower and brush your teeth and I’ll set some clothes for you to change into on the toilet seat, okay?”

Steve nodded.

Eddie helped him to his feet and got the water in the shower started for him.

Steve stripped out of his clothes and got into the shower. He closed the curtain and just let the warm water wash over him. He thought hard about what happened last night.

The only thing he remembered was that he had been having a great time and then nothing. He heard the door open and then close quickly. He peeked around the curtain and saw the clothes on the toilet seat as promised.

Steve relaxed with a sigh. He looked around the shower and was surprised to see how neatly organized it all was. But he didn’t want to take anyone’s shampoo or anything so he just rinsed his hair instead. The body wash on the other hand was something he had to use. He opened each one to smell them, not wanting to grab something that would give him a migraine later.

He settled on the third one. It was woody, like pine. But not super strong or fake smelling. He got to work scrubbing himself down.

Once he no longer felt as though he’d been dragged out of hell by his balls he stepped out of the shower and dried off with the big fluffy towel that was on the hamper.

He dressed in the clothes Eddie had set out for him, complete with underwear. They still had the fold lines and wrinkles fresh from the pack. They were black boxers but then Steve couldn’t really see Eddie wearing anything else.

He slid them on and they were warm and comfortable. Next went the warm sweats and then finally the band shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked and felt like shit. There was nothing for it. He had to go out and face the music.

Or at least Eddie Munson, which as far as Steve was concerned was the same thing.

When he walked out into the main part of the apartment, he could tell it was still early enough that everyone else was in bed, but not so early that it was obscene to be seen awake after a night at the bar.

Steve slid into one of the bar stools at the counter and watched as Eddie made breakfast. Eggs, link sausage, bacon, and hashbrowns.

“That’s a lot,” he murmured. “I’m not sure my stomach is going to appreciate your effort.”

Eddie grinned. “It seems really counter-intuitive, but greasy foods tend fair better on hangovers and upset stomachs. You’d think it’d be the opposite, but nope.”

Steve cocked his head to the side. “Huh, I never would have thought it either.”

“Why don’t you call someone to let them know you’re okay, while I go rouse the boys?” Eddie suggested as he turned all the heat on the stove to low. He nodded to the phone on the wall.

“Robin!” Steve cried. He looked around for a clock for the exact time. “Shit! I was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago!”

***

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @itsall-taken @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @redfreckledwolf @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child @lololol-1234 @r0binscript @monsterloverforhire @mugloversonly @live-the-fangirl-life @f0xxyb0xxes @lublix

[starlightsuffered]

Sperm Donor

Info - unprotected sex, trying to get pregnant, jealousy, teasing, finger sucking, breeding kink, a little bit of hard Dom

“Positive?” Timothée asked Hopefully as I opened the bathroom door. I shook my head sadly.

Timothée and I had been married for five years. We had finally decided we were ready for kids. The issue was, I wasn’t getting pregnant. We had been trying since his birthday and nothing.

“No,” I sighed.

“Shit, I’m sorry baby,” Timothée said mournfully. He wrapped me in his arms and petted my hair.

“Maybe we should use a sperm donor,” I said jokingly.

“Excuse me?” Came the harsh response.

“Yeah, since you can’t get me pregnant,” I said casually. I could sense his jealousy and anger. For some reason, I wanted to poke this sleeping lion.

“Y/n,” Timothée growled. I secretly loved when he got this way.

“You jealous?” I asked. This was all I needed to say. I was thrown against the wall and kissed. I put my hands I. His hair and moaned.

He was stripping me all while one hand dove into my panties. He was rolling my bud of pleasure and I couldn’t help but jerk a couple times.

“Baby, I’m your husband,” he purred.

“But I’m not pregnant,” I responded just to get it rougher. He slapped my cunt.

“Are you saying you’re not grateful for my cum?” He asked.

“Load after load, but I’m not with child,” I said in a sing song voice. I knew this would piss him off. I was right. He threw me over his shoulder.

