#Sometimes you end up with boring bands

[fantome-sans-opera]

"Metal fans scare me"

Well yeah Melanie, you walked straight into the mosh pit.

Seriously, metal crowds are wild, but they also are the best.

Got to see an awesome band yesterday, and the one thing that hyped us up lore than any other song were the three plush chickens we were throwing around and up to the balconies.

The band you ask? Dragon Force.

They still got interrupted in their INTRODUCTION by a chant for the chickens.

[baepsays]

Musician Geto Suguru and his never-ending beef with his bandmates over your attention.

The thing is, as their main producer and just a very sought-after producer in the industry, he's barely able to leave his studio. Things were different before the scandal, before he was reintroduced to you, and before you two went official. His schedule was simple then—studio, recordings, shows, parties and clubs he was a regular at, getting high out of his mind on coke and weed, and going back to his studio. He barely saw any light, and his apartment felt foreign; hotel rooms were more homely than his apartment. Now it's lived in, with traces of you and the life he is building with you. Your—and now also his—scoundrel cat's claw marks are everywhere; there are stains on the couch, and all the smooth and shiny furniture is now matted. He also prefers his home studio, which he never came around to using, much better than the one at the company.

To simply say, things are mundane in the best way possible. Having lunches and dinners with his bandmates and just talking about things other than work or how he's losing himself was much more fun, he has to say. Especially when no one is throwing punches at him backstage, ahem—Sukuna—ahem. Of course it took more effort to carve out this new usual than how he used to just live off of drugs, caffeine, burning through cigarettes, and barely any food. He much prefers the boring days where he just goes from work to home to see you only at the end of the day, of course, not more than when you come to their shows. But he'll take anything, just to have you around for more than the mornings before and nights after work; it's a privilege. Even having you for more than just 3 shows for a tour is a blessing, due to the vast difference in your schedules.

Which is why he truly looks forward to days when you drop by to have lunch with him. Those weekdays are always a highlight of his week. So when he has to compete with his own bandmates for your attention or the home-cooked lunch you make for him to eat with him in the privacy of his studio, preferably sitting on his lap.

He wants to fight his own bandmates as violently as he used to. Choso, he gets; after all, Choso is the sweetest of them all; it sometimes does not make any sense to him how he ended up in this edgy rock band. But then again, where was Suguru going to find a vocalist and guitarist of Choso’s caliber? Yet still, Suguru does not appreciate it when he takes up your time when you two exchange recipes. Then there is Toji, always barging in to steal the precious food you made for Suguru, eating up most of the food while always making excuses about just one small bite. Suguru would have made Shiu (their CEO) kick Toji out of the company itself, just because of this petty reason, if there was anyone else better on the drums than him. 

Then there is Sukuna. Probably the one who pisses him off the most. Because why is the broody, scary, and one of the quietest men that Suguru knows like a social butterfly around you? Sure, you legally represent their band, but why is he so chatty around you about everything and anything? Is it not enough that he has to deal with one social butterfly, aka the nation's most desirable man and industry's favorite actor, Gojo Satoru, snitching out Suguru to you? There's now also Sukuna, snitching to you about how Suguru skipped meals to hole himself up in his studio for days or smoked more than two cigarettes a day. The worst part is when you drop by, you text in the group chat you are in with them to see if they would be at work that day. And you bring extra food for them or invite them sometimes to eat out with you two (and yet Toji still manages to steal off of Suguru's plate), and if it's just a you and Suguru kind of day, you still see them before or after your boyfriend locks you up in his studio with him.

Just like today, when you dropped by with a packed lunchbox for him and got roped up, yet again, with his bandmates. He got your text at exactly 13:34 PM that you entered the building, and sure, his studio was on the 19th floor, but it took only 5 minutes or so to get there. Unfortunately for him, he had to wait more than 30 minutes for you because you texted him you were just a floor below, in their practice room with his bandmates. And when 40 minutes were about to pass, Suguru had to essentially go down and abduct you by carrying you on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and making a run for it with your bag in his other hand. He could hear Sukuna yelling his name from behind, but he made it just in time to the elevator to get away with you.

“The only reason why I will ever go fully solo is because of your little fan club.” He walked into his studio while grumbling and with you still dangling on his shoulder.

“Issok, I will replace you.” He threw you on the black leather couch and lay on top of you, like he just fought an army of hungry coyotes and ran a marathon at the same time. “Hmm, I see you guys are scheming behind my back now.” He looked up at you from where he buried his face in your chest.

“I say it's very up front.” You giggled and pushed away the loose strands of his hair covering his face, and he didn't reply. Instead, he lifted himself off of you to hover and then moved up to kiss you. It was sweet, smiling, warm faces basically pressed together. Everything still feels surreal, how mundane life is right now for him considering even just two years ago the kind of mess he got himself into. That how his life looked doomed after that moment, and yet here he was.

“I have this new track in the works.” He broke off the kiss and hovered over you with his hooded eyes and a smirk so sleazy, it always made you wonder about your life choices. “Oh, am I hearing it?” You raised your brows at him, and his smirk only widened into a half smile.

“Nope. You're getting on it.” Which basically translates to, ‘I am about to make you moan, and the recording is going into the track.’ You threw your head back into the couch as you tried to push him away and groaned in annoyance. Which was not much avail to you when, despite your efforts, he nuzzled his face in your neck and started leaving a trail of kisses from the base of your neck to your jaw, then up to your lips. And when his lips met yours, a small moan just absentmindedly left your lips as his lips slotted with yours. Suguru’s lips stretched into a big smile while his eyes remained closed, and he continued kissing you until he stopped to murmur into your mouth.

“Ooh. Save all of that for the track.”

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE II FIND MORE ABOUT MUSICIAN GETO

a/n: dividers by @/hyuneskkami

you can think about this as the epilogue to the musician geto au :3c which will take time. I have not graduated yet lol fuck lab exams and i am brainrotted by prince geto soooooo. you can assume what the scandal may beeeee you will be finding that and more band dynamics in the fic!

[cosmosluckycharms]

Bug like angel

I bet on losing dogs

It's been a while since you left the manor.

Around a year or so.

Since then you'd come back to Gotham to fight anomalies and stop by to secretly steal some of Alfred's food and come back home immediately.

You would see some of the Batfam watch you while you were in costume.

They'd be interested in the new vigilante.

You'd always go out of your way to avoid them.

You noticed how they seemed interested.

You hated that.

Where was that interest years ago?

You'd swing away and leave before they could ever get to you.

You hated how it seemed that now they were interested.

You hated how you could see Bruce's calculating stare, probably trying to see if he could adopt you.

You hated how you could see in Dicks eyes how he would see your flips and tricks and look amazed.

You hated how you could see Jason try up to you and talk to you.

You hated how you could see Tim trying to see your watch, which seemed like the technology was years ahead of theirs.

You hated how you would see in Damian's eyes that he was in awe.

You hated how much you yearned for this years agoAfter a while of hiding, you realized you should probably get your stuff.

So you would sneak into your room once in a while to grab your stuff and quickly come back.

You once almost got caught in the kitchen eating some of Alfred's food because you didn't realize he was there.

It was a hot summer noon and you and your friends were hanging out again

It was in celebration of no longer being around your "family", or "sticking up to the big bad wolf" as Hobie would say.

The day right after you had left the manor, your friends blew up the group chat, excited about how you had finally left that household.

They were so tired of having to see you sob and be angry over them and their unfair treatment of you.

They weren't tired of you, they could never be, they were tired of how they treated you.

They hated how they treated you like nothing when you were so sweet.

You would always care for everyone, you'd always cheer everyone up.

They didn't deserve you.

It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, you guys went to band practice and ended up going to get ice cream and walking around malls and buying things (you paying, ofc)

It was nice.

Usually, you hated shopping, it was boring and you didn't have anyone to go with so it was always lonely for you.

That was until you realized how fun it was with friends.

You guys went universe hopping at different malls, avoiding your universe mostly because you hated seeing all the merch of Gotham's vigilantes.

