#I thought I was escaping but there is no escape

[laceyfaeryy]

Hii, I hope you're doing well! I'm not sure if you'd be comfortable writing this so don't feel bad if you choose not to. But omfg I can't stop thinking about Price x reader where Price just can't always keep up with reader's sex drive when she's ovulating so he lets his team satisfy her (could be written as just Price asking Ghost to take care of her sex drive for the day, since you only write for Price and Ghost :) )

MDNI 18+

simon riley fucking price’s bird

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ price asks for simon to help him with his birdie’s needs

cw: vaginal sex, unprotected sex, brief mention of an age gap with price

“i swear my dick is goin’ limp at this stage,” price groaned as he sank deeper onto the flimsy couch, his exhaustion visible on his face after he tried to keep up with your stamina.

“maybe yer gettin’ old, can’t keep up with lil birdie’s needs.” simon joked, the small wrinkles on price’s skin seemed to be more defined than usual.

that bruised price’s ego.

but it was true, he was significantly older than you, and it was like his dick got it’s life sucked out whenever he fucked you.

“she’s a lil needy thing, keeps on begging’ for me even when i filled her up.”

simon chuckled, the idea of his captain, getting all worn out by his sweet birdie was more entertaining that he thought. “it’s jus’ that i’m an older man, all these years the only thing i have fucked is my hand, and now that i can finally get sum pussy it’s something different.”

price tried his best to satisfy you, to help you with your needs when you were ovulating, but it was just so damn hard when you wanted more.

“you got a good stamina,” price nodded towards simon, his eyes drifting over his body. tall, strong, big. he would be perfect.

“what, you gonna ask me to fuck yer lil birdie?” a chuckled escaped simon’s lips, before his face went still.

“that’s exactly what i’m asking.”

never in simon’s life did he think that he would be balls deep inside price’s precious little birdie’s cunt, “fuckin’ hell, he wasn’t lyin’ when he said you were tight.” simon hissed as your gummy walls gripped around his cock tightly, as if it didn’t him to pull out, memorising every vein.

this was a privilege that simon secretly prayed that he would get again, to fuck your small cunt over and over until you couldn’t cum anymore.

his large scarred hands gently pressed down on your lower stomach, making you whine and squirm under his grasp. “shh, luvie, simon’s got ya.” he cooed softly as you sobbed, your cunt forming a creamy ring around the base of his cock.

“need you to get worn out yeah?” his voice raspy as your cunt sucked him in, god - no wonder why price always seems so damn exhausted. your arms wrapped around his neck as you sobbed for more, your heels dug into his lower back, pulling him closer. “still hurts si, still aches.”

simon let’s out a soft hum, “i know birdie, but ill get yer lil cunnie the attention she deserves and the ache will go away yeah?” his large hand gently rubbing around your folds, feeling the sensitive puffy flesh around him.

lewd squelches filled the room, simon’s cum leaking out of your swollen cunt as you came over and over again, gushing all over his cock.

“gonna go all night, how does that sound?”

tag list:

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne

[nadvs]

　 —⊹　♡　 epilogue ⟢

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating explicit 18+

tags this is the fluffy, smutty epilogue to the power play series. college au. established relationship.

When Rafe opens his door, his lips pull into a smirk, taking in your pretty face.

“You don’t have to knock,” he says. “What took so long?”

You texted him that you were done with your final a little while ago, on your way home to shower and change before coming over.

He knew he had a wait ahead of him, but he never has much patience when he’s anticipating seeing you.

You smile weakly as you step into his dorm room. The sun is starting to set, the walls painted in an orange, dusky glow.

“So impatient,” you tease.

You drop your bag on his desk and plop down onto his bed, spread out on your front with your head on his pillow.

“I spent my entire shower worrying about what would happen if I failed,” you sigh.

Rafe settles at the end of the bed, chuckling, his muscles tightening at the thought of you in the shower.

“Baby, you know you passed,” he says. “There’s no chance you didn’t.”

You dig your face into his pillow, finding comfort in your boyfriend’s familiar aroma. You take in the sound of his breathing, of the sound of cars passing and birds chirping through the window he has cracked open.

He runs a big hand over your calf, skimming over your bare skin, stopping at the middle of your thigh, where the hem of your dress is bunched up.

“You wore this before,” he murmurs.

“I did,” you reply. “Did you not know you can rewear clothes? There’s this thing called a washing machine. Am I going too fast?”

“Shut up,” he laughs. “I’m just sayin’ I… I remember seeing it. And liking it.”

You’d worn this dress to a frat party, back when you didn’t know Rafe liked you, too. The thought of him staring at you, wanting you and not being able to do anything about it, makes your stomach numb.

You smile into his pillow, goosebumps blossoming over your skin as his warm, calloused palm drags up and down the back of your leg.

“That feels really nice,” you say dreamily.

A languid heat invades Rafe’s body and settles thick between his thighs. He knows he needs to go slow. You’ve only been together for about a month, and the farthest you’ve ever gone with a guy is everything you’ve done with him.

You haven’t moved past making out and touching each other over your clothes, always leaving him wanting more, but never willing to risk asking for too much.

Your body fills with warmth as he runs his hand along your leg, his fingers gently digging into the back of your thigh.

“Too rough?” he asks, his voice strained.

Your throat is dry, the coil in you starting to tighten. You turn onto your back, holding out your arms for him to close the little distance left between you.

Rafe’s eyes stay locked on yours as he shifts forward, his knees settled on the bed as he sinks to hover over you.

“Too rough?” you flirt. “You think you’re going to break me or something?”

“I could,” he murmurs. You breathe a deep, entranced exhale at the implication, at the mental image of him really being rough with you.

Every minute that you spend with him makes you want to go all the way even more, although your nerves always keep you from initiating it.

Rafe leans in to kiss you, your lips softly smacking together as he presses up against you.

You’re used to it by now, to how hard he is for you when he gets this close. It always throws you into a daze, makes your body respond with the same amount of desire.

You hike your leg up, your inner thigh tight against his side, bucking your hips just a little to feel him against you as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

A grunt escapes his lips, heat pooling in his stomach.

His hand drags down your waist, over your hip, shifting so he has the room to touch you beneath your dress, between your thighs. Your breath hitches as his fingers press against your panties, gentle and firm.

“Hard day, baby?” Rafe whispers. “You want me to make you feel better?”

“Yes,” you say in a whisper, tilting your hips towards him again. You’re so infatuated with him, with the way that he was once so closed off, but now, all he does is talk you through everything, and intimate moments like these are no exception.

He kisses you again, open-mouthed, allowing you to press your tongue against his. His head is spinning, his fingers wet even through the fabric.

He’s never touched you without a barrier and he’s so hungry for it that it’s making him ache.

“Can I move them to the side?” he whispers, his finger tip over the edge of your panties.

You nod, spreading your legs wider.

His inhale is sharp when he feels how wet and soft you are, spreading you apart, gently running his fingers up and down. When he starts to rub circles over your clit, your breath is shaky as you whisper his name in pleasure, arousal licking at your core.

“More,” you whisper, impatient, too drunk on the feeling to even think about any nerves.

“More?” he echoes, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You want my mouth on you?”

Your body reacts before your mind can, grinding against his hand.

“Yes,” you say.

Rafe feels like he’s in another world now that he’s seconds away from finally tasting you.

“Take off your dress,” he orders. You nod, always in a daze from how dominant he can be, adoring every second.

You pull the dress over your head, tossing it onto the floor, and his mouth is immediately on your chest, hands bunching over your bra. He shifts to tug at the back, unhooking it, groaning when he sees you bare, kissing you, sucking your skin.

You meet his gaze one more time before he sinks lower, sliding your panties down. He settles between your legs, hands hooked around your thighs. He refuses to lose eye contact, staring at you as he kisses your inner thigh, your flesh soft and hot against his lips.

The feeling of his mouth finally on you is mind-blowing. You arch your back as he plants his lips where you’re most sensitive, slowly moving up from kissing to sucking. His hands firmly hold you down as you writhe.

Rafe’s movements are slow and deliberate, the perfect amount of pressure, and you can tell by the way that every muscle in your body is clenching that you’re close only seconds in.

The way you taste, the sounds of your sighs, the fact that the most amazing girl he’s ever met wants him like this is too much for him.

He tries to lift his hips off the bed, to avoid any friction, but it’s useless. When you start to shudder, bucking against him, he groans against you, his groin tightening, his climax rushing out.

The vibration of his groan against your clit sends you over the edge, a million fireworks exploding throughout your body. You rest your hand on his hair, his locks soft between your fingers, as you try to find the strength to open your eyes.

“Shit,” he murmurs against your thigh. “I gotta clean myself up.”

You breathe a pleasured chuckle, your breath ragged, your high feeling even better now to know that you had that effect on him. He shifts and you open your eyes to see him touching himself over his jeans, the sight intoxicating to you.

“Don’t move,” he says, grabbing a towel from his hamper.

“I don’t think I can,” you whisper with a soft laugh, shutting your eyes again.

Rafe is back from the shower minutes later, hovering over you again, smelling like his body wash as he kisses you. You’re still naked, and he only has a towel around his waist, and you’re already back to being turned on when you feel his cock growing against you.

“Would you want to… um…” you whisper against his lips.

“Use your words,” he teases. “You never had a problem with that before.”

You smirk, running a hand down his hard, naked back.

“Do you have a condom?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he replies in a breath. “Are you sure?”

You nod, hardly able to wait another second. You want to see him, to feel him.

Rafe shifts to take a condom from the dresser, making the same intense eye contact when he drops his towel. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, at how big and hard he is, excitement flooding every inch of your body.

He opens the wrapper and you watch in a daze as he pulls the condom down his shaft, slowly getting on top of you again. You readjust in place, spreading your legs, gazing at him in anticipation.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers. “Tell me if I need to stop, alright?”

“I will,” you say.

You bite your lip as he looks down, guiding himself to push into you. Your breath hitches as he keeps his promise, slowly sinking in, so slow that you can count the seconds in halves, the pleasure a step away from pain.

“Fuck,” Rafe whispers roughly. You’re so tight, so soft, so fucking perfect that he already doesn’t want this to end. “You feel so good.”

Your body tightens, then loosens as you adjust to his size, expelling a sigh in unison once he bottoms out, his hips against yours.

He cups your face, kissing you as he gently rocks back and pushes inside again. His thrusts are slow, spaced out, even though he wants to go so much faster and harder. He’ll wait, because nothing is more important to him than your comfort.

The pressure of him deep inside you, stretching you out, has quickly gone from good to amazing as you get used to the sensation, lulled by the way he’s panting against you, kissing you.

Your noses nudge together as he pulls back, his forehead against yours.

“Feels good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you whisper through a moan. “So good.”

Your words send Rafe’s mind into a thousand spirals at once, his skin starting to sheen with sweat, pleasure pooling through him as your arms around him tighten.

His strokes slowly start to build in speed, in pressure, the bed squeaking beneath you with his thrusts. Your breaths tangle together in the air, ragged, short, laced with moans.

He trails kisses along your jaw before he pulls back to find your eyes again, constantly in disbelief of how beautiful you are.

His lips are parted as he breathes uneven gasps, euphoria sparking through him, feeling another orgasm curling up inside him.

His hips start to stutter against yours and he lets out a deep, rough groan as he comes, shaking on top of you, holding his breath.

He almost collapses on top of you, but finds the strength to settle on his knees, slowly pulling out, hating the feeling of losing your heat wrapped around him.

Rafe doesn’t have it in him to get up, not yet, so he rests beside you. You shift onto your side to give him space, curled up as his hand drags up your thigh, stopping at the small of your back.

You hold his face in your hands, leaning forward to kiss him, every part of you melting.

He finally opens his eyes, finding a semblance of composure, gazing at you with so much gratitude that you’re sure you’ll never forget the minute you’re living in right now.

“I hate that I won’t be seeing you every day anymore,” he says.

Your chest pinches, wishing you weren’t just a week away from the school year ending, forcing both of you to move back to your hometowns for the summer.

“Yeah,” you say sadly.

“Damn,” he mumbles. “No pep talk for once?”

“Not this time,” you laugh, endeared that he loves your usual optimism. “I’ll miss you.”

A crease forms between his brows, his face shadowed with both pleasure and pain.

“I’ll miss you, too,” he rasps, his voice deep and quiet.

He presses a kiss on your forehead. And you remain blanketed in sweet, silent bliss together, two people who couldn’t be more different, two people who found love in each other when they least expected it.

au masterlist >

[aelxnox]

How would Sevika feel about full bush summer?

SUMMER BUSH

warning: public sex, clit sucking, bush sticking out of reader's bikini, cum licking, finger sucking, not proofread

Sevika would absolutely be feral. You rarely shave your pube because of your fear of making her uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong—Sevika's pussy is hairy. But there's still that voice in the back of your mind telling you that a full bush is disgusting on you.

But you wanted change and you've been with Sevika for nearly 2 years, you wanted to know what her reaction would be if you came out on the beach with the bush you've been growing for months sticking out of your panties.

Sevika was lying on a towel, sunglasses covering her striking eyes—her hands under her head. She looked absolutely delicious. Her hawaiian shirt rode up her stomach, revealing her abs—but there was a noticeable fat on her lower stomach, the one that you always find adorable.

You walked towards her, your movements slow and sheepish as you felt your face heat up and heart almost beat out of your chest because of how nervous you were.

Sevika felt your presence and she took off her sunglasses with a frown, that crease on her forehead only leaving once she sees your face shyly looking down at her.

"Oh. Hey, baby." she smiled and sat up on the towel, her eyes roaming around your face until her gaze slowly travelled down your body—and landing on your crotch.

Her jaw dropped, eyes slightly wide as her eyes flicked back and forth between the hair sticking out of your panties and your reddened face. "Holy shit.." she muttered under her breath and wasted no time in standing up and pulling you close to her body.