I was on the kitchen table, bare and displayed. Timothée was eating my pussy. His mouth was inside me. I was so wet and heady.

“You’re delicious, you sure I haven’t made you the bearer of my child?” He asked.

“Test says no,” I gasped out. Timothée made a face. He was on me in a second.

He entered me and began to fuck me like an animal. He was shoving his cock so deep inside me. He was even laughing. He was treasuring my desperation.

I lifted my legs and pressed them to my chest. He kept them there. He held my legs down. He kept fucking me wildly.

“You ask me if I’m jealous?” He asked as his long and hard cock was slamming into me.

“Of course I am. I am your fucking husband.”

“I-fuck, oh, fuck, Timothée,” I wailed.

“You want a sperm donor huh?” He asked me. I tried to answer but he shoved his fingers into my mouth. I suckled needily. My eyes rolled back in my head. He was going at me like an animal.

“As if you’d ever touch someone else’s sperm, you’re a fucking addict to me,” he chuckled darkly. I groaned. He took his hand away from my mouth.

“Mmmm, wanna suck,” I said in a pathetic voice.

“I thought you were thinking about sperm donors,” he teased me.

“Ah, ah, ah,” I gasped out. I couldn’t make words come out. I felt so good. I felt my toes curl. He lifted one of my legs so he could hit me at a deeper angle. My leg rested against his shoulder.

“Say it again. Say my sperm isn’t good enough,” he egged me on.

“Just, fuck, wanna be, oh shit, pregnant,” I squirmed.

“Oh you’ll be pregnant, I’m gonna breed this fucking cunt,” he growled and punctuated his words with thrusts. I was panting. Just those words leaving his mouth made me wetter.

“Breed,” I begged.

“That’s right princess,” he smirked.

“Breed me,” I pleaded.

“Yes darling,” he agreed. He bent over me and continued to slam in balls deep. He kissed me sloppily. Saliva was everywhere as our tongues met and caressed one another.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I whined.

Timothée was massaging my sensitive breasts. His cock was buried inside me. I could feel him twitching as he possessively fucked me.

“What’s wrong with my sperm?” He whispered in my ear.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” I breathed.

“So you don’t mind if I dump my big load inside you?” He purred.

“Oh fuck, oh yes, please do it, breed me,” I moaned.

“Good girl!” He cried out. He began to shoot ropes and ropes deep inside my fertile womb. I was shaking with my own orgasm. We were both shaking and moaning as I was filled. He was still going, fucking his sperm further inside me. We were kissing again. I wrapped my legs around his waist so that he didn’t pull out.

“Let’s go again,” Timothée gasped. “Gotta fill you to bursting. I want to make you full.”

“Yes, make me round. Give me all your cum.”

Sure enough a couple days later I registered as pregnant. Timothée was so proud of himself he bred me all over again.

[klausinamarink]

When Life Gives You Pickles, Make It Into Soup

rating: G | cw: none | wc: 920 | tags: established relationship, domestic bliss, soup | prompt: Love is silently passing them a pickle because you know it’s their favourite

written for @steddielovemonth

“So Gareth was supposed to stay on the drums, right?” Eddie waves his hands in the air where he sits on the counter. “That’s like his whole thing since he joined the band.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, glancing over at Eddie as he starts sliding the chopped carrots and potatoes into the pot from the cutting board. 

“But during practice, which was today, he says that he wants to play bass guitar. Which, in another day, I would be completely cool with and the other guys will be like, ‘Yeah, Gareth, follow your heart’s intent and pick another instrument that calls out to you.’”

“That’s what you would say.” Steve points out just because he knows that Eddie’s that kind of person who says such long-winded compliments. He fills the pot with cold water from the sink, just barely remembering to throw in a pound of the meat bones to complete the broth. 

“Okay, yeah, I said that.” Eddie rolls his eyes. Then he raises an index finger, pointing it up to the ceiling for no particular reason. “But I didn’t! I said none of that because Gareth said he wanted to change instruments today. The day before we will have our venue show!”