And you didn't want them to see you.

You tried to avoid the thought, you didn't want to think about them.

You guys spent a while together, before deciding to head home for a bit.

You went to your and Miguel's apartment and immediately ran to your room (which was the guest room turned into your room) and fell asleep immediately.

You woke up a couple of hours later.

You decide you should go visit him in his office like you usually do.

You were used to coming in there and just being in his presence and just being near him.

When you first met him years ago, you didn't want to like him.

You avoided him like the plague.

You didn't want to get attached to him for fear he'd turn out like Bruce.

When you finally got to know him, which was a few weeks later, you realized he was nothing like Bruce!

Yeah, like Bruce, he could be scary, mean, brooding, and quiet sometimes, but unlike Bruce Miguel treated you like his daughter.

He would take you out to eat.

He'd remember your birthday.

He'd celebrate your talents and interests.

He'd come to your performances and concerts.

Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

He treated you like the light of his life, like how you'd seen other dads look at their kids!

The same way Bruce would look at your brothers...

You pushed away that thought, you wanted to go to his little cave.

You went through a portal, not realizing how you had your watch broken.

As soon as you felt yourself glitching, which was not normal, you felt yourself hit a brick wall.

Shit.

You looked around for a moment.

Gotham.

You shouldn't be here.

You didn't wanna be here.

You decided to patrol for a bit, you might as well deal with some things for a bit before heading home.

You sort of missed it here.

You went around looking for anomalies, and thankfully there weren't any.

You stopped a couple of petty crimes.

You saved someone getting mugged and felt a slight pain at your side and decided to ignore it, for now you needed to get home.

You booted up your watch, only to realize it wasn't working.

It started to rain and you got worried, what would you do now?

You didn't know if anyone here had the tools to fix this.

And then you remembered you did know some people.

Your family.

You hate to do this, but you need to get home.

So you started making your way to the manor.

You tried to swing but you were too tired and felt sick whenever you swung due to your side hurting.

So you ran.

The rain was making it hard to see.

Your mask was making it hard to breathe, so you took it off.

Only for your hair to stick to your face and make everything worse.

Great, now you have to be around your family and be sick the next day. Thanks, spidey luck.

When you finally got to the manor and identified yourself, it seemed like the manor door swung open.

Inside was Alfred, who was looking at you like you were a ghost.

"Master Y/N?" He stood there in shock.

He could smell a slight metallic smell coming from you.

"Hey." you visibly cringed at how casual you sounded and how your voice cracked.

He quickly signaled for you to come in, seeing how drenched you were.

Alfred watched as you walked in and just stood there awkwardly.

You didn't know what to say or do.

For all they knew, you had been missing for a year.

You had grown an inch or two, and you were still in your suit.

Your skin was paling, but you didn't know why.

Then the realization hit Alfred.

You were the vigilante.

The one that would show up every once in a while to stop people who cause trouble.

The one that made the family lose many hours of sleep investigating the mysterious spider.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to cry and hug you and make you stay at the manor.

He knew he had to call the others.

As soon as he was about to speak up, you swiftly cut him off

"I need help right now. Could you please call the others and ask if they could help me?" you asked him, practically pleading.

"At your service, Master Y/N" He turned away and started calling the others.

You smiled and mentally prepared yourself for the awkwardness that would happen between you all.

It felt like hours later when everyone got there. You were scared.

Everyone was patrolling when they got the call that you were home.

Jason thought it was a sick joke from Alfred, that was until he got to the manor.

There you were, on the fancy couch, looking sheepish.

Dick ran to hug you in a bear hug, catching you off-guard due to you never receiving a hug from him.

You didn't even hug him back, you just wanted to go home.

As soon as he sat you down, you started talking.

"I need everyone's help." you started, gesturing with your hands for everyone to listen.

"Why are you in a Araña costume?" Tim asked, pointing out you still being in your suit.

"I'm Araña. Anyways-" You tried to get back on track, only to keep getting interrupted.

"You're Araña?! Do you know how dangerous that is?! you could've gotten hurt!" Bruce spoke up.

"listen," you started "I just need slight help, and I'll be on my way home. I'll get out of your hair, I swear."

Everyone sat down to listen and you spoke up

"Okay, so I need to go back home, and my bracelet thing to make me go there is broken. I need to use your guy's computer to see if I can contact Miguel or Peni to fix it. I'll leave once I'm done."

"And why should we listen to you? You walked out over a year ago, why should we help?" Damian tried to put you down, only to be smacked in the back of the head by Jason.

You could hear all of your brothers bickering at once.

You put your head in your hands.

You just wanted to go home.

"Can you guys shut up?" You dragged your hand across your face and everyone became quiet.

You took a deep breath.

"I need to use your fancy computer. I need to contact someone. Just let me inside for a bit, someone will come to pick me up, and I'll leave. Can someone lead the way?"

You finally got to the giant bat computer.

The same one that you wanted to see so badly as a child.

It only took 10 astonishingly long minutes to get there.

What made it worse was you walking slower than usual, and everyone insisted on helping you and staring at your side.

You didn't know what was going on, and you didn't want to.

You just wanted to go home.

Once you were in front of the bat computer, you tinkered around with your watch for a bit, trying to get the USB drive out of it.

After a minute or two, you finally got it out.

It would've taken less time, but everyone was watching you and that made you anxious. You were also slightly drowsy for some reason, which didn't help at all.

You saw how beat up it looked and hoped it would still work when plugged into the computer.

After 10 agonizingly long seconds, Lyla popped up.

"LYLA!" you hopped up and down, you could finally go home!

"Y/N! What's going on?" You could hear and see her glitching.

"Uhm, I'm kinda stuck in my universe, and I don't know how to get back! Oh god, I should've listened when Miguel gave those classes on what to do in case the watches broke instead of napping-!" You started rambling and pulling your hair, a trait you got from seeing Pavitr doing so often.

"Y/N, breathe. It's alright, I'll contact Miguel and tell him what's going on, also why are you bleeding?"

You looked down to see what everyone was freaking out about.

Turns out you got stabbed, must've been the adrenaline hiding the pain.

"huh. so that's why it hurt." You passed out and the last thing you saw and heard was everyone freaking out about you.

When you passed out, Bruce immediately called an ambulance, this wasn't something he could fix by himself.

He needed Leslie's help.

He shoved you into the batmobile and made his way to her clinic.

You were dying.

He didn't want to lose you, not again.

You were lying out on the car seats.

Your brothers were in the seats behind you.

Usually, they'd be bickering about the lack of space or who gets which seat, but they were worried.

About you.

You woke up an hour later.

You were laid out on a hospital bed.

You were sweaty, cold, and tired.

You just wanted your dad to go home.

You had a couple of monitors around you, along with some wires connected to them.

As soon as you sat up, which took a lot of strength, you felt yourself get dizzy.

After the sensation of the room spinning wore off, you saw everyone surrounding you.

You could hear people talking, but everything was loud and muffled.

You covered your ears like a child.

You were so tired.

You wondered if Miguel was on his way.

You saw a woman with white hair and a doctor's outfit walk in and start talking.

You tried to focus, and you did, but it was kinda hard.

You felt a slight, familiar humming coming from the hallway of the surgery room.

It took a couple of minutes, but everything was heading back to normal.

That was until you looked down to where the cut was.

It was gross looking and probably infected.

That's when you heard it.

"We are going to have to take the blade out, alright?" The operator said, putting on her gloves.

You could see the vague outline of Miguel's costume out the door.

He was running.

He was running for you.

"Wait, not yet!" you exclaimed, still half asleep.

Miguel was almost at the door, and the operators started to take out the blade anyway.

You screamed in pain.

"I WANT MY DAD!" You tried reaching out for Miguel, only for Bruce to reach out and try and grab your hand.

"I'm here, it's alright." Bruce would never admit it, but he was glad you still called him your dad.

It surprised him though, you'd always call him father.

You pushed him out of the way. "Not you! DAD!" Miguel finally made it past security.