"What's this?" she chuckled, her voice rasped. You looked down and fidgeted with your fingers. "I t-thought I'd try something new.."

Sevika giggled at your reaction and leaned down to kiss your forehead. "I like it." your head snapped up to look at her, your eyes widening in surprise. "Really?"

"Really." she husked and wrapped her plump lips around your top lip, her tongue poking your teeth. You opened your mouth wider, allowing Sevika's tongue to explore your mouth.

"Hmm.. there's people around." you whimpered and gripped her shoulders. Sevika pulled away, a string of saliva connecting your mouths.

"Let's go somewhere a tad private then." she murmured and teasingly nipped your earlobe, your breath catching in your throat at the ticklish feeling.

Sevika grinned and dragged you to the water and to the big stones. She slammed you against the rock, a yelp escaping your throat at her hasty movements. "You look so fucking sexy with this." she groaned and punctuated her words by slipping your panties to the side and started toying with your pube.

You moaned when her fingers hit your clit, your legs shaking at the sensation. "Fucking sexy." Sevika growled in your ear and squatted down infront of you, her face mere inches from your exposed pussy.

She stared intently at the thick hair coating your heat, her breathing ragged and chest heaving up and down. Her eyes are filled with hunger, she closed her eyes and stuck her tongue out to lick a bold stripe on your pussy—a breathy whimper coming out of your mouth.

"Hmm.." Sevika moaned, her mouth wrapped around your clitoris. "Tastes.. sweet."

"Ahh.. s-stop it." you whined, hand covering your mouth when you heard laughters nearby. "Someone's h-here, Sev." you whispered, but Sevika paid you no mind and continued lapping your pussy.

"Guess you have to be quiet then."

Your back arched and your hands flew to grope your breasts, your legs getting spread wider by Sevika's big hands. "Hngh!" you moaned when Sevika's tongue entered your hole, your body jolting when you felt the soft muscle massaging your walls. "F-fuck, hmmph.. that f-feels good." you breathed, mouth hung open when you pinched your nipples.

Sevika looked up at your, a grin forming on her face when she saw your flushed face. "Yeah? Feels good, huh?"

You nodded and tangled your hand in her hair to push her head closer to your pussy. "Yes, yes, fuck.. it feels good."

Sevika hummed, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. She pushed her fingers inside of you and latched on your sensitive clit, a loud gasp escaping your mouth.

"F-fuck!" you groaned through gritted teeth, eyes shutting as you tried your hardest to keep quiet. "S-sev.. please." you pleaded, eyes watering when she slammed her fingers deeper inside of you.

"Please what?" Sevika taunted, her lips quirking up into a smirk. "M-make me cum." you responded, voice wavering and body trembling at her harsh pace.

Sevika complied and pushed her thumb hard against your clit, your eyes rolling once again. "So fucking pretty." she mumbled and spat on your bush before spreading her saliva with her fingers. "Even prettier pussy."

"Hngh.. ahh, I-I'm cumming, Sev.. hmmff, ahnn.." you gasped, hands gripping the pointy rocks when you felt a familiar feeling settling in the pit of your stomach.

"Go on, baby. Cum for me." she urged and held onto your hip to slam into you better, her fingers angling to hit your spot.

And that's when you came. Your body tensed and hands moved around to find something to hold onto that would keep you from collapsing. "F-fuck!" you groaned, your cum making sloshing noises in your pussy as Sevika continued her assault on your spent hole.

She helped you come down from your high and slowly pulled her digits out, her eyes watching your cum ooze out of your clenching hole and drip down your thighs.

Sevika leaned in to lick your cum and reached up to push her fingers inside your mouth. "Clean it up, baby." she ordered and you nodded before sticking your tongue out to lick your own cum on Sevika's thick fingers.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

new normal. l Joel Miller

Summary: your life went on, only the worries were the same

Warnings: some smut (+18) but not too much, fluff, some worries, Reader is pregnant, Ellie and Tommy show up here, boring chapter

A/N: i wanted to write something before i leave and give it to you when i'm not home. i hope you'll welcome these scribbles warmly. i love their story so much and I hope you like it too.

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

Joel Miller was in bed when he felt a sweet-smelling weight settle on his back. Something wet touched his neck, and then someone kissed his cheek. A muffled groan escaped his throat.

"Are you asleep?" a quiet but self-satisfied voice sounded in his ear.

"Not anymore..." he murmured. Another kiss. He reached his hand back and felt wet and soft skin under his fingers. "What time is it?"

"It's almost seven." you replied. Another two kisses and a gentle bite on the ear.

Joel rolled over on his back with difficulty, because you weren't going to make it easy for him, and when he rubbed his eyes he saw the sweetest sight in the world. Your hair, still wet, fell over your face. Smiling eyes stared at him, and the open robe revealed that you had nothing underneath.

"You couldn't sleep?" you shook your head. "What's gotten into you, huh?"

"I have no idea, but you know what?" Joel raised his eyebrows and you leaned down and whispered in his ear. "I want you. Now. Please..."

"Please always works." he replied and a moment later he took your face in his hands and moved to capture your lips with his. 

You tasted like mint toothpaste. He didn't know why it was so important to him at that moment. Nimble fingers quickly took off your robe and a second later you were lying on your back and Joel was nestling between your spread thighs.

For the past few days you had been in a honeymoon state, or at least that's what Joel called it in his head. You were full of energy and your appetite for intimacy grew at a very fast pace. There were days when Joel would come home and you would greet him with such sparkling eyes that you didn't even have to say anything more. No, he wasn't complaining, but if he was fifteen or at least ten years younger, he would definitely be able to do more.

But there was something about it that pleased him the most - normalcy. His mind was filled with thoughts of everything that was happening, and most of all, you.

"Fuck, I love you so much..." he moaned as he started moving inside you.

"I love you too, Joel Miller." you replied and pulled him in to kiss him hard.

Sometimes he imagined the world was normal. Like in that bed, with your body right underneath his, that was a slice of normal. If it weren't for this fucking pandemic, that would be your normal. 

He'd be making love to you in your shared bed. You'd be married, engaged, or just together, because would that even matter? Sarah would be all grown up, maybe have her own family, kids... And you'd be carrying another child of his, a new beginning. Maybe it was crazy, but the thought was really beautiful to Joel. 

But then he'd remember Ellie. If Sarah were alive, he probably would never have met Ellie. She'd be living with her parents, her real ones. How could he not have her in his life? Joel didn't think he could give her up now.

And you? Did anyone really give him a guarantee that he would have met you if the world hadn't lost its mind? Maybe that was the only normality he could have. Maybe that was how his path was supposed to go.

But Joel really appreciated it, every single day. Every morning when he saw Ellie and you, every minute spent together, every kiss. It was like tearing something for himself from the claws of changing fate. And Joel wanted to hold on to it.

He met you at the moment when it was supposed to happen. In the place and time right for both of you. You had walked such a difficult path that he was already grateful for what you had together. And you were supposed to have even more. Fate was kind to him.

You didn't notice him when he entered the bedroom, too busy looking at yourself in the mirror. He watched as you rolled up your shirt, looking at your belly. Your clothes still hid it well.

Finally, you looked up and saw Joel's reflection. A smile formed on your lips.

"Hey, beautiful." he said quietly with a smirk.

"I look like I ate two solid meals at Russo's." you said with a sneer. "I thought it'd be bigger by now."

Dark eyes stared at you with awe but also amusement. Joel could see perfectly how your body changed almost every day. He loved it.

"It's perfect. It looks better than I could have imagined." he said and your face lit up. "Are you going to Ann?" You nodded reaching for your sweatshirt. "I can walk you out, I have to meet Tommy."

"Is something wrong?" 

He came closer and slid his hand under your sweatshirt where your treasure was hidden. The roundness of your belly was palpable under his fingers. A sweet kiss landed on your temple. "No, nothing like that. Don't worry."

After the attack on Jackson, you knew that many people had taken it badly. Fear and dread hung in the air like a strange fog for weeks. Even Joel was more restless, sleeping worse. You felt like he was awake at night, listening to every creak and rumble. Like the threat was standing on your porch, waiting.

He wanted to protect you, he still had it in him, and you understood that. Living in Jackson had let your guard down for a while, and now you couldn’t afford it.

“We need to reinforce the walls around Jackson. Maybe add more guard posts?”

Joel looked at the map on his desk and pointed to a few places. “We can put them here. But we’ll need more men to build them,” he said. “We’ll also reinforce the gates.”

“We’ll be working with more patrols over the next few weeks. I want to make sure there aren’t any strangers hanging around.”

“Jesse didn’t find any leads?”

Tommy shook his head. “Maybe it was just one group? But we can’t risk it.”

For a moment, they both thought. The faint rays of sunlight streamed into the room as both men were lost in their thoughts. Finally, Tommy spoke up.

"The ones we caught said there were no more. That it was just this one group."

Joel rubbed his chin and shook his head. "Possibly. But can we trust them?"

"Maybe two groups of Riders joined forces, huh? They wanted to try their luck. They're all dead, so we should be safe."

Joel leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, wondering something. "What if someone was watching from outside? They sent a message to the rest of the group."

"Do you think there might be more people like that?"

Joel shrugged. "I have no idea, Tommy. We need to reinforce the gates though. We have too many people here." Too valuable people, he wanted to add, but he stopped himself. It was already hard enough to convince Tommy to hide the weapons in the basement of the house. You didn't know that, but Joel preferred to be prepared for anything. Your backpacks were packed too, because if the need arose...

They both jumped when they heard footsteps on the stairs, then someone knocked on the door. Tommy's face lit up at the sight of you.

"Hi! Nice to see you." he greeted. Joel noticed how Tommy had instantly hidden all of his previous worries on his face so you wouldn't notice. Did he do the same? Did you read Tommy as well as you read Joel?

"I hope I'm not interrupting," you said, walking in and unzipping your jacket. "Beautiful weather, isn't it? I saw Maria and Benji. She told me to tell you she was waiting for you with dinner."

Tommy's smile widened. "Thanks. I'll be right over. And how's my favorite nephew or niece?"

“Good. We’re growing up slowly.” You looked at Joel, his hand clearly moving the papers to cover what he and Tommy had been poring over moments earlier. “Joel says he sees changes every day, but I’m not so sure.”

Tommy looked at his brother, clearly impressed. “That old guy is observant, isn’t he? When spring comes, you won’t be hiding anything anymore.” He stood up and gathered his things. “I’m going home. I promised Maria I’d take Benji. See you for dinner on Sunday?”

You both nodded, and Tommy left. You took his place in front of the desk, watching Joel carefully.

“How’s Ann?” he asked.

“Good. But she’s worried about Shane patrolling more often.” You sighed. “She understands it’s necessary, but… You get it.”

"Yes. But we have to get through this. Tommy wants us to reinforce the walls." 

"That's good, right? They got here pretty quickly last time." 

Joel nodded. "We can't let that happen again."

Quiet sounds reached the bedroom where you were changing the sheets. Joel and Ellie were sitting downstairs. The girl had been learning to play the guitar for a long time, and Joel was very involved in it. He had a lot of patience, and the time he spent with Ellie was very important to both of them.

The fact that you were a family was simply obvious to you. Back then, by the river, you didn't just find this young girl, you found a home. And now you created this home together. You were already finishing folding the laundry when Joel quietly slipped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“She went to Dina’s,” he sighed. “If this keeps up, we’ll forget what she looks like.”

You smiled. “You weren’t like that? I’m sure you were out late wandering around.”

“That’s why I know now why it bothered my mother so much. Sarah wasn’t like that.”

The name of his dead daughter fell from his lips so naturally that for a moment you didn’t even notice. It took a moment for you to speak up again.

“Do you think about her?”

He nodded, sitting on the bed. "Almost every day, and now even more often." He sighed. "Ellie's older than her now and we're having a new baby soon. I wonder what she'd think of that."

"Do you think she'd like Ellie?"

"Yeah. They're different, but they're teenagers, right? They'd get along." He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. "I think you'd love her too."

You smiled softly, putting his washed shirt aside. "She was a part of you. I'm sure I would have loved her in an instant."

You were silent for a moment. The warm memory of Sarah hung between you. Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence.

"When Sarah came along, I was too young. Now I feel too old." he said, as if he had blurted out something he'd been thinking about for a long time. He looked at you lovingly, but like he really needed you. “I love you so much and I really want this. I just hope I can do it.”

You stood up and carefully straddled his lap, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“We’re in this together, remember? You and me. I see how you feel about Ellie, I hear you talking about Sarah. Our baby will have the greatest father in the world.”

“I think you’re overestimating me.”

“And I think we have a lot more to worry about. You’re not as old as you say. And I wanted this too, so…” He placed his hands on your hips, and you brushed your lips against his. “I’m grateful for what I have. I never thought I’d ever have so much.”

“You’re too good for me, you know that?”

“Sometimes.” You chuckled. “Come on. We’re alone. Let’s take a shower together, and then I’ll show you how good I can be for you.” 

He captured your lips in a tender kiss. It was soft, full of what he wanted to tell you but couldn't put into words. But you understood. You knew him so well that he didn't need to say anything more.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait @mmmunson @grace-928 @umadirectioner

[delicatebarness]

Hi! I'd like to request Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader who's apart of the team, but they're in a secret relationship. Until Bob walks in on them and he runs through the tower screaming and whining about what he saw. 😂

Also, do you take requests for Bob, John, and Alexei?

cybernetic foreplay | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Explicit Smut | Semi-Public | Banter | Light Dom/Sub Undertones | Dirty Talk

Word Count: 777

A/N: Bucky Barnes, the man you are. Thank you for the request, and yes! I do now take requests for Bob and John. I do take Alexei requests too, however, strictly platonic/father-daughter relationship type requests.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

You should’ve known better, but somehow Bucky Barnes with rolled-up sleeves always distracted you during a mission debrief. His smug little smirk, and that viburnum arm draped behind your chair. He made you reckless. 