Steve drops his mouth open in a wide ‘O’ because he’s that invested in the secret drama of Eddie’s band. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Eddie shakes his head mournfully. “You can imagine our reactions.”

Steve hums, opening the jar of pickles and plucking one out to pass it to Eddie. Eddie takes it and bites it without a second thought. There’s a couple pickles left in the jar since Steve had already blended the brine earlier so his boyfriend could finish them.

After a few chews and swallows, Eddie continues his tale of mutual devastation, still oblivious to Steve’s cooking. Good. Because this has been in Steve’s plans for weeks ever since he went to the farmer’s market and struck a lovely conversation with that Polish couple. He watches the boiling pot, making sure his attention is perfectly divided between the timer and Eddie’s story.

“-and then Jeff said, ‘How about I switch with the bass, Frankie does the second guitar, and you do the drums?’ I told him, ‘Don’t you remember my last time playing with the drums?’ Jeff just said, ‘Oh yeah, right.’ Then-”

Setting the stove’s temperature down to shimmer, Steve slowly pours in the blended pickle in the broth, mixing it together. He sees Eddie has finished his pickle so Steve passes him another. 

This time, Eddie ferociously tears a chunk off, green acid spitting out as he speaks with a full mouth, “Eventually, it was Gareth who finally stood himself up and said, ‘Yeah, you’re totally right, I shouldn’t switch out before tomorrow’s gig. But I’m still doing bass after that's done.’”

“So who’s doing the drums?” Steve crosses his arms, leaning his hip on the counter besides Eddie.

“That’s the thing!” Eddie throws his hands up. Unfortunately, so does the half-eaten pickle. It hits the ceiling with a tiny splat. The two men stare up at it, Steve with genuine surprise and Eddie with horror. Before Eddie can splutter out apologies, Steve wordlessly kisses him and gives him the last pickle from the jar. Eddie carefully eats the whole thing with a bright-red face and eyes pointed downwards. Cute.

Steve double checks the soup. The lid’s so steamed over that he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been stained completely white. He takes that cue to take it off and shut the stove for it to cool. 

Eddie finally speaks, “Yeah, we have no idea who our drummer could be. Like, Gareth’s good but neither of us are. Frankie has good rhythm but he’s better with guitar. I can’t drum for shit. Same with Jeff.”

“Bet that’s a problem for Future Eddie and his friends.” Steve quips, slowly mixing the soup around. 

Eddie barks out a laugh. He hops off the counter and stands behind Steve, peeking over at the pot. “This smells delicious by the way. What soup is it?”

Steve makes a shushing gesture to which Eddie responds by biting his shoulder. Steve rolls his eyes and contemplates if he should put in the half and half cream now. The Polish woman at the market had said it was better to wait for the soup to cool enough before adding the cream and parsley. He shrugs and just dumps it anyway. 

He retrieves the bowls and scoops a good amount of the soup. “Careful, it’s still hot.” Steve warns as he passes it to Eddie’s eager hands. “And eat at the table this time.”

Eddie sticks a tongue out at him but does so. Steve watches with bated breath as Eddie carefully blows on his spoon before closing his mouth around it. He sees the exact second when Eddie’s eyes widen and his body going stock still. For a terrifying moment, Steve worries that he had messed up the recipe and Eddie was going to spit it out in disgust.

But within a blink of an eye, Eddie’s standing in front of him. Hands clenching tightly on his shoulders while his eyes start watering. 

“Sweetheat,” Eddie says oh-so softly, “did you make soup from pickles… for me?”

Steve smiles at him sweetly and gently squeezes Eddie’s wrists. “Pickles are your favourite after all.”

Naturally, Eddie cries his eyes out with blabbering declarations of his unending love for Steve. Steve is more than happy to hold his boyfriends and return those favors.