He immediately took hold of your hand despite your family's surprise.

Tears were streaming down your face.

You hugged Miguel tightly.

You cried more. You just wanted to go home.

You ended up passing out from the pain.

oof this was bad sorry

again im hafl asleep so lkke igmore eveey spellung mistake

taglist(please lmk if i forgot you!):@bath1lda @mariadvorak @coralaura @tsxukikami @hjgdhghoe @coffeeaddictxd @cxcilla @kaitense1 @star-girl-interlud3 @sukaretto-n @welpthisisboring @itsberrydreemurstuff @lovebug-apple @crazycaoticsimp @bellethesleepypotato @blackhood1229 @jsprien213 @sirenetheblogger @awawage @holybatflapexpert @vanessa-boo @ryuushou @whiskeygirl7 @seemeee3 @inojinieeee @oliviaewl @djpuppy-kittens @w31rd3rg1rl @br33zy-blizzardz @eyeless-kun

[dollyzdaydreamz]

sam winchester x fem!reader

tramp sammy stamp

description: your tattoo artist friend suggests doing a 'random' henna tattoo on your lower back out of boredom. when you return to the motel, your semi-permanent tramp stamp practically turns sams brain into mush. reader has 'sammy' on her lower back aaa (::>_<::) warnings: no nsfw, but slightly suggestive, fluff. spn masterlist

You and the boys were on a hunt in your hometown, so you figured you’d give your childhood friend a visit. Sam and Dean were oblivious to the fact that she knew you were a hunter. The poor girl had been caught up in one too many of your half assed lies and near death experiences when creatures had decided to hunt you back; so naturally, the secret had to get out somehow.

Her tattoo studio was tucked between a shuttered record shop and pawn store on the edge of town, its windows fogged by condensation. It was dim, but cozy in its own way. The walls were a patchwork of old band posters, ink designs pinned like sketches in your hunter journal, and a few faded Polaroids of past clients who’d braved bolder choices.

You were curled up on a faded leather couch in the front room, a chipped mug of hot chocolate cooling in your hand.

She was finishing a walk-in tattoo, leaving you to your thoughts, until your phone buzzed quietly on your thigh.

Sammy (2:43 PM)

Just checking in. You doing okay?

You smiled and gave him a call, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam echoed on the other end, his voice soft and familiar. There was a quiet rustle. Paper maybe, or an old book, then a sigh. “Just wanted to make sure you got there alright.”

“I did. She’s finishing up a piece. I’m just chilling here waiting,” You reply. "It was snowing a little last time I checked. You keeping warm?" He asked. “Yeah. Hot chocolate’s questionable, but it’s hot.” you chuckled softly.

He huffed a short laugh, and you could picture him, probably hunched over an old lore book, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up.

“That’s good.” A pause. You could hear Dean faintly in the background, and the distant creak of motel floorboards. “I miss you.”

That pulled at something quiet inside you, making you smile, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Bye Sammy.”

You ended the call just as your friend stepped back into the room, tugging off a pair of gloves. She eyed your expression with a grin.

“Sammy? That your guy again?”

You nodded. “Just checking in.”

She grinned, amused, “He’s the moose, right?”

You lifted a brow, “Moose?”

She smirked. “Tall, broad shoulders, hair like he lives in a forest?”

You paused, “Huh, I suppose he does look like a moose.”

She plopped down in the armchair across from you. “Yeah, I've see him and his brother around town. He seems good for you.”

You exhaled slowly, “He is. He’s smart and sweet. Sometimes it’s like he’s thinking five steps ahead but never makes you feel behind.”

“Bagged yourself a fellow nerd.”

“Yeah,” You sigh dreamily, “A cute nerd.”

She chuckled before leaning back, tapping her chin, “You bored?”

You shrugged, “A little. Why?”

“Wanna let me give you a henna tattoo?”

You hesitated, then gave a faint smile. “Ah, why not?”

“Dealer’s choice?”

You nod, "Yeah. I mean I trust your artistic instinct." She perked up at that, "Let's do one on your lower back! Like a cute little tramp stamp?"

“Go ahead," You shrug. "Something small though.” 

You shifted to lie down on your stomach, pulling your blouse up just enough to give her space to work. The cool touch of henna paste startled you at first, but the process was slow and relaxing, the way she always was when she had a brush in hand.

She didn’t tell you what she was painting. Just chatted with you idly and occasionally adjusted your shirt. When it finally dried and she wiped off the excess, she handed you a mirror and let you see it.

A delicate bunny and moose, outlined with just enough detail to make them whimsical, sat in the small of your back. Above them, written in careful script: Sammy.

“You know what? This is the most wholesome tramp stamp I’ve ever seen.” You laughed quietly. “Why the rabbit?”

She grinned. “Hm, I guess you remind me of one. And like I said, that Sammy of yours is obviously a moose.”

You glanced back in the mirror, the figures sweet and strangely personal. “It’s adorable, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

By the time you two finished catching up it was getting late. 

As you gathered your things, your friend caught a peak of the tattoo and snickered,

“Something funny?” You sassed, slipping on your boots and looking back to her smug expression.

“Sammy's gonna love it,” She whispered as she pulled you into a hug. 

“Shut up,” You grumble, though you hugged her tighter anyway.

By the time you returned to the motel, the sky had dulled into twilight, the clouds washed in violet and gray. The scent of motel soap clung faintly in the air, and you could hear the bathroom fan running. Dean was probably washing up, taking advantage of the steam showers the receptionist was raving out. Sam was sat at the table, a book open in front of him, lamp light catching the edges of his hair.

He looked up as you came in. That quiet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey. Have fun?” He asked, voice soft, eyes already on you like you’d been gone longer than just a few hours.

You nodded, toeing off your boots. “Yeah. She just wanted to catch up for a bit.”

“Mm.” His eyes lingered on you, then dipped back to the book, fingers absently turning a page. “Can you grab that old journal from the top shelf? The leather one with the green spine.”

You crossed the room, lifting your arms to reach the shelf. The hem of your shirt rose slightly with the motion.

And that’s when you heard it.

A sharp inhale. The sound of paper crinkling under a suddenly too-tight grip.

You turned, journal in hand. Sam was staring, not in the way he meant to, more like his eyes had found something and were refusing to let go. His mouth parted slightly, brows drawn like he couldn’t quite process what he’d just seen.

“Sam? You alright?” you asked, beginning to worry that he’d seen some sort of vision. 

He blinked fast, dragging his eyes up to yours like he was trying to catch up. “What? Yeah—I’m fine,” he said, voice wavering. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the book like it could ground him. His leg had started bouncing.

You nodded, still unconvinced, but you didn’t wanna push it. You crossed the room to hand him that book he wanted, before getting ready for bed.

A few minutes later, you lay on his bed, facing him to get some shut eye, it was weird, but sometimes just watching work or do something quietly helped you fall asleep.

“Hey—did you...get a tattoo or somethin’?” he asked after a moment.

You glanced over your shoulder, then remembered, “Oh. Not a real one, it’s just henna,” you shrugged. “We were bored, so she gave me one.”

“Oh,” he nodded, lips pressed together like he didn’t trust them to say more. But his fingers fiddled with the corner of the page, restless.

So it was the tattoo that rattled him...

You felt a little grin tug at your lips, wanting to revel in the attention a little more. So you got up, padded toward him and lifted your sleep shirt just enough to show him the full thing, “Do you like it?”

Sam blinked, mouth opening, but nothing came out for a second. "Sammy?"

He cleared his throat when you turned back around, eyebrows quirked at his dazed expression.

“Yeah, it’s hot—or cute. If that’s—what you were going for…” He sputtered.