Now you were hiding in a storage room in the Watchtower—door locked, lips locked onto Bucky’s, and his hands boldly wandering your body. 

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whispered, his mouth muffling the sound. 

“We’re already caught,” Bucky smirked, pulling your shirt up and over your head. “You’re flushed.” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I’m smiling,” he scoffed.

“Very suspicious,” you laughed lightly. “Val’s probably reviewing the footage right now.” 

“You think Val watches our ‘free time’ footage for fun?” 

“Only when she thinks one of us is breaking protocol.” 

“Like me bending you over a weapons crate?” 

You let out another laugh as his firm grip guided you around, bending you forward, and pressing your chest down against a crate marked DO NOT STACK. His mouth pressed open-mouth kisses up your spine, finding its way to the shell of your ear. 

“I thought about this the entire meeting,” he growled, slipping his fingers down your pants, pushing them down your thighs. “You in this suit. Acting like a good little Avenger.” 

A sharp gasp escaped your throat as his fingers traced up to your crease, fingers spreading your folds. “Bucky—please, I need you to fill me up.”

He stroked slowly, purposefully, as he pressed himself against your ass. “You’re already so wet.” 

You clenched against nothing, soft moans spilling from your lips. Your hips grinding down against his hand.

“Such a desperate little doll,” he teased, lips trailing down your neck. “You love sneaking around like this, don’t you?” 

“Only because I love the way your cock feels inside me,” you shot back, breath catching as he pushed two fingers inside you. Curling just right. 

Bucky groaned, freeing himself from his pants. “How do you expect me to have any self-control when you say shit like that?” 

His cock throbbed as his thick head rubbed along your folds. His metal hand gripping tightly against your hip, holding you still. 

“Tell me you want it,” he rasped, teeth grazing the flesh of your shoulder. 

“I need it, Bucky.” 

He pushed inside you with one slow, aching thrust, fingers still buried inside you. A moan tore from your lips as he bottomed out. You bowed your spine in response and dug your nails into the crate.

The sound of his skin on yours filled the storage room, his hips slamming into your ass, setting a rough, steady rhythm. His thumb toying with your clit. 

“Bucky—oh my god—” You unraveled fast. Your breath came in ragged gasps. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Fuck—you’re taking so much of me—”

You both froze.

The doorknob rattled. 

It kept rattling. 

Thankfully, not budging.

Until—

“Ohhh my god—”

Light flooded into the room, exposing your body, shining with sweat, and bent over for Bucky Barnes. And… Bob.

You barely had time to react before Bucky pushed Bob back out into the hallway, slamming the door shut again. A rapid sound of footsteps began thundering down the hallway.

“I found them! They’re defiling company property!” Bob shrieked. “They’re swapping bodily fluids! In the storage room! I need to bleach my eyes!” 

You turned your head, looking back at Bucky. “Did he just say ‘swapping bodily fluids’?” 

There was a moment of silence. Bucky shook his head, pulling out of you and adjusting himself back into his pants.

Then Bob’s faded voice echoed again, further down the hall: “Cybernetic foreplay!” 

You groaned, standing upright. “I told you we were gonna get caught.” 

“I didn’t think Bob, of all people, would walk in,” Bucky said, helping you redress. “He looked me in the eye. I thought he was about to turn into the shadow man again.” 

“Bucky—”

The door opened again. You both turned, eyes widening like deer caught in the headlights. 

Not another one.

Val stood in the doorway. She blinked at the pair of you, hard. Her eyes flickered between you. Then at the weapons crate.

She sighed. “Next time you feel the urge to violate my storage room, do it when there isn’t the possibility of a multi-million dollar insurance report to file.”

“They were so…together.” You heard Bob in the distance, no doubt informing your teammates on what he saw. 

Val pinched the bridge of her nose. “Get out. Both of you. Go clean up. And—burn the suits.” 

You and Bucky stepped out together, your panties clutched in Bucky’s metal hand. His voice was low in your ear as he leaned closer to you. “So… your apartment?”

---

Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Please leave feedback. ♡

[grotesquevi]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ellie gets too carried away when strapping you down: ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ is it her fault? no fucking way. it's the damn playlist.

cw  #  18+ mdni, porn with no plot really i deserve this, music!nerd ellie at its best, strap-on sex [ aka the cock© ] mentions of blood and bruises, she can (wo)manhandle me anytime idk, blink and you’ll miss the slight aftercare at the end.

side notes —   based upon lists of requests now lost from my pillar nonnie (I LOVE YOU COME BACK TO ME) — if you recognize this it may be because my previous account @vicorices got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause of tumblr's dumb ass, check out my masterlists. wc: 1.6k

it’s suffocating when the fabric of your girlfriend’s tie wraps against your mouth. parted lips, a thin line of drool escapes from the corner of it dampening the cloth: she said it would help out in muffling the sounds you’re making, keep you in check.

"oh fuck- you're taking it so good" her voice sounds distant at the moment, like an echo brought by the wind. rough and raspy you become aware of yourself when her hands wrap around your waist, digits pushing against the flesh until ellie's nails are digging into that spot almost hidden there that forms when you're down on all fours "you're such a good girl, aren't you? the best girl in town taking my cock."

your girlfriend has reached a new state of nirvana when the sound of the speakers too loud and it's so filthy you can't help but love it, the sweat, the combination of fluids and the clumsy movements; you're sure there's some spit there from before now staining the sheets, blood from when she bites your lip too hard — it's all an experience.

makes you regret it almost when you mocked her in the beginning: an-hour-and-forty-five minutes in a sex playlist where most songs were deftones and heavy metal in the end? perverted fuck. she's spending at least an hour explaining how each song means something, a lyric maybe, the rhythm, or how she’s shamelessly thinking about fucking when one of the tracks slips in her headphones and she's having dirty thoughts on her way back to work, in the middle of the damn supermarket, at the dispensary.

damn. you let her ramble. ellie’s cute when over-speaking, when explaining about how she curated it from hours, put so much effort on it: "we take our time in fucking, you know it. do you ever look at the time? i do."

so it starts slow. she has the decency to think about foreplay so there's this mellow sounds in the air when she's undressing you, almost an inviting dance on the privacy of her room, in the dim lights, the barely illuminated scene with a music that seemed to make the walls vibrate with the loud sound of the speakers connected to her phone. it escalates a song or two after, the dragging of the guitars, ellie know what she's fucking doing when the sound seems to surround you, drown you while it carry the sinking ship to the bottom of the ocean in a one-time-trip.

it takes time but by the first ten minutes you know she's right, too prideful to ever admit it, much less when she's roughly pulling your face against the pillows and she's asking almost breathless if that's okay with you cause she's desperate to just do it, push and fuck you against the mattress, her sheets: you two, indeed take your time.

"ellie," the words seem to get stucked on the tie gagging you silent, muffled and barely audible since the music's too loud — your girlfriend's enjoying every second of it though when the most noisy rock fills the room now after some while and she's matching the sharp sounds of the song, the screams, the heavy guitars with the desperate movement of her hips like she’s unaware she keeps fucking you, too invested in her own mind as her eyes remained closed, nose wrinkled when her fingers seem to apply the right amount of pressure against your skin to practice the damn chords of the song.

so your girlfriend's ignorant of the force she's using to rail you against the mattress, the annoying sound the bed's making as it slams against the wall. there’s a glass of coke she was drinking from yesterday there in the nightstand connected to her bed that falls to the floor, but ellie don't care about the shattered pieces, too engulfed by the sight of the dildo filling your oversensitive cunt, the way your folds open for her as she sinks down and you swear you can feel it in your guts, a kiss on the damn cervix only to withdraw almost entirely and slam back in again and again and again.

she’ll take care of the pieces later.

she’s enjoying the show. ass up, face down, a delicious fucking show. you're dripping all over the strap and it's simply so great to see, to witness as your arousal coats her cock and trails down in between your thighs. her hand's imprint marked in red only seems to spur your girlfriend on, the primal instinct that dictates the lust, the craving on her hands when they pull your hair backwards.

and thank god for fucking cardio, cause even when ellie’s muscles are sore she keeps pushing as the sweat gathers on her forehead and it becomes the perfect kind of pain, the ache on her body begging to take a break before the tie slips from your parted mouth and she can hear again the irregular sounds you’re making, the need in your voice when tears are gathering in your eyes since it’s already too much — you’ve already endured her fingers and her fucking tongue hungry as ever, killer combo and nothing to say, but that? that was overstimulating.

“ellie,” you whine, “baby- you’re going too far- s’too much i can’t-”

“m’sorry” the words slur together as she tries to shake off that feeling that got hold of her for a moment, keeping you full as her body follows the angle forward, falling against your figure. her weight crushes you down, movements shifting pace now, slowly moving as her hand presses against your stomach and you cant help but crumble on the bed, unable to hold any preasure on your body “was i too hard on you?”

“yeah-” to be fair, she shouldn’t be getting off by the image of the debased state you’re in, loosened cunt she’s been using for the entire length of her damn playlist “s’okay, i’m okay don’t worry.”

“want to stop?” she asks, kissing on the exposed flesh of your neck, pulling your hair to the side as she makes both of you roll into the bed, gentle, almost playful bites on the skin of your shoulders now, glued to her chest. “anything you want me to do, i’ll do it. just name it out for me.”

“no- no don’t stop i can take it” you reassure her, cause it never cease to amaze you that nice switches she have on her personality, the way of destroying you entirely so she can put you back together after that “just go slow, please.”

“m’ so sorry baby, i got too carried away” she speaks against your ear, now much closer. and it’s more intimate like this, pressed against your girlfriend’s chest, she keeps her word when slowing down, mere second passing by before she’s using her own tie around your neck to hold you in place “better now? you’re enjoying it?”

it’s a prize when you cannot answer, heavy breathing, her hips barely move now in contrast from the rough thrusts from before: you’re enjoying it and there’s nothing better than the distortion, that smell on the air ellie’s always quick to pick up from. your skin’s salty now as she kisses you, teeth pulling on the flesh when she finds a secluded spot to leave a hickey, a perfect one that will make you wear your hair down in order to cover it and fuck it — you look so good with your hair down she has no choice to keep going.

“mmf-nooo- no hickies” you try to say and she knows you’re close by the shivers your body involuntarily gives, the way you lose control of your limbs, pliant and ready for her to keep taking what she needs — “please- got work tomorrow.”

“they’re hidden” she promises. the muscles in your back tensing now as ellie keeps her pace, makes her smile when you’re trying to find another argument, one that dies on your throat as she’s pinching on your nipples, rolling the stiff peaks between her fingers and pulling just enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your head — “got my girl too dumb to answer me back?”

you’re mumbling something incoherent she’s not able to understand, goosebumps on your skin ellie can physically see. the combination of it ends with you entirely — the bites on your shoulder, her filthy words on your ear, the playful game with your nipple. your girlfriend’s singing the damn fucking tunes on her playlist and it’s enough to make you dissolve into lust, one with desire as your body shakes violently and she knows it’s the rippling force of the orgasm that makes you go stiff, that tears you apart as a loud cry fill ellie’s dorm room, messy moans, incoherent words of praise. there it fucking is.

“ride it” ellie commands as you have no room to comply, moving your hips as a wet sound fill the air “good fucking lord listen to that- you’re chaotic, you know that?”

makes you chuckle when you’re coming down, your girlfriend’s already pulling out as you gasp at the sensation of being hollow: “god, what the fuck-”

“one more” she begs with pleading eyes “you must be so sensitive right now- please i just want to see you in between my legs, riding me.”

and it’s the face she's making. the pure need on her voice that makes you agree: how are you ever denying anything to her? when she has this power over you? shit.

“atta girl” ellie seems pleased as you straddle her lap, lazy movements, half lidded eyes struggling to find a focus “slow baby, let me feel how soaked this greedy cunt is, yeah? take your time there’s no rush.”

it’s the damn fucking playlist. the damn heavy metal.

[verekatt]

Inspired by @greenglowinspooks post

I love the Danny Phantom fandom's medical gore, but why not torture our DC blorbos too?

Lots of fics make Jason an underdeveloped halfa. Lots of fics make Danny basically unkillable because he's a halfa.

I'm going Maximum Angst Route on this one.

The Justice League buys the GIW's rhetoric. They hear about these dangerous energy imprints, these volatile mimicries of life that are hurting people. The GIW claim they've controlled it in the rest of America, but this one small town has a strong one that protects the rest and helps them attack. They ask for help stopping this one, assure them that once Phantom is neutralised, it'll be easy to deal with the rest. The JL agrees. The JL captures Phantom and hands him over to the GIW.

It takes months to capture most of the other ghosts, as they slowly trickle through the portal to find each other. The JL gains an appreciation for the GIW, having previously fought off entities like Skulker and Plasmius without hero help. They trust the GIW, and so when they ask to scan the heroes for any lingering radiation, they agree.

They're alarmed to find many heroes are mildly irradiated. The GIW removes the lingering ectoplasm from most of them, and they're drained afterwards, but they recover. Damian, who had much higher levels than most, seems almost sedated from his usual fury and violence. Cass privately notes that she can't read people as well anymore, and Damian's lethargy looks uncomfortable for him. She gets suspicious, but when no one listens to her concerns, she leaves for Hong Kong again. She's scared that if her levels get higher and they drain her again, she'll lose the ability to read people entirely. She doesn't want to lose such a fundamental part of how she interacts with the world.

When scanning, however, Batman gets pulled aside. They explain they've found a parasitic ghost in Red Hood, and removing it will be a much longer process. They show the ectoplasm levels, the scans with a visible core. Bruce connects this to the Pit Rage, and agrees to let them take Hood, hoping he will finally get his son back. Jason is cautious, but eventually agrees. This could be the cure he never thought he'd get.