[mrs-dr-reid]

“Lecture”

A Wolverine Fic

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader

Summary: Logan's late-night crisis of worth leads to a loving reassurance/lecture from the reader

Genre: Super frickin fluffy, but a teensy bit suggestive at the end because why not?

Warnings: Swearing, allusions to Logan's past, suggestive language, tooth-rotting fluff

A/N: The voices got me. I'm writing for Wolverine now

Word Count: 1668 (just a baby)

———————————————————————

As time went on, Y/N began to appreciate the quieter moments she shared with Logan. Sure, she enjoyed the banter with the other X-Men and watching Scott get humbled, and of course, she adored seeing him interact with the kids. But her favorite time to spend with the man she loves was when it was just the two of them in their shared room talking about nothing and everything all at once, wrapped up in each other like they were the only two people in the universe.

On one of these nights, Y/N was snuggled against Logan’s chest as he traced random shapes on her back, and she was almost asleep when she heard him heave a sigh and whisper, “Shit,” so she opened her eyes and mumbled, “Logan? Is everything okay?”, making him run a hand over her arm and say, “Ah, it’s nothing, Baby. I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep,” while shaking his head.

Y/N craned her neck to look up at him and said, “Lo, we’ve talked about this. When you start getting into your head too much, you need to talk to me,” while bringing a hand up to cup his face, a look of concern taking over her features. Logan grabbed her hand and kissed it before saying, “Yeah, okay. I was just… and this is gonna sound stupid, but I was just thinking about how you could do so much better than me,” which made Y/N fully sit up with an aghast look on her face.

She said, “Please tell me you’re joking, because if you aren’t, you’re in for one hell of a lecture, Bubba,” and when Logan just looked at her with a somber expression on his face, a crease formed between her eyebrows before she cupped his face in both hands and said, “I love you, Logan Howlett. Every scar, every bruise, every freckle and line is perfect to me. There’s nobody else I’d rather be with than you, and I need you to believe me when I say that because it is God’s honest truth, okay?”, her thumbs lovingly stroking his cheeks.

Logan looked at her mournfully and murmured, “Why me?”, so Y/N repositioned herself so their shoulders were pressed together, and she grabbed one of his wrists before saying, “First of all, I love your hands, because they’re warm and rough, and you have to admit mine fit in them pretty good,” and lacing her fingers with his, which made him chuckle despite himself and say, “Yeah, they do fit together quite nicely,” squeezing Y/N’s hand for emphasis.

Y/N turned his hand over in her grasp, then double-tapped one of his knuckles and said, “I love your claws, because they’re a part of you whether you want them to be or not, and because they help you protect yourself and other people, but mostly me,” earning her a soft snort from Logan as he rested his head on hers. Y/N continued by running her free hand up and down his arm and saying, “I love your arms, because they’re strong and sturdy, and because I never have to worry about anything when you’re holding me,” which made Logan playfully flex his arm and joke, “You sure you don’t just love them because they’re big?”, earning a loving swat to the chest from Y/N.

She brought a hand up to trace his mouth and said, “I love your mouth. Not just because you can do some… very enjoyable things with it, but also because you have a wonderful smile, and the corner of your mouth quirks up when you know I’m right but you don’t want to admit it,” and Logan was barely able to stop himself from doing that exact thing before saying, “Are we just gonna brush past that first part?”, which made Y/N shoot him a look that clearly said she wasn’t done yet, so he raised a hand in surrender and let her continue.

Y/N’s fingers wandered up to the creases by Logan’s eye, then she said, “I love your eyes, because even though they’ve seen some of the most awful things you could imagine, there’s still a tenderness to them, especially when you’re looking at me,” and he couldn’t help the lovestruck look in his eyes as he smiled at her. Y/N added, “I also love the little glint in your eye when you’re knocking Scott down a couple of pegs, or when the kids are getting up to some mischief that you helped them orchestrate,” and tapped his nose, which made him chuckle and tap her nose back.