“Thanks,” you bit back a laugh. "So when are you gonna finish up?" You asked, sitting on his lap to push the brown locks out of his face, grinning at the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed, seemingly melting into your hands. "Mm, I don't know, soon," he murmured, face tilting to give your wrist a little kiss. "Could've gotten a real tattoo in all the time you've been sitting here," you chuckled. Sam's head was nearly lolling back, sleep beginning to overtake him as you continued to gently stroke his hair when you leaned into his ear to speak again, “I was never into tramp stamps but, I don't know, this one’s like my little Sammy stamp,” You whisper. His big brown eyes shot open. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said. You weren’t sure if it was the nickname, the location of the tattoo, or the casualness in your voice, but something short-circuited in that big beautiful brain of his.

You leaned down, lips almost brushing his.

And then—

You pulled back with a soft yawn, blinking sleepily as you got up off his lap. “I think I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

Sam stared up at you,

"Wha—Seriously?” his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

You stifled another yawn, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too obviously. “Yeah, it’s late and I’m tired.”

He gave you a flat, betrayed look, the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. “You—” He scoffed, falling back against the chair back, “You planned that, didn’t you?” He was met with silence as you settled on the bed with your arms folded under your chin. The hem of your shirt rode up again, but you didn’t bother adjusting it, resting your cheek on your arm with a barely concealed smile and close your eyes. You let him stew in it, content in the knowledge that your little tattoo was doing exactly what your friend hoped.

Sam tried to read. Really, he did. But he kept tapping the same sentence with his pen. He felt his gaze drifting again, never quite landing, but never quite staying away either.

His thoughts were a mess.

Yeah, maybe it would fade, but it was his name. On your lower back. In a spot usually reserved for something…private.

And you looked so damn content. Like it didn’t even occur to you that it might be even the slightest bit suggestive.

…this ones like my little Sammy stamp

He groaned under his breath, before rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the page harder, “Sammy stamp...” he muttered with a huff, "Christ."

A few hours passed and Sam was finally calmed down. Dean had long since emerged and flopped onto the far bed, snoring within minutes. Sam finally shut the lore book, brain too fried to keep going.

Sam turned, and there you were. Curled into his bed, face smushed into the arm tucked under your cheek, the other draped loosely off the edge.

He moved quietly, slipping in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled in, his body curving gently against yours. His hand brushed your back lightly, the way that usually helped you stay asleep. Then his fingers dipped to trace the soft shapes adorning the small of your back.

He hadn’t really looked at the design earlier, been too busy short-circuiting over his name. But now, in the moonlight peeking through the curtains, he saw what was etched below his name: a little rabbit, leaning up to a moose. 

Sam's fingers gently pressed on the animals. He tilted his head, it sorta reminded him of the two of you. Then he huffed in amusement as the realization hit him, of course it was you and him.

He tucked his nose into your shoulder and closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly pulling him under, falling asleep behind you with a little smile on his lips.

don't be shy, lmk what you think ! `(*>﹏<*)′ justice for tramp stamps frl, if i could get a tattoo, i'd get one there. they can be so dainty and cuttte. i'm still working on the fairy!reader fics for sam and dean + some requests i've gotten :)

[camilalovesmha]

pro-hero katsuki hcs !

• texts you whenever on patrol doesn’t matter where and when

• ALWAYS tries to show his wedding band to interviewers - married hc

• he secretly loves his fangirls for being obsessed with him, feeds his ego. he’ll never admit he likes fangirls

• when he comes home late from patrol he immediately undresses himself and into sweats and tank top, but sometimes into a compression shirt when he’s wants you bad

• is the type to feel extremely cocky when he sees you wearing his merch. makes him feel good

• sometimes he’ll send you some pictures of him working out because he knows you love those. hints that he wants pics of you in return if he sends on of his biceps

• (i’m a bicep lover) groans when you feel him up by touching his biceps and tracing the veins

• hates pro hero events or anything of that sort, but absolutely goes insane when he sees you in those tight fitting gown dresses

smut/nsfw hcs below!

• fucks so hard when he has a hard day at work, loves pounding into you | “..m-mmph! a-ah, suki!” “i know you can take it-it’s simple. just my big cock in your tight wet ass pussy.” he smirks “wrap those pretty legs around my waist, cmon. let me fuck that pussy senselessly”

• he likes fucking you in his agency on his desk because he knows it’s risky and you can’t stay quiet. | “s-suki, please not here!” you whine as he rubs your aching bare pussy “..your more sensitive hm?” he rubs harder makes you squirm. “i-i can’t stay quiet-ah!! please just fuck me” you plead-he chuckles at your begging.

• the type press his hands on your lower stomach while he’s thrusting in you. he likes feeling his big dick in you.

• so flirty on call while patrolling. starts with talking about his agency, ends with you whimpering, moaning, whispering his name in the phone.

• loves hearing you get off to his voice when he’s casually patrolling.

• made a video recording of him fucking you-watches it when he’s constantly bored. gets hard within the first five minutes hearing you whimpering.

• this one time he felt kinky and tried using his quirk when fingering you making little as possible explosions as he pumps his fingers in and out where your g-spot is.

i hope you like these hcs!! might do more smut ones or fluff | p.s requests are open! i’ll try to make them as much detailed as i can. thank you for all the notes and likes!! - camila 💌

[dollerin]

VOICE OF AN 𝓐𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑳 stack moore.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝑳𝐔𝐃𝐄 ─── you’ve got one hell of a talent, everyone knows that except for the notorious, stack. but he may be the one to get you your very first gig when he finds out. he says you shouldn’t let your gift go to waste, you’ve got the voice of an angel.

elias ‘stack’ moore x f. reader romance strangers to lovers physical touch 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝗐𝖼. 𝟣.𝟩𝗄 ─── 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒

part 2 available here

The old restaurant smelled of tobacco smoke and the pork chops that were being made in the kitchen, the aged wood scent lingering with it. It was crowded, per usual, but you didn’t mind—it meant you and your mother were getting business.

Fridays were usually the busiest anyway, people getting off of work, needing a good meal and a drink to wash down their rough week. Some work all day in the field and want to run away from the trouble of the other folks out to get them. And then there were others who just wanted to dance.

No matter where they were from, you served them anyway, a smile always on your face. Though working and serving for your mama wasn’t ideal, it was a start—a start to your dreams. And you were okay with that.

You weaved through the tables and small crowds of dancing elders, placing plates in front of people and collecting the empty ones. This was nothing new to you, so it came like second nature.

The music in your mama’s joint wasn’t slow, but it wasn’t fast, either. It was the perfect tempo for people to groove along and for you to begin humming to yourself as you cleaned off empty tables. The band that played were a few good family friends that agreed to play there every night, no pay required. Every once in a while, you join them. Sometimes they played popular blues songs, other times they played the songs that you wrote yourself, and knew all the lyrics to. Now, of course, the audience didn’t know the songs but they didn’t have to. Your voice was what captivated them.

By now, it was a regular thing for someone to come up to you and request a song—or just ask you to go on stage so they could hear you. All you could ever do was nod your head and bashfully agree as you walked up.

But tonight, it didn't happen. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe it was because your mama needed some extra help, with the amount of folks that piled into her restaurant. Your cousin—the only chef that she had at the moment, was sick so she was forced to do all the cooking by herself, instead of helping you serve.

As you continued to hum to yourself, the music still echoing throughout the restaurant, the bell on the door jingled. Your back was turned, but you heard footsteps as another customer came in. They didn’t ask to be seated, though.

You glanced behind you to see that they’d taken a seat at the bar, but then you did a double take once you saw who it was.

Some people whispered to each other, but they didn’t dare make eye contact with the person.

Stack.

One of the famous Delta twins. Dressed in that red hat that sat low, hiding his eyes a bit.

You turned back to the task at hand, not wanting your staring to be too obvious—though it probably already was. You could hear him shuffling in his seat at the bar, the sound of his lighter flicking and him inhaling a bit.

You continued working as if he weren’t there, humming along to the music. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes boring into the back of your head.

Soon, the music ended on the stage, leading everyone to applaud before the band started their next song. Some of them walked off the stage, taking a bathroom break or a sip of water. You continued humming to yourself, even as the music was gone.

“Y/N! Hey!” Someone called out to you.