The GIW is estatic. They've discovered a new halfa, and if they do this right, they'll be able to study halfa development. They have Phantom to tear apart to see what an actualised halfa looks like, but watching Hood grow and form? Trying to influence his development, maybe even weaponise him? This is an opportunity they have to make the most of. All they have to do is claim the parasite killed Hood before they could remove it, and they can keep him forever.

The second Jason is alone with the GIW, they sedate him. He wakes up in a cage too small to stand in, right next to the very Phantom he helped capture. The kid is asleep, curled on the floor, bleeding through loose stitches on an autopsy wound. He immediately realises they fucked up, and his rage/guilt/panic attack wakes Phantom up. He expected the kid to be angry, upset, even gleeful that Jason was caught too. He didn't expect the kid to look at him with sad pity, to calm him down and say he's sorry that Jason was mislead and betrayed like this. That yeah, shit's gonna suck now, but Danny (as he insisted) would be there for him for as long as their cages were kept together. That unlike Danny these past few months, Jason wouldn't be dealing with it alone.

The scientists slowly feed Jason ectoplasm, and cut him open daily to monitor how it affects him. Ironically, his Pit Rage is cured, but that doesn't make it any better. If anything, it's worse, because now he's fully cognizant and has no extra energy to fight with. He still does fight at first, even without the Pit, but he knows no one's coming to his rescue. Eventually, he joins Danny in his nihilistic snark and dead-eyed stare. And yeah, they joked about that pun.

Time becomes meaningless. They do whatever they can to escape the hopelessness. Horrifyingly morbid jokes, empty bets on what form of torture they'll endure next, whispered stories about the people they miss. They reach through electrified bars just to feel a hand that doesn't mean harm. They spill their guts, metaphorically and literally, exchanging their deepest fears and secrets until they know each other entirely. Their necessary codependency becomes actual love, because how can you go through this together and know each other so deeply and not love each other? Platonically or romantically or the secret third option that's just insanely codependent affection.

Not sure who ends up rescuing them, but I'm thinking either a) Tim gets suspicious, b) the Outlaws go hunting, or c) Cass realises they have Jason and immediately freaks out. Whoever, they meet up with Team Phantom. Tucker and Sam been on the run since Danny was caught, and Jazz could be in Arkham? Or dead, or on the run too. Team Phantom was only held back by their lack of muscle (that's usually Danny), and now that they have trained fighters on their side, they're able to break in and get their boys. Cue long healing journey and revenge time.

[hpneybee]

i don’t use tumblr literally ever so forgive me (and let me know) if i do something stupid or am posting incorrectly or something .. but this comic is amazing and i wanted to give my interpretation even if it isn’t “correct” or intended because the player dynamic with kris is so interesting to me!!!

“why must you control me” can be interpreted in many ways, and kris has every right to be upset about literally any of those interpretations. but to me, it feels like they’re partially asking this question to themself. why must you control me in order for my life to start to feel good again? why must you control me for all of these wonderful experiences to take place? why must you control me for this loneliness i feel to be quelled? why am i not good enough to do all of these things on my own? all of these amazing things the player has seemingly “gifted” to kris.. new friends, rekindling old friendships, fun adventures, an escape from their problems, are hindered by the fact that they don’t feel like they’re truly present for any of it. it’s them, but it’s not them. they’re a passenger in their own mind, watching and wishing they could be this person that the player has made them out to be.

i don’t know if this even made sense .. i think i suck at expressing my thoughts .. but aufhfjdk my heart </3 kris is such a tragic character

The remorseful player

[buckysleftbicep]

all that's left 𐙚 b.b

pairing: fwb!bucky barnes x fwb!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, friends with benefits relationship, unprotected sex, lots of angst, arguments, hurtful words, bittersweet ending (sorta)

summary: you and bucky were never meant to be more than friends with benefits—until you say those three words. he walks out. then a mission traps you both in a sealed room, and suddenly, there’s no escaping the walls you both built.

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi! for my first fic, it's kinda long, started working on it after watching thunderbolts! i hope you enjoy it, if you did, let me know or reblog, whichever works! love ya and have a great day! i hope this doesn't flop :")

“(Y/N), you’ll be with Bucky”. 

The sentence cuts like paper through skin — quiet, clean and a lot deeper than it actually looks. Steve’s voice is steady, casual, captain-like, just as he always was when it came down to missions, the kind of tone he uses when he is expecting no resistance, and despite the glance that seems to reflect some sort of apology and perhaps even pity, you knew he was just doing his job. He is the team leader after all. 

But the sound of his name, his name that you couldn’t bring yourself to even utter for the last two weeks, drops into your gut like a live grenade, you didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Your fingers stayed steady on the edge of the thick mission file, but inside you, something splinters, not all at once, but just a small, sharp crack under your ribs, the kind that gets worse when you pretend it doesn’t exist. 

Across the briefing room, Bucky’s face remains still, his expression stoic, unreadable and you find yourself thinking that perhaps, you never were able to read him the way you thought you did. Because if you did, you’d figured out that everything that had transpired between you and the brunette was nothing more than meaningless flings, quick fucks if you will. 

What was it they said? 

Right — good enough to fuck, but not good enough to love. 

You exhale softly, biting your lip as you scanned the file quickly, hydra base, intel recovery, two agents in, clean extraction. Of course it’s you and him, it always had been, both of you were known as SHIELD’s dream team when it came to intel extractions, break a few necks, fire some bullets and you both were out, unscathed, efficient, dangerous. 

And then you’d return back to base, where his lips would meet yours feverishly as his hands trailed your curves, his fingers long accustomed to every crevice of your body. Bucky knew how to draw out every sound, every breath, every damn piece of you that craved to feel wanted.

You could remember the way he undid your suit on his bed, whispering those sweet nothings in your ear as you begged him to fuck you, your eyes blown wide with lust, and lips swollen as he teased out of you feelings you never knew you had. 

But all of that was short lived, because well as much as you harboured nothing but stupid, aching love for the cerulean eyed man, he thought differently. That was clear as day when he had pushed himself off you, shock painted on his face as he pulled his pants on hurriedly, almost as if being in the same room for just another second would kill him. You had stumbled to your feet, bare and trembling, your voice rising as your heart cracked wide open, “I didn’t mean to, I swear Buck, please-”. You had reached for him, almost as if he’s already gone and left you, and he is. 

“You were never supposed to fall in love with me (Y/n)-”

“I-I know Buck, please even if its not real for you, p-please, I just-”

He cuts you off, the emotions that were warring in his face replaced with that of coldness, the icy gaze that fell on you crushed whatever hope you had left.

“Let’s stop this, you were just convenient, don’t make this more than that”. 

You had remembered that silence, god, it was deafening, and you felt the words like a harsh slap, like a knife twisting under your ribs and you watched, eyes rimmed red as the man you once believed could one day love you back walked out.

“Everything alright?” Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts, you nod, eyes still trained on the file even though you damn well knew that moment was still playing in your head, like some sick film that couldn’t stop replaying itself.

“Buck?” Steve asked, shooting a glance towards his pal, you dared yourself to look up, Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly, eyes unreadable as always, fixated on the door behind the capotain, almost as if it could offer some kind of salvation. 

“Yeah, all’s good”. The brunette replied. 

Liar. 

The flight is quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that is far from peace, it was brittle, breathless, the kind that hung in the air like smoke after a fire. You had sat at one end of the jet, legs crossed, a mission file open in your lap that you hadn’t actually read past the first line.

Across from you, Bucky sat with, face turned just enough that you could see the line of his jaw, tight and unmoving. He hadn’t even looked at you once since takeoff. 

Not that you were looking. 

Well, not really. 

But it was impossible not to notice him, the way he took up space without even trying to, the low sound of his breathing, even and steady, the slight twitch in his gloved fingers where they tapped a rhythm only he understood. You used to know that rhythm. You used to know everything about James Barnes.

And now?

Now you couldn’t even tell if he hated you or worse — felt absolutely nothing at all. 

You kept your eyes fixed on the printed pages in front of you, even though your mind was anywhere but on the mission specs. It was a simple job, according to the file at least, in and out like Steve had said. You and Bucky had done this dance dozens of times, a flawless rhythm honed by years of fieldwork, communication and something that had once resembled trust. 

Once. 

The last time you were on a mission like this, you had ended up on Bucky’s lap, breathless, gasping, half-dressed as his mouth burned its way down the soft skin of your neck to the valley of your breasts, metal hand fluttering over your skin like he wanted, no, like he needed to memorise every inch.

Your moans had bounced off the walls of the jet as it lurched from turbulence, as Bucky kissed you though it, called you his pretty girl, said he needed you, wanted you. 

And now, he wouldn’t even look at you. 

“Should be a quick one, get the files, and you’re both out, no detours, as far as we know, this base has long been abandoned”. Steve’s voice crackled through the comms, grounding you with its usual steadiness. “Files are stored in a secure server, sublevel three, eyes up, low contact expected, you two copy?”.

“Copy” you said first, voice even, rehearsed, almost if you didn’t just cry your throat raw the last two weeks. 

There was a beat of silence, then, “copy”. Bucky’s voice was rougher, lower and it sounded like a word forced out through clenched teeth. 

And that was it, silence reclaimed the jet, thicker than it was before. 

You risked a glance at the brunette, a real one this time, and your stomach twisted in a knot. He hadn’t moved. His eyes stayed fixed on the small window beside him, gaze distant, the curve of his brow giving nothing away. 

There was a time where you thought you could read him, every flicker of emotion, every blink, every breathe, you knew when he had a bad night, when the nightmares plagued his dreams, you knew when his therapist had hammered down on him, giving him one of her many unsolicited advices that well, he never did take seriously, besides the one where she told him to talk to someone he trusted. You.

Well, it was you, between the hungry kisses and your back against bathroom walls as Bucky filled you so perfectly, he was sharing his life with you, the days he spent with HYDRA and of course, the 40s. 

But maybe that had been an illusion, or maybe you were just hopelessly naive, stupid. 

You turned your gaze back to the file, the words blurry as a headache bloomed at the base of your skull, you could feel tears well up in your eyes as you tried to get the words Bucky spat harshly out of your head. 

God, you had begged him to stay, to not leave. 

Begged him to stay after the words slipped out, — I love you — so fucking stupidly, so recklessly when your body was tangled with his as his hips had snapped against yours. You hadn’t even realised you had said them at first, until you had seen the look on his face, almost like you had stabbed him. 

Your voice, small, shaking naked in every sense of the word, you could still see his cold, icy, piercing gaze, the softness draining from him like light bleeding out of a room. 

Now, here you were, trapped in a tin can, above hostile territory with the man who shattered you, who was fine pretending you were both just teammates. Just agents. Like you hadn’t fallen asleep in his arms and thought, maybe, just maybe this could be real. 

You clenched your jaw, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. 

You didn’t want to love him anymore, but god, you missed the way it almost felt like he did. 

The hallway stretched ahead like a vein of steel and silence, cold and humming with the kind of tension that settled in your bones, the kind that made your skin itch under your tactical gear. You and Bucky moved through it like you always had, together, seamless, wordless.

Muscle memory wrapped in old wounds, you fell into the rhythm automatically, Bucky would  move, and you would follow, you’d gesture, and he’d respond, the dance that made SHIELD send the both of you out for every data retrieval mission, because the both of you never failed. 

Even now. 

At the end of the corridor, two guards stood, chatting lazily, their rifles slung low, Bucky glanced at you, nodding towards them, you didn’t hesitate before the both of you sprang into action. 

It was efficient. Brutal. Over before the guards even knew they were in danger, you veered left, using the shadows like muscle memory, silent steps, steady breaths, the first guard didn’t even have time to draw his weapon, you slipped behind him, arm hooking around his neck in one clean, practiced sweep, the way Nat taught you, he struggled for a moment, but you held tight, twisting just enough until his knees buckled and he went down like a soft thud.

Bucky was already on the second guard, a flash of movement, a sharp, harsh kick to the back of knee to drop his stance, and before you knew it, guard two collapsed like dead weight. 

You didn’t flinch when Bucky’s hand brushed against yours as you passed the second server room. But you felt it, a graze of skin. barely a touch — and yet it seared like contact with a live wire.

He flinched, not a recoil exactly, but a hitch. The faintest disruption in his usually smooth motion. 

Enough to make you ache.

Then the door to the server room hissed open. You entered first, sweeping the corners, eyes scanning out of habit more than necessity.

“Clear,” you muttered

You knelt by the console and pulled the flash drive from your pocket, it slid into place with a soft click, and lines of code immediately flickered across the screen, the words, “download initiated” flashed across the computer, the whir of fans, the pulsing red light overhead and the steady tick of your heartbeat.

Then— SLAM.

The door behind you shut like a guillotine, a mechanical hiss following the unmistakable sound of a lock sliding into places the panel on the wall started blinking red. 

“What the fuck—” you whirled, reaching instinctively for your comm.

Absolutely nothing, no static, not a voice.

You looked at Bucky, already at the keypad, jaw tight, eyes focused on the screen as his fingers danced over the keys, punching in override codes with mechanical precision, but even he looked tenser than usual — less sure.

“Backup lockdown protocol?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. 

“Could be,” he said, not looking at you. “Maybe they knew we were coming.”

“Great.” You exhaled sharply. “Perfect.”

The room was small, closer than it had felt a minute ago, the red emergency lights cast shadows across the concrete floor, licking up the walls like flickering firelight, and the fact that you were this close to Bucky didn’t help, thoughts ran through your head as you tried to suffer through the silence.

Too tense. Too close.