Her hand migrated back to his chest as she said, “I love your chest. Not only because it’s a really nice pillow…,” and Logan flexed the peck her hand was resting on playfully at that sentiment, which made her shoot him a lovingly exasperated look before she continued, “But also because it’s where your heart is, and I love your heart most of all because even though you’ve lived through some truly horrible things, you never let them harden your heart. You love so fully and so fiercely, you put the most famous lovers in history to shame,” her thumb stroking the skin where his heart was. Logan put a hand over hers and whispered, “Thank you,” so Y/N smiled and whispered back, “Of course,” with a loving wrinkle of her nose before leaning in to press a loving kiss to his lips.

After she pulled away, a wicked grin spread across her face, and she slid her hand down to the waistband of Logan’s sweatpants while saying, “I also really love your co-...,” but she didn’t get to finish her sentence because Logan cut her off with a hand over her mouth and said, “Okay, Darlin, you’ve made your point,” trying to fight back a blush at her salaciousness. Y/N said, “Are you sure? You don’t need a demonstration?”, while toying with one of the drawstrings, so Logan said, “Can we raincheck that? I just want to hold you right now,” which made Y/N make a playful thinking face before saying, “I can work with that,” and snuggling against his chest once again.

Logan rolled his eyes, but he still pressed a kiss to the top of her head and said, “I love you, too, Y/N. You have no idea just how much,” making Y/N say, “I think I get the gist of it. Sweet dreams, Big Guy,” and tighten her grip on him. Logan murmured, “All my dreams are sweet because you’re in them,” earning a playful nudge to the ribs and a grumble of, “Sap,” from her. After a few moments of silence, Y/N said quietly, “Did I forget to mention how much I love your butt?”

The belly laugh she received was all she needed to know that Logan wouldn’t be having any crises of worth anytime soon.

———————————————————————

MCU Taglist: @libraryofloveletters

Let me know in the comments if you want to be added

[sevenop]

may you feed the angst monster? it yearns the pain and ache of a childhood friends to lovers but they never actually get to be lovers? perhaps one's moves away or billie thinks she's too busy and won't be enough? (happy ending though cuz angst monster is a little sensitive baby)

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Parallel lines

A/n: Broken knees, unspoken words at one time, and a bunch of motley band-aids . As a child, you carefully tend to Billie's every bruise and wound, hiding them behind the surface of funny band-aids, while she herself hides from you like seven seals, covering herself with a half-hearted smile. A few years later, having suddenly cut off all ties with each other, you meet again - she is a world-famous star, still breaking her knees, you are a paramedic assigned to her in a hurry, who has a set of absurd band-aids in your pocket.

"Billie!" The child's voice trembles fearfully, picked up by the sultry wind of early morning, which is already spilling across the sky with the barely rolled orange disk of the sun, so seductively reminiscent of a juicy orange. The wind blasts you with a new wave of heat, and you shaking as if you'd been thrown out the door into a crackling, freeze-stinging winter in just a t-shirt - fear creeps to the very bottom of your soul, clinging to the strings of your nerves along the way. You clutch the half-full water bottle restlessly in your palms a few times, making the plastic crunch loudly. "Billie! Please get off!"

"There's more!" Eilish chuckles sonorously, gleefully, like a bird, and climbs up the tree farther and higher, as if he wants to touch the lush green leaves of the spreading crown with his fingers. "I'll prove to you that it's not the least bit scary, Y/n!"

You bite your lower lip in excitement, and it's as if it's the only thing that helps you hold back the hailstones of tears coming insistently to your eyes: such an interesting and bizarre contrast, with you on the ground almost sobbing and her laughing aloft.

"Please, Billie..." You sniffle your nose, wiping the very tip with the stretched sleeve of your red sweatshirt, making the fabric immediately get a little wet. Your voice is about to break in its pitifulness and break.

Billie turns around, looking over her shoulder at you from above, and for a few moments her confident, clear-blue river softens in her gaze, causing her eyebrows to arch and arch, and her small lips to stretch at the very corners in an awkward but understanding smile.