Your head popped up, seeing one of the band members headed right toward you.

“Hey,” you smiled.

“You wanna c’mon for our next number? It’s your favorite,” he said.

“What? ‘Down Hearted Blues’?” You asked, quirking your eyebrow.

The man chuckled, “You know it.”

You thought about it for a moment, his constant ‘c’mon’ had made you want to go up there and grab that microphone. But you weren’t so sure if you’d do that tonight.

“Oh, I don’t know, sir—“

“Go on up there! You know everybody love yo’ voice!”

You shook your head, hiding the bashfulness on your face.

He turned around to the rest of the restaurant, raising his voice for everyone to hear, “Aye, y’all, don’t y’all love lil’ Y/N’s voice? Don’t ya’ love when she sing for us?”

They all paused what they were doing to agree, the area erupting with applause and cheers. That didn’t make your case any better, if you were one of them white folks, you would’ve looked like a tomato by now.

Your smile grew as the people’s focus was now on you, encouraging you to head up on that stage.

“C’mon, Y/N, sing for us!”

“I wanna hear some good ol’ blues tonight!”

“Girl, if you don’t get up there—!”

After a moment of them all trying to persuade you at once, you drop the cleaning towel on the table you were standing at. You walked through the crowd again, walking toward the stage with loud cheers behind you.

The smile on your face never dropped, even as you got to the center of the wooden platform.

Stack was tucked into the back of the restaurant still, remaining in his seat at the bar. He took another drag of his cigarette, waiting to see what all the ruckus was about—what the big deal was about one voice.

People took their places at their tables and some stood around as the instrumental of your favorite song began to play. You took in a deep breath, closing your eyes as the lyrics began to flow out of you.

Were there folks watching you all around the restaurant? Yes.

But you could feel a certain pair glued to you. Like they couldn’t move. Like they didn’t want to move.

You sang out, your voice drifting throughout the restaurant like a harp played in the moonlight. You clutched your chest, reciting the lyrics as if you had lived by them.

Stack looked up at the platform from beneath his hat, the cigarette sitting between his plump lips. They curled up at the corners, a smirk playing on his face as he listened to you. He could’ve sworn he died and came back when he heard, nodding his head slowly in approval and enjoyment.

You twirled to the side of the stage, your long work dress flowing with you as you fell in love with the music all over again. People not only loved you for your voice, but for your performance. How you let the chords flow through your veins. The music was you.

As the band began to reach the end of the song, you smiled out to your little crowd, seeing all them send cheers your way.

You made your way off of the stage, hugging some of them, others kissing you on the cheek.

“Alright, y’all, I gotta get back to work now,” you laughed, cheeks burning from your wide grin.

They all let you get back to your duties, still cheering you on from afar, but not wanting to hear any fuss from your Mama.

You walked back to the table you were at before, grabbing the dirty towel to place in the basket full of other used cloth.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” a voice said from behind you.

You turned to see Stack grinning at you, sly look plastered on his face, per usual.

“Um, hi?”

“Hi,” he repeated. “I don’t mean to bother, but… that was you singing up there?”

You nodded.

“Mhm.”

He smiled, gold pieces on display. His eyes scanned you for a moment before speaking again.

“Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed it. Sounded like an angel sent from heaven.”

You raised your brow, slightly, “Thanks.”

He moved a hair closer to you, eyes never moving from yours.

“I’m offerin’ you a spot down at this here Juke Joint.. You know the SmokeStack twins?” He asked, eyes shimmering in the restaurant’s dim lighting.

“Yeah, I heard of em’. What that gotta do with a Juke Joint?”

“We openin’ one. Right here in the Delta.” He said proudly.

You folded your arms, not responding.

“So? What you say, huh?” His voice lowered, his words only heard between you both.

You narrowed your eyes up at him, “I don’t know.. I don’t understand what I would be gettin’ outta this.”

“Well,” he ran his tongue over his lip. “Thirty cents an hour. And a front-row seat to this here pretty face. Can’t beat that.”

Something about his little comment made your stomach tumble, but you straightened your stance.

“Still not hearin’ what this’ll do for me.”

He sighed, looking around for a moment before turning back to you.

“I meant it when I said you got a voice on ya, pea. Voice like that don’t come ‘round often. Why don’t you come on out? Show folks what the blues s’posed to feel like?”

You kept your eyes on him, thinking for a moment. You didn’t know if this was just a way for him to keep persuading you to come so he could try and take you home—or what. But he had a point. How would you ever get to where you wanna be in life, with your gift, if you don’t show it to folks outside the restaurant?

You tapped your foot, trying to make a decision.

“I…” you started, looking down at your scuffed shoes.

He hummed, waiting for your response, leaning down to follow your gaze.

“You in or what?”

“Lemme talk to my Mama. See what she says, she might—“

“You a grown-ass woman, what you talkin’ bout’, askin’ your mama?” His eyes scanned you again, lips twitching like he was holding back a grin.

“She might need my help,” you finish your sentence, cutting your eyes at him. “It ain’t easy runnin’ a restaurant all by yourself, now.”

Stack gave a short nod, hand coming to his pocket, shifting around it. He pulled out some cash—real dollars, not just coins. He grabbed your hand from your side, placing the paper right in your palm.

“That gon’ cover one night for y’all?” He asked, already knowing the answer as you stared down at the money, mouth agape.

“I— You—“

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow night, then? Bring some of your mama’s platters, hear?”

And with that, he tipped his hat, showing off the gold in his mouth before turning to the door.

꒰ ≧ ̫ ≦ ꒱ྀི : decided to split this in two parts !! :) first sinners fic.. kinda nervy tho.

[fastandcarlos]

When He Carries An Item Specifically For You : ̗̀➛ F1 Reaction

» Max Verstappen

If there was one thing that Max loved, it was your hair, and when he loved playing with it as much as he did, it meant that he absolutely hated when it got ruined. To save that from happening, he always carried a hairband around his wrist so that he could offer it to you when you needed to move your hair out of your face and tie it back. As soon as he saw that it was annoying you, Max would hold the band out, or sometimes even decide that he was going to be the one to tie your hair up instead. 

» Lando Norris 

There were often times during the long race weekends when you found yourself getting pretty bored, using your phone to keep you entertained. The one thing you often forgot to pack with you though was a charger to keep your phone going throughout the day leaving you feeling a little lost as the screen went black. After one too many groans that your phone was dead, Lando decided that he was going to make sure that he kept a phone charger in his driver’s room at all times so that you always had easy access to one and could keep you happy whilst he raced. 

» Charles LeClerc 

When you were in the paddock, Charles loved to make sure that everyone knew which family you were a part of, and so usually had an item of Ferrari merch on him somewhere to pass onto you. Whether it was a top, a bracelet, a cap or a scarf, Charles loved to dress you in red. Even if it was a piece of merch that wasn’t realised to the fans, if he had access to it then he made sure that you did too so that everyone knew exactly who you were cheering on whilst at the back of the garage. 

» George Russell 

With all the travelling that you did, your bag was often filled with different things to keep yourself entertained, one of your favourite things being your latest read, the story usually gripping you. However, one thing you weren’t quite so good at remembering to take with you was a bookmark. After watching you fold pages for many weeks, George ended up going out and buying a bookmark on a day off and slipping it into his bag so he always had one that he could hand to you to use when you wanted to make sure that you didn’t lose your page. 

» Oscar Piastri 

To say you were clumsy was an absolute understatement, and so simply to survive, Oscar was always the one to carry your passport. After one too many near misses at airports, he decided that he would take it instead so you both knew exactly where it was. He had a safe space in his bag where yours and his sat, unlike you who tended to just hold it in your hand. You tried to protest that you were capable of carrying it, but after being responsible for several missed flights you knew that it was probably for the best that Oscar looked after such an important item. 