“You don’t have to look so pissed,” you muttered after a long, stretching silence, arms folded tight over your chest like they could hold the ache in. Your voice echoed slightly in the metal-and-concrete hush of the server room, small but biting. “It’s not like I planned to get stuck in a room with you.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn around.

That silence was cold and heavy and deliberate, it was more infuriating than any argument. More cruel than any insult. And just like that, the restraint you’d been clinging to fractured, snapping apart like thin glass under pressure.

“Seriously, Bucky?” You took a step forward, fists curling tight at your sides, heat prickling behind your eyes. “You’re just gonna stay quiet?”

He paused. His back tensed. Then, without looking at you, he said flatly, “I didn’t realise we had anything left to say.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Sharp. Surgical. You sucked in a breath like it would stop the sting, but it didn’t. Instead, your lips curled into a bitter smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said, voice tight with disbelief. “Maybe a follow-up to ‘you were convenient.’ Maybe that’s not something you just say and then disappear.”

At that, his shoulders stiffened. His fingers twitched near the keypad, as if they were still trying to solve the problem — like maybe if he focused hard enough, he wouldn’t have to face the real one standing behind him. But the motion faltered, and he let his hand fall away.

“You said it like I meant nothing to you,” you continued, voice cracking, breath hitching somewhere between fury and heartbreak. “Like I was just some mistake you made in a moment of weakness. Some warm body you used to get through the night.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” The words tumbled out of you now, raw and ragged. “I was there for you, Bucky. Every night. Every fucking night. When you couldn’t sleep. When the nightmares got so bad you couldn’t breathe. When you looked in the mirror like you didn’t deserve to be alive—I was there. And y-you used me.”

He turned at last, his eyes wild, stormy. His voice broke as he spoke.

“You told me you loved me.”

You flinched like the words had weight,  like they could bruise you more than he already did.

“You think I could keep touching you after that?” he said, quieter now, like something inside him was unraveling.

And you froze.

The air thinned, shrank around you. Your heart thundered against your ribs.

“You think I could keep doing that to you,” he went on, his voice barely holding together, “knowing you felt something���when I... when I couldn’t let myself feel anything at all?”

Your voice was barely more than a breath. “So you ran. Because someone gave a shit?”

His eyes flared, a flicker of something wounded flashing through the cracks in his carefully worn armor.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped, cerulean eyes darkening. “You never did.”

“Then explain it to me,” you said, stepping forward until the air between you pulsed. “Help me fucking understand why I wasn’t enough.”

He looked like he wanted to bolt. Like the truth was a weight too heavy to hold. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You were supposed to know the rules,” he said finally, voice flat but not emotionless. “You made them. No feelings. No strings. You knew what this was.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you,” you whispered, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I just... did. And maybe that was stupid. Maybe I read something into it that was never there.”

His jaw flexed. His face closed off. And when he finally spoke, it was like ice cutting through your ribs.

“You did.”

The silence that followed was endless. Deafening. It rang in your ears louder than gunfire.

You stared at him, something inside you slowly collapsing in on itself. Your spine straightened, chin tilting up in a last shred of defiance even as your voice wavered.

“Wow,” you said. “Guess I really was convenient.”

He didn’t move. But something flickered across his face — guilt, pain, maybe even regret — and for the smallest second, it looked like he might take it all back.

But he didn’t.

Your throat closed. You couldn’t breathe past the pressure rising in your chest. You were unraveling, piece by piece, in front of the one person who’d already seen you at your most vulnerable. And it still wasn’t enough.

“I was a mission to you,” you said. “Something broken to fix. A distraction. A warm place to hide when the rest of the world got too loud. But y-you…”

Your voice cracked, and you turned away, hating yourself for how much it still hurt.

“You were everything to me. And I hate that you still are.”

That finally did it.

Bucky’s face shifted, like something inside him broke and bled out all at once. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched, his lips were pressed into a thin, hard line, but even that didn’t hide the tremble beneath. His eyes, dark, stormy—flickered with something close to pain, raw and real, like the weight of everything you said was scraping against his soul.

The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, harsh shadows carved by years of anger and loss, Bucky’s breathing hitched—sharp and ragged—like he was fighting against the damn emotions clawing their way up from somewhere deep and dangerous. You caught the briefest flicker of something you’d never seen before: brokenness. 

A crack in the armor.

His metal arm twitched at his side, a reminder of what he’d been through, what he still carried. The cold gleam of the metal contrasted with the heat of his skin, flushed in anger or pain, or both. His whole body was tense, like he wanted to run, or fight, or maybe just disappear.

And yet, even with all that anger, all that rage, there was this dark, raw ache in his eyes—like he hated himself for feeling it, for letting you see it. He looked like he was on the edge of losing control, and maybe that scared him more than anything.

“I begged you to stay,” you said, almost whimpering as tears fell, Bucky’s voice came a second later, rough and ruined.

“I left because if I stayed, I would’ve destroyed you.”

You turned then, eyes blazing through the blur of tears. “You didn’t destroy me, Bucky. You left me alive to remember it.”

The server beeped — a cold, neutral sound. Files downloaded. Mission complete. Job done.

But this wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t something you could walk away from with a pat on the back and a debrief.

This was ruin. Quiet, private, and absolute.

You turned your back to him, shoulders trembling. Your hands curled into fists, knuckles white with the effort of staying upright. Silent tears carved paths down your cheeks, but you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The air between you was thick and poisonous, buzzing with everything you’d said and everything you hadn’t.

And in that unbearable silence, you finally understood the one truth that stung more than all the rest:

He wanted to love you.

But James Buchanan Barnes didn’t know how.

The server beeped again.

Still, you didn’t move, you couldn’t. Your hands trembled at your sides, your back still turned, chest rising and falling like your lungs were trying to remember how to breathe without pain. The words still echoed in the tight air between you, circling like ghosts neither of you could exorcise.

And then you heard it.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The quiet creak of his boots across the floor. Closer. Closer still.

“Don’t,” you rasped, not turning around, afraid that he would see the tears that now stained your cheeks. “Don’t come near me if you’re just going to walk away again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky said behind you, voice thick, low, loaded.

Then his hand was on your arm, warm flesh this time, not metal, turning you gently, carefully, until you were facing him.

Your eyes met his cerulean ones, and something snapped, Bucky crashed his lips against yours like he’d finally broken through whatever leash he’d kept himself on, no, it wasn’t gentle or sweet, it was punishment and apology and desperation all at once — teeth and tongue and heat and anger and god, it was everything you remembered and everything you’d tried to forget.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands clawed into his shirt, dragging him closer, pouring all your pain into it, needing him to feel it. You wanted to hurt him with your mouth, your nails, your breath — the way he’d hurt you — but it was all tangled in love, twisted, beautiful and devastating all at once.

Bucky’s hands cupped your jaw, tilted your head, deepened the kiss until you were dizzy.

“Say you hate me,” he growled against your mouth.

You gasped, breath catching. “I do.”

“Liar.” His voice was rough, ruined. “You feel this. Same as me.”

And then his metal hand gripped your waist, pulling you against the hard line of his body. You moaned — couldn’t help it — the contact lighting a fire beneath your skin, melting the last of your resolve.

“Fuck,” you hissed, as he backed you into the server console, lifting you onto it with ridiculous ease.

He stepped between your legs, breathing ragged, hands everywhere,  tugging at your clothes, sliding under them, desperate to feel skin.

“You still feel like mine,” he muttered, voice cracked and reverent as he shoved your shirt up, exposing your stomach, your bra, the sweat-slick skin he used to worship like religion.

Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of his tac vest, shoving it off, needing to touch. To drag your nails down his chest. To mark him, claim him back.

“You walked away from this,” you gasped, kissing his jaw, biting it. “But your body still remembers me.”

He groaned deep in his throat. “I never forgot. Not once.”

And then he was on you,  mouth on your neck, tongue sliding down to your collarbone, hands rough as he ripped open the button of your pants, dragging them down with agonizing speed. You gasped as cool air hit your thighs, and then again as he dropped to his knees like you were something to be worshipped.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair as he looked up at you with blown pupils and a bruised mouth. His hands hooked behind your knees, dragging you to the edge of the console like you weighed nothing.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

You stared down at him, chest heaving.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

That was all he needed.

He buried his mouth between your thighs like a starving man, and you screamed — hands fisting in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue slid deep, his stubble scraping your thighs in the most delicious way. It was filthy. Sinful. He moaned into you like he was addicted to the taste of your pain, your need.

You were already close — the heat was unbearable — but he didn’t let up, didn’t pause, not even when you came apart on his tongue, shuddering and crying out his name like it was a confession.

He stood then, mouth wet, eyes feral, dragging you off the console and spinning you around.

Your palms slapped against the metal surface. You were still panting, legs trembling, but you wanted more. Needed him.

“Tell me you still want this,” he said against your ear, one hand trailing up your back, the other palming your ass.

“I want you,” you choked out, pressing back into him. “I want all of you.”

The sound he made — a desperate, broken groan — was followed by the sound of his zipper, then the feel of him, thick and hard, rubbing against your slick folds.

When Bucky pushed into you, it was like being split open and healed all at once.

You both gasped. Swore. Clutched at the metal console like it might save you from drowning in the fire.

He set a brutal rhythm — relentless, deep, pounding into you with years of unsaid words and unmet longing. You met every thrust with your own, sobbing his name, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure coiled tight again in your belly.

“You feel like home,” he groaned, fucking you deeper. “You are home.”

You shattered with his name on your lips.

And this time, when you broke, he didn’t let go.

He followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a raw, guttural moan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he was terrified you might disappear again.

The silence that followed wasn’t the cold, cruel kind anymore.

It was quiet. Close. Reverent.

And when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your spine, your shoulder, your temple — you knew.

Bucky couldn’t say it.

But this time, he wasn’t going to leave.

“I left because if I stayed, I would’ve broken you. And maybe… maybe I already did.”

Your breath caught, the confession hanging heavy in the room between you both. For a moment, the walls didn’t feel so cold. The distance shrunk, just a fraction, because finally, for the first time, he wasn’t hiding behind that ironclad façade.

You took a shaky step closer, eyes searching for something you’d never dared hope to see: vulnerability.

“Maybe you did,” you whispered, voice trembling, “but I’m still here.”

His gaze faltered, raw and unguarded. The storm behind his eyes softened, just enough to invite you in.

Before you could think twice, your fingers reached out, tracing the cold metal of his arm, and then his cheek. His skin was warm, alive, and beneath his guarded exterior, you found something broken, but not beyond repair.

Bucky’s lips parted, as if to speak, but instead, he pulled you into a bruising, desperate kiss that said everything words couldn’t. It was an apology, a plea, a promise all tangled into one.

The mission could wait. The past could wait.

Right now, it was just you and him, raw, broken and real.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.

i love, love, love, thunderbolts, it reignited my love for bucky ౨ৎ

[itsnesss]

hihi!! could you please do a younger driver (like ollie or kimi) and a piece on missing the reader’s graduation bc of a race?

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you graduate, but ollie misses it because of a race. you give your speech, heart heavy, thinking of him

warnings | fluff, soft romance, mild angst, long-distance struggles, emotional vulnerability, comfort

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your dress has been hanging in the closet for days, protected by a garment bag. It’s the same one you picked out with your mom, the one Ollie said made you look like a movie star.

Less than 24 hours to your graduation, and as you place the cap on the bed, you check your phone one more time. Nothing. No new messages. No calls. No news from Ollie.

You knew. You knew there was a chance. A high chance, to be honest, that he wouldn’t make it. But you had made so many plans… He himself promised he would try everything to be there.

“What if I get there just at the end, and I give you a hug when you finish your speech?” he had said excitedly, days before.

You practiced that speech with him. Several times. On video calls from hotels all around the world. He corrected you, laughed when you made a bad joke, asked you to say it slower when you rushed.

And you did it hoping that, when you walked on stage and read the final words, his eyes would be waiting for you in the audience.

But now, less than a day away, everything points to him not being there.

You sit on the bed and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail.

You take a deep breath, swallowing the disappointment. He loves you. You know that. But sometimes loving someone who also loves their dream is… lonely.

You want to scream. Not at him. At the world.

Then, your phone vibrates.

A voice message from Ollie.

“Hey... love. I’m sure you probably already know what I’m about to say. I tried, really. But I’m not going to make it. I’m stuck here because of the rankings. They won’t let me move anything. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I thought if I didn’t tell you earlier, there might still be a tiny chance. But there isn’t…”

Pause.

“It hurts more than I can explain not to be there tomorrow. I know how much it means to you. To both of us. But even if I can’t see you walk across that stage, I’ll be watching you from wherever I am. And when you finish, when you have your diploma in your hands… call me. Please. Because even if I can’t hug you, I promise I’ll be with you in everything that comes after.”

A tear escapes.

Tomorrow is still ahead.

The sun falls perfectly over campus when you leave the house with your cap in hand and your eyes still swollen from crying the night before. You look in the rearview mirror of your dad’s car and smile automatically. You’ve waited for this day for years. You imagined it again and again. But in all those versions… Ollie was there.

When you get out of the car, everyone seems to be shining. Your classmates take selfies, some rush to meet their families, others joke about not tripping going up the stage. You just look for a face you already know you won’t find.

The ceremony begins. Your name is on the program. You’re going to give a speech. One you practiced with him. One you read over and over so he could hear it between training, interviews, and flights.

“Now, please welcome our graduating class’s guest speaker…”

You’re asked to go up.

The lights blind you a little. The auditorium is huge. It feels bigger without him.

“Good afternoon. I want to start with something very simple… thank you.”

Your voice is steady. No one notices how tightly you grip the edge of the podium, or how your eyes wander over the rows, hoping to see him somewhere. Hoping you could trick fate and make him appear.