"Okay, I'll-" her phrase-agreement is immediately drowned out in her own shriek as Billie puts her foot lower on the tree trunk without looking, too hastily, and as a result: slips sharply on the sandpaper-like bark, clinging with palms in fear. She snaps off, and with indescribable frustration flopping backwards on the ground, right up to the roots of the young oak tree, onto the grass spread out around you like a green carpet.

"Eilish!" You immediately run up to her, snapping in an asynchronous ricochet like a frightened gopher gerbil. You plop down on the ground in front of her, palms on her shoulders, squeezing them a little, either for support or for your own reassurance.

Billie whimpers softly, dropping her gaze into the green of the park lawn as mournfully as if she'd lost the war: more, clear beads of tears rolling down her face, her cheeks starting to turn pink. Confusion mixed with the blush of weeping.

"Does it hurt much...?" You ask quietly, stroking her head soothingly with your small palm. She sniffs her nose loudly, shows you her bloodied palms and nods silently, stoically swallowing a loud, tearful howl. You release your gaze a little lower and stare at her bloody mottled knees, only now the mottling, unlike her hands, is covered with black smears of dirt and green grass sap. Actively appearing scarlet beads of blood on her skin make you cringe and fumble with trembling fingers in your shorts pocket for a crumpled pack of band-aids, a small permanent "amulet" handed to you every day. handed to you repeatedly by your mom. "I'll help..."

You hurriedly unscrew the bright yellow cap from the bottle, and a dozen images flash before your eyes: how did your mom do it? What did she say? It seems like you should always wash the wound first, right? You nod confidently to your thoughts, and then you tilt the bottle gently, lifting the neck to her skinned knees: a clean, cool trickle of water pulls all the dirt right down with it, dripping onto the ground as you help with your palm, barely touching the tortured skin, and Billie only hisses painfully, but doesn't move away from you, only her legs twitching faintly in pain. You rustle a few strips of Band-Aids out of the box, frowning seriously like a doctor, and pick up the paper protecting the soft pad of the Band-Aid and its sticky layer with your fingertips. When the bloody meshes and peeled skin fall under the undeniable protection of your pink Hello Kitty patches, glued on a little crookedly but firmly, Eilish holds out her palms to you, looking straight at you, trust, gratitude, and a silent plea for forgiveness in her weeping blue eyes. You silently rinse her hands, too, cover the wounds with rectangles of girl's band-aids, and hold her close in a comforting embrace. Billie sniffs, but clings to you in response, her hands buzzing and burning with pain tightly clasped behind your back. Unconditional mutual reassurance and trust.

"Aren't you going to tell mom...?" Her hot, low whisper tickles your ear pleasantly.

And you answer, snuggling only closer to her, "I won't."

And you two don't care that everything will be absurdly obvious to Maggie when you get back home.

×××

"Eilish, you're going to kill yourself someday!" You frown, grasping the weighty cotton roll with your fingers and pulling hard, sharply: the little fluffy lump is on your clinging fingertips in no time. You immediately deftly pick up the bottle with a sharp-smelling antiseptic, blotting the absorbent cotton and pre-treating your palms. The open wounds on your fingers (stupid habit of tearing cuticles) are instantly stung by the alcohol, but you don't even twitch: it's a matter of habit. "Do you want to be without knees at all by the time you're old?"

Eilish hums, shaking her head to brush ash-gray strands of hair out of her eyes. She bites her lip and staring childishly into the bedroom floor, never admitting that her bloody knees stung, never making a sound, proudly swallowing every it, even the ones that came up in the back of her throat.

"I had to put my best foot forward today." Her detached voice draws your tenacious, frowning gaze to the top of her head in an instant.

"That doesn't mean you have to paint the dance studio floors maroon!" You hissing at her in a parental manner, fumbling with your hands in your small makeshift med-bag for cooling ointment for bruises.