» Carlos Sainz 

Although he tried his best to convince you that the hairbrush that he usually carried in his bag was for you, you weren’t entirely convinced, and neither was the rest of Carlos’ team either. When you watched Carlos pull the brush out, quite often you’d catch him brushing quickly through his hair to fix his messy locks before handing it across to you to use. He was far too proud to ever confess to carrying a brush for himself, but you knew that he loved having it on him just as much for his benefit as it was for your benefit. 

» Daniel Ricciardo 

Just like Daniel, the cold was not your friend, especially during the tricky winters at some of the races. You were like holding onto an ice block sometimes with how cold you were, which Daniel was not particularly a fan of when he wanted so often to hold your hand. To counteract this, Daniel often kept a pair of gloves in the bottom of his bag when the two of you went out into the chilly air, making sure that you had a nice thick layer on to keep you warm, and make holding your hand much more comfortable for him too. 

» Lewis Hamilton 

It was a nervous habit of yours to mess with your lips, you often picked at the skin whenever you began to get worried which Lewis usually picked up on. Luckily for you, Lewis was always on hand to make sure that your lips were well taken care of though, with a lip balm safe in his pocket most of the time when you were out of the house. Every so often he would remind you to put some on so that your lips were nice and smooth and make sure there wasn’t any skin for you to tug at and risk making your lips sore. 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[captain-huggy-bear]

A Love that Gives, Gives, Gives

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Toplessness/nudity but completely non-sexual, just intimate/tender

Summary: Sometimes you think you have the perfect fitting bra and it turns out that it's actually a traitor in disguise. Sometimes your boyfriend is personally offended that an article of clothing would hurt you so much because he's a sap.

Notes: Reader's skin goes red from the pressure of the bra band so apologies if this isn't what happens for you i'm just basing it off my experience as someone who's skin goes bright red.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

There's a special sort of excitement as you get older about seemingly boring and uninteresting things like new underwear. A new fun pair of socks makes your day a bit better, new knickers make you feel more put together than the old ratty ones in your drawer and a new bra make you feel more confident, like you can take on the entire world.

Today is no exception, you had gone into your long day with a sense of confidence thanks to a new underwear set. It had fit just right, or it had originally felt like it had fit just right, when you'd put it on at 6am before going to work. Either way, in that first moment of the day, you'd felt like a bad bitch and like you could take on anything.

Your day had been long, like normal you were out of the house from 6am until near 6pm, and in that time the comfort of your new bra had shifted to a discomforting sort of torment. A level of discomfort that had fallen into pain.

If there was one thing you cursed about being a woman it was the inconsistency of bras. How you could buy the same size in different places and find that they all fit differently, how one style could fit perfectly and another could be torturous, what you hated even more than that was that a bra could feel comfortable and like it fit right for the first few hours, for the time that you tried it on, only to betray you later in the day when it was too late.

This bra had done just that. Perhaps it had been that the band was too narrow? Or maybe that the straps were too tight? Or the style was just the wrong sort for you? Whatever the root cause, by the end of the day you could feel the band of your new bra digging into the skin of your side and back so harshly that you were certain it would be imbedded in you forever if you didn't get it off immediately.

You were quick as you unlocked the apartment door, slamming it a little too hard behind you as you kicked off your shoes, dumped your work bags on the floor without much care and began to rush past Quinn who had sat up from his space lounging on the sofa to greet you.

"Hey, baby," You barely acknowledged him, not more than a grunt as you passed and he frowned. Those green eyes of his following your hurried footsteps to where you disappeared into the bedroom.

It wasn't really a choice that he found himself up and following behind you, leaning against the doorframe of your shared bedroom. More of a compulsion really, an unthinking action, something he couldn't have not done if he tried. Where you went, he followed. You weren't always in the best of moods when you got home, but when you weren't in a good mood you usually sought him out, curling up into his lap as soon as you could for comfort. It was unusual for you to practically ignore him and it left a bad taste in his mouth, a worry that festered.

You feel bad for practically ignoring him, but the burning discomfort of cotton and lace digging into your skin was a more pressing matter, literally. You can feel Quinn's eyes on you from the doorway as you rush to peel out of your work dress in such haste that Quinn's almost certain he hears a rip as you shrug it off your shoulders.

He watches as you reach back, fingers fumbling with your bra clasp and slipping each time despite the years of experience with it. It's your urgency, the frustrated whine you let you that has him stepping forward and reaching for you unthinking, not questioning why this is so urgent but knowing it.

He has the clasp undone in half a second, and the gasp he lets out is as sharp and loud as your sound of relief when the bra falls away from your body and to the floor. Your skin is indented, a divot where the band of your bra had dug in over the day, flesh bright red, every stitch mark clear as day on the surface. It looks so uncomfortable to Quinn, painful and he can tell by your relief that it is.

"Baby..." There's abject concern in his tone, a quiet sort of worry that can be heard in his voice but also felt in the way his fingers barely graze your side. Fingertips careful and cautious as he traces the edge of the welts in your side.

"It's fine...I just clearly brought the wrong size...or style or something..." You lift your arm, looking at your skin in the mirror as you say this. It doesn't reassure Quinn, in fact your casual disregard for your own comfort pisses him off.

"It's not fine." Quinn's tone is short, clipped. His hands find the dip of your waist pulling you back against his chest, chin dipping down so he can press soft kisses to your shoulder, as if it will erase the discomfort of your skin, "Burn it."

"Quinn, I just bought it! It cost like $80!" The price itself makes you wince, $80 on something that seemed to fit but actually couldn't be worn comfortably for more than a few hours no matter how pretty it was.

"So? It hurt you, it can go in the trash and i'll buy you a more comfortable bra, one that won't do this," His hands trail up from your waist, over your skin until they meet the welts in your side. He's gentle, so, so gentle, as he massages little circles into the red marks. "Or, you can go without, who needs bras anyway?" He grumbles into your skin like bras were a personal affront to him. In that moment they felt like they were, anything that hurt his girlfriend was personally offensive.

"Quinn, I can't go around work with my nipples out. It's highly unprofessional." You roll your eyes at him even as you relax into his touch. His fingers are just cool enough that they provide a sense of relief against your burning skin. It's almost like he thinks he can massage the marks away, that if he caresses them enough they'll disappear.

"Okay, so just wear those bras that are stretchy." He thinks to the bra in your drawer, the one that you've managed to fall asleep in before, that never left marks on your skin

"You mean my bralettes? The ugly, shapeless things?" You think of the white that's now off-white from overuse, the fabric pilling, the elastic overstretched from wear. It's not exactly a bra you consider sexy, something practical instead, comfortable.

"They're not ugly. They're comfortable." He mumbles it into your neck, beard scratching your skin and making you twitch. His fingers are running along the indents in your side, giving up on small circles, and going for long strokes instead.

"I...I just wanted to wear something pretty."

"You're pretty enough on your own, baby," Quinn's kisses travel up your neck, pressing into your jaw and cheek as if he can kiss the thought into you, as if he can make you believe it with just a few presses of his lips, "but...if it's that important, we'll go get you fitted properly at one of those fancy lingerie stores and I'll buy you all the pretty bras you want as long as they don't hurt you."

"Really?" You catch his eye in the mirror, the look he gives you is soft and sincere, eyes crinkling at the edges. Quinn's good with his money, responsible, but he loves to spoil you, even more so because you don't expect it or ask for it. Even more so because you're so careful with your own money.

"Mmmhmm, still prefer you without a bra, but I can compromise, for you." He smirks as you twist to whack him in his shoulder, he laughs as his hands slip back to your waist.

"Quinn." Your voice is a bad attempt at sounding disapproving, the slight laughter you're trying to hide still coming out from underneath as you frown at him.

"First things first though," You watch as Quinn slips to his knees in front of you, still tall enough that he reaches the centre of your chest. There's something about him on his knees like that, looking up at you from beneath long lashes that feels devotional, like he's praying at an altar or shrine. It feels practically blasphemous and makes your stomach flip nervously.

"What are doing?" Your hand fingers his hair without much thought on your part, fingers glinding through dark waves, nails lightly scratching his scalp in a way that makes his eyelashes flutter.