“Thank you to my teachers, my parents, my friends… and to someone who isn’t here today. Though he was in every rehearsal, in every word of this speech. This person… believed in me when I didn’t. He listened, encouraged me, interrupted me with bad jokes so I wouldn’t take everything so seriously. And even though he’s not sitting here today… he’s with me. I’m sorry. Because that’s what the people we love do: they’re there, even when they can’t be.”

There’s a long silence. Some people applaud. Others smile, not fully understanding who you meant.

But you know. And that’s enough.

When you step down from the stage, your chest burns a little. Pride, sadness, a warm hollow that carries his name.

You go through the ceremony like a spectator of your own movie. You receive your diploma. You get hugs. Your parents congratulate you. Friends take pictures with you.

And you smile. Because you made it this far.

But something is missing. And no matter how much you deny it, you feel it.

Later, when you’re at home, the dress already wrinkled and the cap on the table, your phone vibrates.

Ollie: Can I call you?

You answer with a simple “Yes.”

Seconds later, his name appears on the screen. You pick up.

“Hi,” you say, barely a whisper.

“You look beautiful,” he says without hesitation.

“How do you know?”

“I watched the whole stream. I had an interview at the same time, but I snuck away. I saw you give the speech. You have no idea how hard it was not to cry like an idiot at the part about ‘the people we love are there, even when they can’t be’…”

You bite your lip. There’s a huge knot in your throat.

“I really wanted you to be there.”

“Me too. Every second. Every damn second. Can I send you something?”

Before you can answer, a notification arrives.

An attached file. A video.

You open it.

It’s Ollie, in his hotel room, still wearing his team suit, holding a small homemade sign that says “Congrats, love. You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s cheesy,” he laughs from the phone. “But I made it while watching the ceremony. Just in case… you couldn’t see me, so at least you’d know I was with you. In my way.”

And you… you break down crying. Silently. With the full weight of having wanted that moment so badly with him.

“Thank you, Ollie.”

“I’m going to make it up to you. All of it. I promise.”

“No need. Just… thank you for not making me feel alone, even though you were so far away.”

Silence. Warmth.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, steady.

Your heart stops for a second.

“I love you too.”

And at that moment, even though you’re miles apart, even though you haven’t seen each other, even though there’s no photo of you both at your graduation… you know this day will live in your memory as one of the most beautiful ever.

Only three days have passed since your graduation, but it feels like an eternity. After the call with Ollie, everything was bittersweet: you knew he loved you, you knew he tried, but not being able to hug him that day hurt more than you thought.

And you accepted it. You learned to let go of the idea of “the perfect moment.”

Today is Sunday, and you’re at home, in pajamas, watching a documentary you’re barely listening to. Your family is out. You have the house to yourself. Your phone is silent. You don’t even know what country Ollie is in now.

Someone rings the doorbell.

You frown. A package? A neighbor? You get up dragging your feet, expecting anything but what you see when you open the door.

“Hi, love.”

And there he is.

With his suitcase at his side, a cap crooked on his head, hair messy like he just ran out of the airport. His eyes lock onto yours like he can’t believe he’s really seeing you. Like he’s afraid you’re part of a jet-lagged dream.

And you… you’re frozen in shock.

“Ollie,” you whisper.

“I didn’t want to miss another important thing. I took the first flight after the GP. I just arrived. I couldn’t tell you. My battery died, I lost signal, then I got lost in the airport… but… I’m here. And I don’t care how I look now, or that I don’t have a gift, or that I’m sweating like crazy. I just needed to see that you were okay.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

And then you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just hug him like your body finally remembers what breathing well means. Like he fits with your chest, your arms, your story.

He laughs into your neck, his hands firm on your back.

“It was so hard not to cry earlier,” he murmurs. “But this… this is a miracle.”

You pull him tighter.

“It’s not a miracle. It’s that you love me.”

He pulls back a little just to look at you. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face.

“So much.”

“Want to come in?” you ask with a teary smile.

“Only if you give me coffee and a tour of a brilliant graduate.”

“I’ll give you anything. But the tour starts with you hugging me for another half hour.”

“Deal.”

You close the door. He puts down his suitcase. And without another word, you hug again in the hallway, as if the world has finally aligned.

[mandalhoerian]

i think this is the absolute best caleb and overall lads fic i've ever read. i was fully lying on my side in bed when i started this, and by the end, i'd SAT THE FUCK UP and was doubled over with my faced glued to the damn phone. the sheer physical reaction i had to this fic has been like nothing else!!!!!

i stared out at nothing for a while after i finished it and like. scrolled down the notes for any explanation and then got to your profile and THANK GOD you made a q&a, but even before that i was like. playing ping pong in my head about so many theories -- but i was like full on panicking. PANICKING. IM GONNA BE THINKING ABOUT THIS FIC FOR LIKE A MONTH. ITS GONNA BE MY ROMAN EMPIRE.

PEOPLE WHO WANT TO READ IT DO NOT. I MEAN ABSOLUTELY DO NOT OPEN THE *READ MORE* IT HAS SPOILERS I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SAY THIS BEFORE BUT YOU NEED TO GO READ THE FIC OKAY. EXPERIENCE THAT SHIT. DONT READ THE SPOILERS. DONT . I PROMISE ITS WORTH IT SHUSH I NEED TO YAP I CANT CONTAIN IT

okay? OKAY. GET OUTTTTTTTT

first of all, you have unmatched mastery of the craft. like, *showing* the grief, and the internal hoops the reader goes through and her inner world. you never once forget her character and what she's going through, her motivations and driving force shows in everything she does and how she reacts. be right back is one of my favorites in black mirror and despite being inspired by it and borrowing some themes, i felt like i was experiencing the first watch of this episode all over again, you really made it your own!!! the reader just accepting her fate when not-caleb started isolating her and staying in that bubble with him despite being very-well aware at the back of her mind was just. you really showed what escapism was. i understood her so well even though i had sinking dread towards her downward spiral. this entire fic is just a portrait of grief done so very well, you never half-assed anything and the beautiful prose just took this to godly levels. it just has so much heart, and all of that passed through the screen to me, i don't know if this is because i relate so much.

the way not-caleb was perfectly caleb and not out of character to her up until the point he started expressing desire for her and she thought "yep. found it" was just. it was CHEF'S KISS GODDDDDDD ARGH along with so many little missable moments. the way she's guilty and regretful about something, the brief mention of how she hurt caleb before he passed, how not-caleb's eyes keep flashing, the way HE SMASHED THROUGH A DOOR LIKE NOTHING AND I ALMOST MISSED IT THAT'S HOW THE PUPPY EYES WERE EFFECTIVE EVEN IN HER POV, the not red flag-inducing way you weaved how gideon and caleb were working for EVER's robotics department, like. i am. i just can't express how the execution of EVERYTHING was so perfect in my eyes.

not-caleb is still a mystery to me, even though the reveal at the end explained SO MUCH about his behavior. i'd like to believe him going sentient was out of caleb's control. being aware of his purpose and his maker (and perhaps the intentions), it was no wonder he started going beyond paranoid after a long period of uncontrollable anxiety paralleling his falling in love process. but i really really wonder when he differentiated *himself* from *caleb's feelings*. i imagine he already came into existence loving the reader, so "i've wanted to do this for so long" is up to interpretation for me and i like the idea of this. but AGAIN, monopolizing the reader and keeping her away from caleb (which. is futile imo...) happening simultaneously with him gaining autonomy thus bringing in negative, anxious feelings he wasn't even supposed to have in the first place is so fascinating to me. does he want to be perceived different from caleb? or does he like it because the reader loves caleb? does he have opinions about being loved *as himself*? AGHHHHHHHH SO MANY THOUGHTS !!! SO MANY!!!!!

but he's painfully *caleb* in his ways of trying to keep her away from what he thinks is harm, by the way. which is. HIMSELF. this literalization of the metaphor took me into orbit i'm telling you. all he can do is keep her away from the outside world. but it's not sustainable. caleb is going to come down from skyhaven eventually to come fetch the reader perhaps, or take away this "faulty" robot. in a way, his plan backfiring so bad that it gained sentience is so fucking funny to me. thats what you get for being a SUPERVILLAIN and BABY TRAPPING THE POOR GIRL. i absolutely love where the fic left off but i want to see what happens SO BAD. i mean, he still does see through not-caleb's eyes, does he know he's going rogue kinda? IM GOING CRAZYYYYYYY IS THIS WHY HE REVEALED HIMSELF? HE'S GONNA BE CRASHING DOWN ON THEM FROM SKYHAVEN LIKE THIS

god, i really thought for a second "oh my god this isnt a random android this is literally caleb. they robot-ified him????" when i breezed through the last paragraphs, my heart was BEATING. i was like this makes so much sense why she got pregnant OMG OMG OMG. but then i re-read and "oh he's in skyhaven. what????" your q&a was so helpful in that regard i was so lost 😭😭😭 the title "trojan horse" is GENIUS . JUST GENIUS. IT LITERALLY GIVES AWAY THE ENTIRE PLOT I WANT TO KISS YOUR BRAIN IM GONNA TWEAK. WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKK

anyway, thank you so much for this fic. you've gained a loyal follower and fan!!!!! this was an insane work, i'm still sure there are so many things i'm missing and that i'll be doing so many re-reads. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING THIS MASTERPIECE WITH THIS FANDOM !!!!!

ps: this is my rendering of the reader in shock after she had sex with not-caleb for the first time, just awake, staring at the ceiling and questioning the decisions she's made

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[uluvjay]

Pretty boy-W. Smith

Will smith x fem! Reader

Request: Can I request “open your mouth” with Smitty? Maybe with reader saying it to him🤭

Warnings?; slight smut, kissing, cursing, teasing.

Will’s chest heaved from where he sat against the headboard, thick hands gripping the sheets below him as he watched your fingers dip in and out of your wet core.

He couldn’t be mad honestly, he did it to himself. Forgetting your anniversary was a low blow and pushing you off to play his Xbox with Macklin was no better.

So when he walked in your shared bed room and found you with your fingers buried deep inside your cunt while you withered on the bed in pleasure, gasping his name with his shirt pushed up over your chest.

He couldn’t help the curse word that slipped from his mouth, but he was stupid to think you’d take pity on him. Allow him to climb in the bed next to you and finish you off on his cock rather than your much smaller fingers.

And that’s how he found himself in this position, helplessly watching as you now sat in front of him legs spread-Still moaning his name while you played with yourself.

And there was nothing Will could do about it, it was his punishment.

“Fuck will” you gasped feeling your high fast approaching watching as his blue eyes switched from the sight of your cunt back to your red face.

He could tell you were getting close by the way your toes began to curl, fingers sped up chasing something that was so close yet so far.

His cock ached in his shorts pushing against the cotton material he could feel the wet spot that had formed on his boxers from the precum.

“Come on baby, cum for me. I can see you’re almost there” he egged on from his spot watching as your thighs began to shake, your moans getting higher and higher.

And finally he watched as your body shook from the hit of your orgasm, hips rutting into your hand as you continued to fuck yourself through your high.

Will swore he could’ve cum at the sight of you alone your messy hair sticking to your sweat coated forehead, chest heaving, mouth open as you panted loudly.

And when he thought it couldn’t get worse your eyes locked with his and your fingers were slipping from your dripping cunt.

His breathing picked up when you began crawling up the bed and over his lap, a downright evil giggle slipping past your throat when you ‘Accidentally’ brushed his aching erection.

His eyes locked with yours as you sat over him your manicured fingers slipping into his blonde curls as you tugged his head back.

“Open your mouth pretty boy.” You instructed.

Will didn’t hesitate to follow your words, mouth dropping open allowing you room to slip your cum coated fingers into his mouth.

He couldn’t help the moan that escaped from him at the taste, his tongue moving against your fingers getting as much of a taste of you as he could.

The sight from above was hot watching as he sucked your fingers helplessly his fingers twitching on the sides of your thighs itching to feel your hot skin.

The blonde whimpered when you pulled your fingers away from him but it was quickly silenced by you crashing your lips onto his.

The kiss was dirty and messy, tongues fighting each other for dominance your fingers pulling hard on his soft hair while his gripped the skin of your thighs, holding so tight one might think you were trying to escape.

You didn’t pull away until you were both panting, the need for air apparent in the way your chests heaved.

Will tried to pull you back to him but despite his athletic abilities you were too quick for him, slipping from his hold and onto your shaky feet.

“Wait, W-where are you going?” He sat up quickly moving off the bed to follow you.

“To shower, and you’re not invited.” You shrugged dismissing him over your shoulder as you shut the bathroom door.

Will tried reaching for the knob however the noticeable ‘click’ of the lock sounded before he could turn it.

“Baby please, it was a mistake and I’m sorry it won’t ever happen again. Please let me in so I can make it up to you.” He begged through the wood.

He heard you sigh before answering him, “No, go bother Mack. Maybe he can help solve your little problem.”

“My problem is anything but little.” He grumbled.

“I heard that you ass!”

Wills head thudded against the door as he leaned against it, if this was the punishment he got after missing something he would make sure everything was put in his calendar from now on.

-

[bitters-n-sweets]

coffee tables pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader Jack visits his ex-girlfriend’s apartment to help build a coffee table, but as old memories resurface and quiet confessions are shared, the day slowly turns into a chance to begin again.

warnings: flashback to the past, nothing 18+

part one || masterlist

Jack stands in front of your apartment door, toolbox in hand, trying to calm the nerves he thought he'd buried months ago. It's Saturday—his day off—and he decides to spend it building a coffee table with you. Somehow, it feels more intimate than it should.

You've been texting all week, your messages short and sometimes teasing, but always warm. He takes a breath, finally lifts his hand, and almost knocks, but you open the door first.

You've been waiting for him behind the door, watching him. "Were you gonna knock or just keep standing there like a creep?" you tease, not realizing the irony.