You mutter to yourself, and Eilish smiles dully, impenetrable and silent, no longer answering. She twitches slightly a couple times, the first from the sharp contrast of the cold ointment against her skin temperature as you gently rub the ointment into her knees, and the second from a mild fit of tics, her head jerking toward the ceiling. You can tell now that she's definitely nervous about something. You gently touch her face with your chiseled palms only when you finish gluing stupid plasters with painted spiders on her wounds, and wiping your hands with a damp cloth. The sterility habit attaches itself to you so imperceptibly that you don't even realize it.

"Hey," you whisper softly, and Billie immediately flatters her cheek against your palm. "I'm sorry if I grumbled like a grandmother again."

The blue oceans in her eyes murmur, foaming with something incomprehensible, but clearly not malicious. A soft smile crossed by a glance back to the pile of the carpet as her head jerks sharply again in a Tourette's tic. "It's nothing." Her quiet whisper.

You only put your arms around her, gently wrapping your long arms around her in the manner of a life preserver, the only thing that will keep Eilish from drowning in the murk of her own thoughts right now. Her shoulders and back are tense like a tight string, but her hands, sliding down somewhat lazily over your shoulder blades through the cotton of your voluminous black t-shirt, are gentle, careful.

"Will you tell me?" You whisper softly, trying not to sneeze as her ash-gray strands climb up your nose: soft, pear-scented. "And hey, how many times have I told you tics are normal."

And her shoulders relax in an instant, and she seems to become boneless almost entirely, spreading out in our arms, nestling close to you like a warm, California sea wave. Nestled, but also immediately "caught": you feel the warmth of her slightly trembling palms on your shoulder blades again, but now it is static, immovable.

And she tells you. Tells you about every thought languishing under her skull, every worry about the upcoming tryouts for the dance production. She tells you, exactly one week before the upcoming incident that will turn her life upside down a hundred and eighty degrees, while you whisper words of encouragement to her, and she gulps inquisitively into your eyes, saying nothing and at the same time saying everything in the world.

×××

Her sobs shake her body silently, and she clutches at you with trembling fingers, nearly pulling your t-shirt off your shoulders through a collar that has been stretched by time and many washings. No longer screaming, no longer howling loudly, bringing even her favorite old bulldog Pepper to her ears, but trembling like the flame of a nearly extinguished candle that reaches the hot, melted wax with a hiss. She's been crying for the beat three hours, the sun having long since rolled indifferently away over the horizon, straining the string of stars and the darkness of the sky with its hot, round side as if they were caught on it. And you keep stroking her just as gently, not even changing the diligent, soft amplitude, you crumble in a huge number of quiet words of support, modestly reaching almost the second million. She's trembling, and there's nothing you can do - such an injury can't be sealed with any of your even stupidest band-aids.

"I won't be able to dance anymore..." Her sob-weary voice is hoarse, and you're in so much pain it feels like someone is mercilessly tearing expensive velvet with their bare hands. "I'm nothing now..."

You can only choke mournfully on your unspoken words and thoughts as you continue to pet her-you'd rather die right now under her tired body than tell her that you have to move to another state this morning. She crumbles in thoughts of her own insignificance, you in the realization that there's nothing you can do to help now.

"Please leave me..." She also wheezes hotly. "I'm nothing now, I'm nobody, I can't do anything..."

And you cry for the first time in three hours, burying your wet nose against the top of her head. Hot tears flow down your cheeks, dripping onto her gray hair like mournful rain on ashes after a fire. Your two million words about her importance don't work.

"Are you sure...?" You ask her softly-quietly, and she only nods, lying lifelessly on top of you as she does.