"Kissing it better, then you're going to get into one of those really oversized t-shirts I have and we're going to watch your favourite movie and i'm going to order your favourite take-out."

"All because of my bra?"

"Mmhmm, gotta look after my girl."

He doesn't entertain your conversation any further, Quinn's lips trail over waist before they meet the left side of your ribs. He kisses across angry, red skin, warm to the touch from the pooling of blood under your skin. He takes his time as your eyes flutter close, revelling in the simple quiet intimacy, the tenderness as he cares for you. It's perhaps all in your head, but you think every kiss seems to erase a little bit more pain, a little bit more discomfort.

Your nails trail across the back of his neck as he shifts, lips pressing kisses across your ribs until he reaches the marks on your right side. He's as careful, as gentle as before as he presses kisses over the deep red grooves, nose brushing the skin lightly as he goes. It sets an ache of the best kind in your chest, an ache of affection of love, for this man who will supplicate himself to you, who will press kisses to your skin over something as simple as a too tight bra.

Until Quinn you'd never known this sort of love, all consuming, but not loud. Quiet, gentle. The sort of love that seeks to provide for you in every way imaginable even when you argue, even when you fight. The sort of love that sees all your broken and tender parts and just seeks to soften them, soothe them. A sort selfless love that seeks to give, give, give.

"I love you..." You whisper it, the quiet atmosphere too tender and delicate for anything louder. Your thumbs moving to rub against his cheeks as Quinn places one last kiss on your skin before looking up at you like you've hung the moon.

You're not entirely sure what you did in a past life to deserve Quinn and the sort of love that he gives you, but you choose not to question it. Scared that if you do it will disappear like a puff of smoke.

Quinn is no less gentle when he rises to his feet and guides you by the hand to your bed, no less gentle when he finds the biggest, softest t-shirt he can find and helps you slip it over your head.

His love for you is evident when he puts your favourite movie on without asking what one it is again, its evident when you hear him on the phone ordering your exact favourite takeout order, not forgetting a single item off the list. He doesn't need to say it, it's evident in all his actions, still he does. He mumbles it into your hair as you curl up together in front of the television.

For Quinn there is no greater goal in life than making you feel seen, known, loved and he does it so effortlessly.

[noirsdoll]

your mouth washing work is so good! what if curly was the one scheming the baby trapping on captain reader, like taking the condom off mid stroke (jimmy is fs the one that pushed him to do it, devil on his shoulder)

thank you so much what?!? i think curly would baby trap because he doesn’t want to lose you while he’s gone… (i didn’t see captain!reader until i was done writing it SORRY)

cw for baby trapping and a sprinkle of manipulation!! also some filthyyy smut and curly breeding kink!!

Piloting the Tulpar is like therapy for Curly. The gentle hum as the ship drifts through space, the dreamy green glow of the controls and diagnostics. He sits back in his chair, watching the blinking screen that displays the Tulpar’s trajectory.

They’re on the ending branch of their cruise, on their way back to Earth. Curly’s only thinking of one thing— you. He’s excited to get back and see your gorgeous face in person again.

Jimmy’s beside him, picking the dirt under his fingernails, tongue poking out of his mouth as he does it with utmost concentration. He’s bouncing his leg like he has somewhere to be.

“I’m thinking of putting a ring on her finger,” Curly says into the silence, “when we get back.”

“Cool.” Jimmy doesn’t look up, but he frowns, wrinkling his nose.

The quiet drags, Curly tips his head back against the seat, sighing in content. He has the whole thing planned out. He’s gonna take you to your favourite restaurant and ask them to bring over the band and play a song you like. He’s even got a whole speech that’s he knows by heart—

“That’s not gonna stop her from cheating on you.”

“What?” Curly turns to look at him.

“Yeah, well, I mean, what do you think she’s doing while she’s waiting for you to come back?” Jimmy snorts. “It’s not like you’re there to fuck her when she wants.”

Curly’s unsure of what to say. He’s never thought about it like that.

“We were gone, what, a little over a year this time?” He reclines with a creak, grinning. “Who even knows if she’ll still be there waiting for you?”

Curly frowns. “What could I do?” Jimmy’s right, what if he comes back to you and you’ve moved on or you’ve grown bored of waiting?

“Knock her up,” Jimmy says, like it’s the most obvious solution.

His eyes widen. “I couldn’t do that— We haven’t even talked about kids yet.”

Jimmy scoffs. “Then don’t talk to her about it. You want the relationship to last, right? This is the best way.”

The way Jimmy talks to him sometimes makes Curly feel like he’s looking at the world through a whole different lens, like Jimmy is expanding his horizons. And Jimmy’s right. You wouldn’t be able to leave with your belly all swollen with his kid.

So Curly does the unthinkable. When Curly gets home and you both have your habitual fucking that is more humping and groping than anything meaningful, he puts his plan into action.

Curly’s lips slot with yours, he kisses you messily. Your nails drag over the broad planes of his back as he lays you down like he has been wanting to do all this time. He thinks he almost cums just from slipping his dick in, the way your pussy clamps down on him is tighter than any hug you’ve pulled him into.

You both stare at each other for a moment, catching your breath, the air is hot and dizzying and there is so much want coursing through both of your systems. And then Curly sets his pace.

It’s sweaty and sloppy, shallow thrusts as he doesn’t want to leave your warm cunt for too long. He holds you down with one big hand spread over your stomach, fucking into you like it’s life or death.

His dick “pretends” to slip out of you, like his fat head could ever miss your cunt— it’s practically muscle memory. As he goes to realign his cock, he slips off the condom, sandwiching it into the pleats of the tousled sheets behind him.

You don’t notice, too busy moaning and whining and drooling into your pillow as Curly’s rhythm turns damn near brutal. God, he’s gonna breed you, he’s gonna fucking breed you. He can’t go back now.

Wet strings of your slick connect his hips to yours as your pussy leaks all over itself. The sounds it’s making are almost pornographic. Curly’s thumb slips on your soaked clit as he makes you cum alongside him. He read somewhere that it helps get you pregnant too.

You’re too fucked out to notice that creampie he just gave you, thick, milky cum dripping out of you. He reaches down with one finger and pushes his cum in deeper. He doesn’t want you wasting a drop.

Maybe this was a net positive, Curly thinks as he cleans you up, peppering kisses along your body and praising you for your hard work— laying there and taking it.

Now you have something to keep yourself company the next time he’s gone.

[delaware-lemme-smash]

Hii! May i request some headcanons were mt. lady, sir night eye, present mic, eraser and all might react to their s/o wearing their clothes after sex? Like if they didn’t have any clothes with them what weren’t… dirty so they stole some! Sorry if this is boring but I thought it was kinda cute :)

Hope you enjoy these, lovely!

Characters: Takeyama Yuu/Mount Lady, Sasaki Mirai/Sir Nighteye, Yamada Hizashi/Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead, Yagi Toshinori/All Might

Contents: gn!reader, mild nsfw

Takeyama Yuu/Mount Lady

Perhaps it was an impromptu tryst, because you’re at Mount Lady’s apartment and your only clothes are dirty. Perhaps your stuff got torn up in a fight with a villain and now you’ve come back to hers to ‘celebrate’, you find yourself left with nothing but your underwear. Perhaps not even that. 

You could sleep naked, but it’s not the most comfortable situation to be in. So you wander over to Yuu’s wardrobe (really a walk-in closet). She might only be a debut hero, but she’s very popular and spends a lot of time in the limelight. This translates to making absolute bank, and she spends a lot of it on beautiful clothes. Obviously, you’re not going to wear a gala dress to bed, so you grab a t-shirt that looks pretty old, and maybe a pair of yoga pants. 

Depending on your size compared to her, they might be fine, or they might be a tight fit. When she comes back into the bedroom, her skin gleaming from her nightly skincare routine, she stops in the doorway and pouts at you.

“If you stretch those out, you’re going to have to replace them.”

“...says the woman who turns into a titan?” The irony is too much for you.