Jack exhales a nervous breath and cracks a small smile. "Sorry. Was deciding between knocking or faking a maintenance request."

You step aside so he can come in. "Well, you’ve got the toolkit. Might as well earn your keep."

The apartment smells just like he remembers it, he looks around to reminisce for a bit before spotting the half-assembled coffee table still sprawled across the living room floor.

"I figured I’d finish what you started," Jack says, lifting the toolbox.

"Before it finishes me off?" you joke.

"It almost did," he reminds you that the piece of glass almost cut your femoral artery, "Are you recovering okay?"

"Yeah, I can walk without much pain now. The meds help."

He nods, "That's good. I can take a look for you later."

"Okay, yeah, sure." You don't protest.

The mood is awkward at first. Small talk. Dry jokes. "Tool sizes". But it doesn’t take long before you warm up to each other. He fits a bolt in place while you read the instructions upside down, the rhythm of your banter slowly syncing. You snort when he grunts at the wrong size screw, and he rolls his eyes when you say you should’ve just bought a pre-built one.

"Remember the bookshelf we built for your place?" you say at one point, legs tucked beneath you on the floor.

Jack pauses, head tilted. "The one that fell over after a week?"

"You insisted we didn’t need the wall bracket."

He laughs. "And you still let me build furniture."

"Touché."

"Alright so where does this screw go?" Jack holds up a singular screw that looks just like the other ten.

"Um... there?" You point to a threaded hole, squinting. "Oh wait, but it could also be the other one. Ugh, I don't know, they all have the same measurements."

Jack shrugs and screws it into one of the holes while muttering, mostly to himself, "That's right, it goes in the square hole..."

You freeze. "Was that—"

"Yes, yes it was," he replies without missing a beat.

"Who taught you??"

"Night shifts can get boring sometimes."

You laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think about it, and Jack glances at you with a smile that lingers just a second too long.

A few hours later, the coffee table is finally finished. It's off by maybe 1cm, but it'll do.

“We did it. Functional table. No injuries. Only minor emotional peril.” Jack says as he stretches his legs.

“Honestly, I’m—.”

“Hungry?”

You nod, "YES."

And he pulls out his phone. “Your usual order still the same?”

Your eyes flick to his. “You remember?”

Jack only smiles and places the order.

You try to hide your smile and stand up. "I'm opening a bottle of wine. We're celebrating this."

"You're on meds."

"And you are on your day off." You smile at him, pouring two glasses. "I'll just have one." You try to convince him while he rolls his eyes.

There is no going between you and your wine.

"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

"You already know where it is."

As he steps into the hallway, he sees one photo still hanging on your wall. Cracked glass. Your arms wrapped around each other, blurry with motion but full of joy. The memory slams into him.

It’s late, and your apartment feels too small for the fight you’re having. "You’re always at the hospital," you say, voice shaking. "Even when you don’t have to be." "It’s not that simple," Jack snaps. "People rely on me." "And I don’t?" He turns too fast. His elbow knocks the picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, splintering the glass. You both freeze. Something in him falters. He picks up the frame and sets it on the counter. "I can’t do this," he mutters before walking out.

Jack stares at the cracked photo now, throat tight. You wander over to where Jack is, and realize what he's looking at.

"You still have it." He states.

"I thought about throwing it away," you reply. "But I couldn't."

"I kept some things too," Jack says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You fall into silence, but it’s warmer this time. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You let him.

"You know," you dare yourself to say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I used to sit in this apartment and think… maybe he’ll show up. Say he’s sorry. Say he wants to try again."

"I’m here now," Jack says. "And I am sorry. And I—"

There’s a knock at the door. The food delivery.

Dinner is quiet, softer. You split the last of the wine, and you laugh at his terrible jokes. When the bottle’s empty and the plates are cleared, you stay sitting on the floor, closer than before. Hands almost touching.

Both wanting to pick up where the serious conversation last ended, but also fearing where it might lead.

Jack reaches for his glass of wine and pauses. "You remember the night the power went out?"

You blink. "The storm?"

He nods. "We were stuck here. Couldn’t even order food because your phone died and mine barely had signal."

"We lit every candle in the apartment. I think I still have wax stains on that old bookshelf." You smile at the memory. "That was probably a fire hazard."

Jack chuckles. "And you made us play that ridiculous card game. Loser had to answer a personal question."

"I was trying to get to know you better," you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "You’re not exactly an open book."

He shakes his head with a faint smile, one of those rare ones that tug more at memory than amusement. ���Still not, I guess.”

“I asked you your fears,” you continue, voice softer now. “You told me you wanted to be a good man. That night. You said you didn’t know if you were, but you wanted to try.”

Jack’s smile fades—not from regret, but more longing. "Yeah. I remember. I was scared I'd let you down."

"You did."

He looks down, his fingers absently brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. But then you add, just as gently:

"But you're here now."

He looks up. Meets your eyes. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—pain, promises that shattered and ones still waiting to be made.

And that silence, again—this time warm, thick, forgiving.

He swallows, as if laying his heart bare, and asks, “Can you give me another chance?”

Your fingers find his, and you squeeze, quietly telling him yes.

He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, the one that makes your chest ache. His hand rises gently to your cheek, and your breath catches.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice almost shaking.

“I missed you too.”

And then, finally, he leans in.

So do you.

The kiss is careful at first—like testing the coffee table you just built. But when your hand slips to his chest and his thumb grazes your jaw, it deepens into something more certain. Something lived-in and familiar, and still electric.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

[dr4c0-r3x]

Imagine Danny pulls an Uno-reverse card.

In Public

Danny Phantom gasping: Dawn?!

Dani Phantom questioning: What?

Danny picks her by her leg: Oh my zone, it's you. Did you escape Mom's lair, or did dive throu a portal during hunting?

Dani angry while charging ectoplasm: Hey, Let Go!

Danny moves his head out of the way: Woah still steamed about the blob. I get it.

Danny messing up her hair: If you're living set on this then I won't tell mom or dad.

Dani angrily swatting his hand away: STOP IT!!!

Danny chuckling while holding but his hands: Okay, okay, I get it, but word of the wiser I'd stay away from Plamuis.

Dani eyeing Vlad the cameras catching it: What do you mean?

Danny with a thoughtful look: He's a master at using his ectoplasma, so if you think you're a match for him then you're not. I'd put him on par with dad, so don't hesitant to ask for help.

Dani now silent: What do you...

Danny challanging ectoplasma into his hand and cutting a rift into the ghost zone: I teach you a new move later, until then I got a hot date. See ya.

Danny flies through the portal causing it to close.

Dani in shock: Wait what?

Amity Park's new mayor endorsing his homemade Inviso-Bill knock off

[kayharrisons]

Caught up in a moment, lipstick on your face [Erik Campbell x Fem!Reader] [18+]

Erik Campbell has escaped death - narrowly.

So, naturally, his first pit stop on the way home is to the first dive bar that crosses his path.

The dive bar where you just so happen to be working that night.

His ex girlfriend. The woman he never got over.

The one that got away.

A/N: ok I know I said I wanted to get my other works out first but I just saw FD6 and 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️ I'm in love with Erik RICHARD HARMON I'VE LOVED YOU SINCE THE MURPHY DAYS anyway have this lil oneshot!!! Happy FD6 release day (note: it was release day when I started writing this LMAOOOO)!!

Warnings: fire mentions, injuries, drinking, smoking, death mentions, making out, thigh riding ehehe, piercings ;) , use of the word cunt and whathaveyou, lot of swearing from our boy LMAO, spoilers for FD6!

Minors dni!

Heat still licks at his skin.

The fire that could have killed him, should have killed him, is looming over him like a frigid chill. Ironic, he knows, but the goosebumps all over his entire fucking body speak for themselves.

If he'd worn one of his band shirts, or literally any-fucking-thing else, he'd be dead.

Lucky, the fire fighters had called him.

Erik prefers invincible.

He certainly felt it, in that moment.

Relief, yes. Smug at his cousin's theory being a big fat wrong-o, most definitely. Still jittery with nerves after literally falling into fucking fire, being branded and almost having his sweet as hell piercing ripped out, absofuckinglutely.

"Get ahold of yourself, Campbell," he breathes, laughing to himself as he trudges away from the smoked husk that was once his livelihood. Boss'd be pissed, but fuck him, he left him to lock up when he wanted to go home, grieve his father and drink himself into a fucking nice long sleep.

Yeah, fuck him.

Ri-fucking-p that sweet leather jacket too, by the way.

Saved him, sure, but god at what cost?

He should go home. Should change out of the ratty band shirt that is a few sizes too big and had been left in the lost and found box at work. Should cling onto his family tight and laugh at his luck.

He doesn't.

His feet, he finds, take him on a fun little detour, boots clomping against the pavement in a rhythm that's oddly soothing, like that of a heartbeat.

He's alive. He's alive. His heart is very much still beating, air is still flooding his lungs.

Take that death, motherfucker that you are.

A lamp-post sparks above him, and he flinches back with surprise, blinking at the light as it flickers weakly and then sputters to a dim end.

He holds up his hands, whistling low. "My fucking bad, dude. Jesus, can't even keep my thoughts to myself now?"

A pause.

"I'm not like grammy. Not gonna start that shit and yabber to the fuckin' walls. Fuck you."

That's all he has to say on the matter before he continues down the sidewalk, flipping the bird to the lamp-post as he saunters on down the street.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking a loose pebble and watching it skip across the sidewalk as it would upon the flat calm reflection of a lake.

It's strange, wandering with no sense of purpose. Well, beyond heading home, but he knows that won't be his first stop of the evening.

It's just a matter of what catches his interest on his way there.

Initially, he debates stopping in at 7/11, debates grabbing himself some seriously unhealthy chips and an obnoxiously large slurpee that'll give him an intense as shit brain freeze and make him wish he was dead.

Ha.

But his feet pull him past 7/11, away from cherry syrup and fake cheese covered nachos.

They instead pull him to the end of the street, where the street corner diagonal from him is dimly lit red by one large sign;

BAR

Erik's lips curve up into a toothy, wide grin.

You take the last drag of your cigarette, tilting your head back against cool brick and watching the smoke curl from your lips and fade into the stars above you.

It's been a long night, so far.

Some firefighters had stopped in earlier after their shift, talking about the shitty tattoo shop a few blocks away that had burned down, about the poor man that had only lived by the skin of his teeth.

Or, rather, the leather of his jacket.

You can't help but think of Erik, wondering if it was his shitty tattoo place that had burned, if he was the one who had been inches from death.

No, you decide, flicking your cigarette butt into the trash.

Can't have been his.

Or else he'd have sauntered in here by now, would've taken the best seat at the bar and asked for your shittiest beer all the while staring down your shirt at your cleavage.

Or, well, that's what your boyfriend would've done.

You haven't seen him in a few months. Not since your last argument, your last screaming match post break up that was fucking Oscar or Emmy worthy.

You'd fucked him that night.

Because of fucking course you had.

You don't know what it is about Erik, even at his worst, or more terrifyingly his best, you would crawl back to him and beg him to fuck you like a goddamn bitch in heat.

The man melts your damn brain.

You can't help but wonder if he used one of those damn tattoo guns to etch himself deep beneath your skin, if he's penned himself into your bone marrow; the deepest and most intimate parts of you certainly feel like he has.

With a sigh, you push yourself off the wall, smoothing down your black shirt, your miniskirt, before heading back into the bar.

The juxtaposition of the sweet silence of your alleyway compared to the deafening dad rock of the bar is jarring.

You feel the beginnings of a headache, as you always do when coming back into work. It nips at your temples, the base of your skull. But it will pass, as it always does once you readjust to the noise level.

"You blow through a whole pack out there or something?" Todd asks you as he pours whiskey over ice, giving you side eye as you tie your apron back around your waist.

"Debated it," you hum, tying the ties in front of you in a neat little bow. "Why, you get a hoard when I dipped?"

Judging by the fact that there's only one guy at the bar and the tables are half empty... you're gonna go with a big fat nope.

"Just don't pull bullshit like that again, alright?" Todd scowls, to which you smile angelically back at him before turning around with a roll of your eyes as you start to polish glasses.

Fucking Todd.

You aggressively wipe at a smudge in a martini glass. Fucking Todd and his inability to clean his damn fingers before he touches glasses. Fucking Todd who's worked here not even a year and he thinks he owns the place. Fucking-

"Polish that any harder and you're gonna break it," comes a sing song voice from the end of the bar.

Your head whips around so fast it's a wonder you don't give yourself whiplash.

Erik is sat at his usual seat, elbows leaning against the bartop and expertly dodging any sticky patches. His hands are clasped in front of him, and you follow them up to his wrists, then his left forearm, which now boasts a piece of gauze likely covering a new tattoo.

"Doodling on yourself again, are we?" you ask, arching a brow as you instinctively reach for the shittiest lager you guys have on tap. Just the way he likes it.

"Less doodle, more memoriam," he shrugs, taking a swig from the pint with a content sigh and smack of his lips.

Your expression softens, any venom and fight leaving you within an instant, "I heard about your dad," you frown, reaching over and settling your hand atop his. "I'm really sorry, Erik. He was a great guy-"

"You believe in fate?" he blurts out, those icy blue eyes of his locked onto yours. You feel as though you're stood on thin ice, watching your breath in the air as you wait for it to shatter and pull you beneath and into the freezing depths. "Coincidences? Luck? Any of that bullshit?"

"Like... step on a crack, break your mother's back? That kind of thing?" you clarify, furrowing your brow.

Erik clicks his tongue a little. "No, not quite. Just... fate, like I said. Say every member of your family died a horrific death by the time they were twenty-seven-"

"Morbid."

"My dad got his face mown finer than the damn grass on the fourth of July, literally fuck off. Anyway... they all die by the time you're twenty-seven, but you live past your twenty-eighth birthday... what would you call that?"