You take a dozen promises from her that she won't do anything stupid, and then leave as she wishes. After five hours you roll the wheels of your yellow suitcase down the lane in the early morning, shuffling your feet languidly while the whole neighborhood of Highland Park is asleep (you'd be happier going to the scaffold of the French Revolution), and Billie lies sleepless in her bed, shrunken into a life-beaten lump. Her heart aches for the closed road of the future, but even more for the loss of you. She's well aware of your move, heard snippets of it from her mother's conversations. The thought that it will be better acts like a dulling but not curing painkiller - she's broken now anyway, she has no future with you. She is nothing, and she now nothing can give anything to the person for whom she was willing to sell the whole world to the devil.

"I take no offense." Said in a whisper in the emptiness of her own room, as if you'd hear it, it masks something else. "I love you so damn much." Screams her thoughts. As if you'll actually hear it.

"I love you." You think and slam the door of your mom's old sedan. Your thoughts scream parallel to each other, wanting to break all the laws of geometry and converge into one smooth, clear line. Screaming, but they can't hear.

×××

You meet exactly seven years later: she is not a broken girl, but a singer, with her voice and even a single gesture able to control almost the entire auditorium of millions of people on every continent; you are a paramedic, a little tired of life, but faithful to your chosen profession, who no longer holds a stupid homemade first aid kit, but a weighty, professional first aid bag behind your back. You meet, knowing perfectly well who's in front of you, and she even now recognizes you in seconds - no badges, no introductions. You sit down gently on your knees in front of her, spreading the ight worn medic bag out on the floor, and she can't tear her gaze away from you, raging oceans of irises in recognition. Your face is hidden behind the pale blue fabric of a medical mask, you haven't uttered a word since entering her dressing room after the show, and she doesn't care at all - she recognizes you by your grown-up, tired eyes, as if she's found a warm glow of caring in them, familiar from childhood. From your past lives.

"You..." Eilish's voice is a little husky from the concert, but it still feels pleasant, velvety. Expensive.

"Hello, Ms. O'Connell." You smile with the very corners of your lips, which is made vaguely clear by the slight squint. Billie squirms a little on the huge black couch, as if the detailed address from your lips scratches her heart like a rusty nail.

She looks at you throughout the whole process: hungrily, almost prayerfully, catching your movements, which have become a little sharper, more refined, more mechanical over the years. She tries to catch your gaze, but it's as if you are deliberately avoiding the murmuring, restless oceans. Your fingertips twitch so treacherously, though almost imperceptibly. As when you were a child, you carefully treat her wounds on your knees with antiseptic and ointment (Billie shudders at the touch of the cool, thin latex of your gloves and the even colder ointment), and then lean over to the medicine cabinet to find band-aids. Billie has words stuck deep in her song-weary windpipe, you have stuck thoughts in your head that resemble bubblegum. You lean over her lap, pulling a piece of paper off a couple of Band-Aids at once, and suddenly you're hovering.

"Y/n, I..." Billie's voice is drowned out by rustling and light thudding. You tuck the pack of Band-Aids back into the medicine cabinet and reach into the pockets of your medically bright red jacket with your hand.

"You... Do you need a 'fuck,' 'crap' or 'shit' patch?" Your voice quivers in laughter as you unfurl strips of band-aids fan-like in front of her and see the dazed, confused look in her eyes. You remember.

"There's with "I love you?" She whispers softly, and looks into your eyes ever so gently and a little fearfully, as if wanting to wrap herself in your gaze like a warm plaid.

"No, but..." You stumble quietly over the words, unzipping three ridiculous patches and gluing them from gently onto her right knee. "I can say it out loud, if that's possible." Your hands shake more visibly as you also cover her now left knee behind the strips of silly words.

Barely do the sticky strips lock onto her skin as she suddenly jumps up like a wound up spring, plopping onto the newly healed lap bravely and eagerly clinging to your lips with hers, shifting the mask so deftly that you don't even realize it before you do, only lips obediently opening for her. It feels right. You involuntarily exhale hotly into the kiss, as if you'd forgotten how to breathe at all.

"I love you." You say it almost simultaneously as she pulls away and presses gently against your forehead with hers.

Two parallel lines of thought come together against all odds. And it's the right thing to do. With her, it's definitely right.