You purse your lips in thought, considering your ex a moment as you lean against the bar. His eyes drift down your throat, glimpsing at your cleavage before flicking back up to your face.

"Luck, maybe," you concede, tilting your head. "Divine intervention, maybe."

Erik barks out a laugh, spraying some foam from his lager across the sticky bar. You scrunch up your nose, grabbing a rag to start cleaning.

"Fuck, sorry, babe, just... kind of riding on a high," he explains, pushing his dark hair out of his face, setting his glass down on one of the beer mats.

You'd instilled that into him during the early days of your relationship, ranting about customers who never had the goddamn thought to use the little mats.

Erik, at least when you'd dated him, had never set a drink on the bar.

You arch a brow as he leans in, his smile wide again. "I feel kind of fuckin' invincible right now. Legit on the greatest high of my life."

"Are you high?" you ask, giving him a quick once over.

"What? No. Do I look edible induced to you?"

You grumble your agreement that no, he does not.

"The tattoo parlour burned down," he informs you, casually, as if it's a completely normal thing to drop mid conversation.

Your heart stops in your chest, even if only briefly.

"Erik! Jesus Christ- are you okay-?"

"Fucking obviously, babe. Look at me, not a scratch on me- oh! Telling a lie, I did get this sick branding-"

He moves to lift up the gauze, and you wave him off. "Fuck- no, no. Don't wanna see that, you freak. Cover it back up, slut."

"How is this slutty?" he asks, bewildered, as he waves his left arm around. "In what universe is this slutty?"

"It's you," comes your flat remark. "You once humped a mailbox and asked if she was a good girl."

"...so?"

"You can make anything slutty, if you try hard enough." you say, tutting at him.

Erik considers you a moment, before his lips curl up into a devious smile. Like that of the Cheshire Cat.

You point a threatening finger at him. "Not an invitation, Campbell."

"Not even a little bit?" he asks, batting his lashes.

You hate that it's working.

"No."

"Boo." he pouts, before taking another sip of his lager. "...I almost died tonight," comes his soft admission, eyes glued to the tiny bubbles in his lager. "Literally was on fire. If I hadn't worn that damn leather jacket then... Jesus, I'd be right alongside my ole pops some time next week."

You reach out again, fingers gentle as they rest upon his.

He exhales, shakily, eyes flickering up to meet yours. "I almost died."

"But you didn't," you remind him, thumb gentle as it rubs back and forth along his knuckles.

"No," he agrees, voice softening in that way it always does with you. The same tone that turns your insides into mush. "I didn't."

And with that, he leans over the bar and kisses you.

You startle, lips tingling even as you lean back. "Erik!" you chide, shakily. "This is- we're broken up, we can't keep doing this. It super goes against what being broken up means-"

"Our break up," Erik breathes, eyes glued to your lips as if hypnotised. "Our rules."

That's all it takes to convince you.

It never does take much, when it comes to one Erik Campbell.

"Smoke break!" you bark out to Todd, as you toss your apron aside and dash out from the bar, grabbing Erik's t-shirt and pulling him along behind you.

"Fucking AGAIN?!" you hear Todd cry out indignantly behind you as the door closes, which you pay no mind to.

Erik has you pressed up against the cool brick wall in seconds, your face cradled in his palms as he slams his lips against yours.

You moan at the sensation, at the familiar feel of his hands, of his mouth.

His tongue pushes past yours without a second thought, in no mood to play fight for dominance. No, tonight, he's the one in control.

You slide your fingers beneath his tee, fingers lightly scraping up his chest, tracing designs of familiar tattoos that are burned into your memories.

You wonder if he's gotten anymore recently. It's tempting to rip that shirt off and find out.

But you control yourself, for now. Though your fingers do creep up his chest, lightly brushing over the piercings in his nipples.

Erik groans deep into your mouth, the sound reverberating in your mouth and straight down to your cunt which pulses with want.

You whimper, your hips bucking instinctively. You want him so badly it fucking aches between your legs, your underwear flooding with warmth as you think of his rock hard length filling you up. As you think of that damned piercing he got whilst drunk, and how it feels so fucking good when he-

Erik shifts, sticking his thigh between your legs. "C'mon, baby," he pants against your mouth, hands moving from your face and down your body. His fingers trail fire in their wake, leaving you feeling as though your skin is burning. His digits only briefly linger over your breasts before continuing southward and finally settling on your hips. Gently, he moves you forwards upon his thigh, and then back, then forwards again. "Be good and ride it for me, yeah? C'mon, sweetheart-"

You whimper again, and do as you're told. It doesn't take much more coaxing from Erik before you're leisurely rubbing yourself up and down his thigh. Your panties are a fucking mess already, and you know for a fact that Erik's jeans are going to follow suit soon. "I've missed you," you admit, eyelids heavy as you pick up the pace, grinding harder against his thigh as that ever familiar delicious ache begins to build.

"Missed you too," he murmurs, leaning forward and tipping his forehead against yours. Your noses brush with every desperate grind of your hips against his thigh, and his breath is heavy against your skin. "Fuck- didn't realise just how bad until-" he cuts himself off as he surges down, pressing a heavy kiss to your lips.

Your fingers reach up and tangle in his hair, holding him closer as you move faster, and faster and oh god yes you canfuckingfeelityou'resofuckingclose-

"Dude your smoke break is going on a little lo-OH MY GOD-"

Both your heads snap in the direction of a wide eyed Todd, who is averting his eyes from the pair of you.

"FUCK OFF TODD!" comes your joint yell, to which Todd does, in fact, fuck off, stumbling as he shields his eyes and returns inside.

All the while you are still grinding against Erik's leg, desperately chasing your release. It crashes over you just as the door slams shut, and you cry out softly as you come against Erik's thigh, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your hips.

Like you said; the man practically reduces you to a bitch in heat.

You pant softly as you come down from your high, leaning your forehead against Erik's shoulder as he noses at your hair, pressing kisses to your temple and forehead.

"...that'll teach him to fucking knock, huh?"

"We're outside, dumbass." you can't help but laugh, swatting at his chest.

"Dumbass that you just came all over," Erik sing songs, nothing but smug pride in his tone.

You lean back a little, eyes dancing over his face with a little smile. You could have lost him. You haven't been together in months and yet... the thought fills you with a terror you've never quite experienced before.

You've never not been in love with him.

"...I'm glad you're okay." you say softly, brushing his hair out of his face.

Erik nods, turning his head and pressing a kiss to your palm. His lips linger, his eyes flutter shut as he takes a minute.

Takes a minute to soak it all in, to soak you in. To think about whatche could've left behind, had the fire killed him.

But it hadn't.

And standing out here with you? Your slick heavy against his jeans, the smell of your perfume lingering in his nostrils, your warm touch...

If he thought surviving a fire made him feel invincible...

You make him feel infinite. Immortal. Everlasting. Untouchable.

"Yeah," he agrees, pressing another kiss to your palm. "Me too."

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

sheep!reader and wolf/lion Mydei

Sheep reader is just soooo naive, trusting this big bad predator sighs SIGHSEHJEDH 🤍🤍🤍

trusting a predator.

☆ tws : fem!reader. nsfw／smut, creampie, heavy dubcon, predator and prey dynamic, rough sēx, biting, preparation, fingering, possessive and rough mydei, degradation & spanking.

☆ synopsis : You should’ve known better than to wander this deep into the woods. Every other sheep knows that predators roam here—especially one in particular: Mydei. The rumors about the lion are endless, whispered to keep prey like you away. They say he’s large, brutal, and relentless when he’s set his sights on something—or someone. But you? You’re too soft, too trusting, and far too naive to heed those warnings. So when you stumble across him, you don’t see the danger in his sharp claws or the way his golden eyes gleam with hunger. What you see is someone strong. What you feel is an inexplicable pull toward him, even when he tells you to run. But Mydei doesn’t want you to run. He wants you to stay.

The air was thick with heat, and your legs ached from walking too far, too fast. You shouldn’t have been here. You knew that. Everyone told you to stay away from the woods, but you never listened. You were too soft, too trusting, too stupid to see the danger.

And now, you were paying for it.

“Look at you,” Mydei growled, his voice rough, dripping with mockery as he loomed over you. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming out here alone? Hmm?”

You couldn’t answer him. You couldn’t even think straight, not with his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place like you were nothing more than a toy for a big lion like him to play with. His palms were rough, warm, so big they practically swallowed you whole—and every touch of his skin against yours sent shivers down your spine.

“Speak,” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to make you flinch.

“I-I wasn’t thinking,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No shit,” he snapped, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. “You’re too dumb to think, aren’t you? Just a little lamb, wandering around, waiting for someone to fuck you up.”

Your cheeks burned at his words, and a soft whimper escaped your lips as his grip tightened. He was so close now, his body pressed against yours, his breath hot against your neck. You should have been terrified—he was so much stronger than you, so much more dangerous than anyone you’d ever known—but the way he looked at you, like he wanted to tear you apart and put you back together… it made your head spin.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he continued, his tone dripping with disdain. “You wanted someone to find you, to take you, to use you. That why you’re trembling like this? Why your pussy’s already fucking soaked?”

You let out a choked gasp, your hands clutching at his shirt as you tried to form a response. But your brain was fogged over, drowning in the heat of his body and the sharp, filthy words spilling from his lips.

“I—n-no, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he cut you off, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I can feel it. Feel the way you’re squirming against me, like you’re desperate for it.”

His hand slid down, grabbing a handful of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that made you yelp. The sound echoed through the woods, followed by his low, satisfied chuckle.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his tone thick with amusement. “That’s what I thought. You like that, don’t you? Dirty little lamb, letting me smack your ass like you’re fucking mine already.”

You shook your head, trying to deny it, but the way your body arched into him betrayed you.

“Stop pretending,” he sneered, his hands moving to the hem of your dress. “You came out here because you wanted this. You wanted me to ruin you. Isn’t that right?”

When you didn’t answer, his hands shot to your thighs, yanking you closer until you were pressed against the hard length of his cock. Your breath hitched as you felt it—thick, unrelenting, pressing against your stomach even through the fabric of his pants.

“Answer me,” he growled, his grip tightening on your thighs as he ground his hips against you.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking. “Yes, I wanted it.”

“Of course you did,” he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re just a dumb little lamb, too scared to admit how badly you want to be fucked.”

Before you could respond, he spun you around, bending you over the nearest tree. You whimpered as the rough bark scratched against your skin, but the sound was quickly muffled when his hand slid between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. “You’re dripping. You really are a filthy fucking lamb, aren’t you?”

You didn’t have a chance to answer before he yanked your panties down, letting them fall around your ankles. The cool air against your bare pussy made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his hand as his thick fingers slid through your folds, as his golden tail wrapped around your thigh.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered, his tone rough with satisfaction. “And so fucking tight. Bet you’ve never had anyone touch you like this before, have you?”

“No,” you whimpered, your hands clawing at the tree as his fingers teased your entrance.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice dripping with smugness. “Bet you’ve been saving yourself, waiting for someone to fuck you properly. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Then I guess I’ll have to show you how it’s done.”

His fingers plunged into you without warning, stretching you in a way that made your knees buckle. You cried out, your nails digging into the bark as he worked his fingers in and out of you, his pace rough and relentless.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “This pussy was made for me. Made to be fucked until you can’t even walk.”

You whimpered at his words, your body trembling as he curled his fingers, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision go white.

“That’s it,” he growled, his other hand coming down on your ass with another sharp slap. “Take it. Take it like the filthy little lamb you are.”

You could feel the heat building in your core, your body spiraling toward the edge as his fingers drove you closer and closer to the breaking point. And just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled his hand away, leaving you gasping and trembling.

“Mydei, please,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as you turned to look at him.

“Please what?” he said, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. “Use your words, little lamb. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” you admitted, your cheeks burning as you dropped your gaze. “I want your cock.”

“Good girl,” he muttered, his voice dripping with approval.

You heard the sound of him unbuckling his golden belt, and your heart slammed against your ribs as you felt the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease—he just drove into you all at once, stretching you wide as he buried himself to the hilt.

A deep, rumbling growl escaped his throat as he plunged into your dripping pussy, your tight heat enveloping his length like a velvet vice. He leaned forward, teeth bared, the primal urge to claim his lamb's flesh overpowering his rational mind.

“Mine,” he snarled, his hips already starting to piston in and out, each thrust delivering a fresh dose of pleasure—pain that made your walls spasm around him. The sensation was intoxicating, your slick passage gripping him harder with every stroke, pulling him deeper, making him want to rut deeper still until he was buried to the hilt in your quivering depths.

His hands gripped your hips like a vice, angling her just right so he could drill into her sweet spots with unerring precision. Each plunge of his cock was accompanied by a sharp slap on your ass, the stinging pain only intensifying your pleasure, driving you closer to the brink of ecstasy.

“Take it, you filthy little lamb,” he growled, his voice low and menacing, yet laced with a tender affection that only he, in his warped mind, perceived. “Take what's yours, what you've begged for so desperately.”

Her desperate cries only fueled his desire, the primal need to claim, to possess, to dominate driving him harder, faster, deeper into your willing body. The air was thick with the sounds of their flesh slapping together, the lewd squelch of his cock parting your folds, the rhythmic panting of their labored breaths.

Your nails dug into the bark, your knuckles white with the force of your grip as you tried to meet his every thrust, to take all of him inside you. Your eyes were closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure and pain.

“Yes, take it,” Mydei hissed, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. “Take every inch of my cock, you dirty little lamb. You wanted this, craved it, begged for it. Now you'll get it, again and again, until you can't walk straight.”

He leaned down, his hot breath fanning over your ear as he spoke, his words dripping with dark, twisted affection. “And you'll love every second of it, won't you? Because you're mine, (Name).”

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