“Only my hero costume stretches with me, duh.” A pause. “Your butt does look good in those yoga pants, though.”

Sasaki Mirai/Sir Nighteye

It would seem that if you’re dating Sir Nighteye, you’ve at least got some sense of planning and responsibility. But you’re only human, and sometimes you’re going to find yourself caught short. Short on clothes, in this case. Even if your clothes are clean, you couldn’t fathom sleeping in your work clothes.

You wait until Sir Nighteye is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, before sneaking open one of his drawers and grabbing something at random. You end up with…

A pair of boxers and a vintage All Might t-shirt.

It’s hardly the sexiest of nightwear, but you make it work. He leans back into the doorway to tell you to borrow some clothing, and you’re lounging on his bed, all “Paint me like one of your French girls”. 

“I’ve been waiting for you~” you purr.

He nearly spits out his mouthwash, and disappears back into the bathroom to gather himself. You distinctly hear him chuckle under his breath, then clear his throat.

“If you want to entice me, darling, don’t wear the face of my former boss on your torso.”

Yamada Hizashi/Present Mic

Hizashi’s always trying to get you to wear his clothes, anyway! He drapes his little moto jacket (the casual one, not the studded one he wears as part of his costume) over your shoulders a lot and tells you how great you look. 

Seeing his partner wear his clothes just gives him this little kick and makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

You’ve got a variety of options in Mic’s wardrobe. In the t-shirt section, you’ve got a lot of band t-shirts, weird, bright coloured ones covered in fruit or English slogans, a few rare Eraserhead merch t-shirts he got done to piss off Aizawa, and if you want to borrow some boxers, you’ll be hard pressed to find some that don’t have a loud, zany pattern on them. 

If you want to be (moderately) sexy, grab a vintage band t-shirt and a pair of his black boxer briefs. If you want to make him laugh, grab the stupidest t-shirt you can find and pair it with an eye watering set of boxer shorts, especially if they have bananas on them. 

Hizashi grins wide enough to split his face in half at the sight of you in his clothes. It doesn’t matter if you went for sexy or stupid, really, because he’ll just try to get you out of them again, if you know what I mean~

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

This is one of those things that Aizawa doesn’t know he likes until he sees it for the first time. He’s probably dragged himself out of your post-coital snooze to get you both some water or feed the stray cat on his balcony, leaving you to ponder your clothing situation. 

When you open Aizawa’s wardrobe, it’s 75% loose black shirts and pants, with a few non-black items crammed at one end, including those infamous pink sweatpants. 

It seems he’s not totally averse to colour, just not when he’s working. He has a few t-shirts (gifts from Hizashi) covered in cats (as opposed to just covered in cat hair, like the rest). 

If you’ve cuddled him at all, which you have, thoroughly, you know that all his clothes are surprisingly soft and comfortable. He tends to end up with raggedy cuffs on his sleeves, but even so, the shirt has that soft texture clothing gets when it’s been washed many times. You dig out some random black shorts he has, though you’ve never seen him expose his pasty legs in public, so they must be old.

Shouta shuffles back into the room to find you asleep, curled up in your borrowed finery. There’s something about the sight of you lying in his bed, wearing his clothes, looking so warm and comfortable. It’s like a little gut punch of domesticity. 

“You’re meant to ask, you brat,” he says fondly, flopping onto the bed next to you. 

Still, he reflects, as he pulls you closer, that shirt’s gonna smell like you now. Maybe he should make you wear it every time you sleep over.

Yagi Toshinori/All Might

All Might’s still pretty nervous about being in a relationship so he’s not 100% sure of the protocol, especially when you’re at his place and you don’t have any clean clothes to wear to bed. He gets flustered and goes to see if he can quickly wash your clothes, forgetting the entire wardrobe of clean clothes right there.

All Might or Small Might, his clothes are going to absolutely drown you no matter what size you are. Toshi’s a titan. Any t-shirt you try to borrow is basically a giant nightshirt. 

Toshinori splutters a little at the sight of you swimming in the fabric of one of his shirts. Once he’s done coughing into his elbow, he offers you a toothy grin, his eyes crinkled up.

“That…might be a little big on you,” he says, tugging playfully on all the excess fabric. “Are you sure it’s going to be comfortable?”

You tell him that you like the feeling of the soft, loose fabric, and the fact that it smells a little like his cologne, even after being washed. He’s chuckles at that, wrapping his large hands around your waist, the fabric cinching in against you.

“Well, never thought one of my old shirts could look so adorable.”

[honeymoonblues]

The One Your Friends Don't Like

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Everyone has something to say when a girl has fun with the local freak.

Word count: 2.6k

Warning: Some cursing.

A/N: I had this one on the drafts for a long time. Silly little thing. Incredibly self indulgent. I usually make my fics with a gender neutral reader, but I felt this one needed to be fem! for the sake of the plot. Please, let me know if there are any spelling errors, English is not my first language.

You had never expected it to end the way it ended. 

In fact, you distinctively remember thinking no one would ever find out that you were passing notes in class. Why would anyone know?

Except Eddie Munson had a big fucking mouth. And you had a friend in common with him (sort of). 

The thing was, you were bored. Badly. And the biology professor had this superpower of putting everyone to sleep with his monotonous voice. So it wasn’t intentional when your spaced out gaze landed on him. On Eddie Munson, of all people.

Your pencil fell to the floor because you got startled when he smirked at you. And then, came the little note.

His handwriting was hideous, but legible. The paper seemed torn from another class’ book. You didn’t write anything back. Instead, you made a little grotesque cartoon of the professor, which Eddie seemed to appreciate very much.

“You think Munson is cute?”

How the fuck had Vicki already found out about it by lunch, you had no idea. But you were about to find out.

“I don’t-”, you started, but she didn’t let you finish.

“He told me that you were staring at him,” she scoffed smugly.

God, you hated that expression on her. The smile forming on your lips was totally betraying you, but you weren’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“And since when are you friends with Eddie Munson?”

“He’s friends with Kate’s brother, you know Gareth,” she waved her hand around, “they’re in that, uh… club together, and a band. He’s always hanging out at Kate’s.”

Asking her not to make a big deal out of it was useless, you knew her mind was already scheming to set you two up.

“You’re dating this idiot?!”

There was nothing you appreciated more in your friendship with Robin than her honesty. Even if sometimes she was too honest.

“We’re not dating! We just, uh… hanged out once.”

“Yeah, well, be careful. I haven't heard too many kind things about him.”

Her tone softened, meaning she was trying her best to understand you.

The truth is, it had been a date, no matter how much Eddie and you acted like you were above all that sort of stuff. 

His handwriting had been clearer on that one note, neater, with more thought behind it. You felt his big brown eyes on you while you read it, so you knew you had to act as cool as possible. As if him inviting you to a literal date wasn’t freaking you out. You didn’t even pass the note back, you just nodded in his direction, and he smiled while twirling his hair on his finger.

In the end, Vicki didn’t even had to set you up, Eddie asked you out himself, like a big boy (kind of). 

The guys leaving the club session looked at you like you had grown a second head. 

“Band practice is down the hall”, one of them snickered. That was Gareth, you assumed.

“I know”. You narrowed your eyes, holding your saxophone case a little tighter and breathing deeply. Gosh, and these were Eddie’s friends?

Immediately after, Eddie’s big eyes sparkled when he saw you outside the classroom. 

“Hey, you made it”.

Like the other boys, he wore the club’s t-shirt but this one looked particularly clean. You saved your comments to yourself, though, and just smiled back.

The moments you were deciding where to go were the most awkward. You could tell that Eddie wasn’t used to talking to many girls. No matter how much of a peacock he acted like when he was in a ten-foot radius of a cheerleader.

If there was a contest for Weirdest Location for a First Date, Eddie and you would’ve won first place. You both agreed on going to the Hawkins’ graveyard. The place worked to ease your nerves, somehow.

Many graves had stories you’d heard over the years. And of course, the metalhead guy loved to hear about them, tagging on with his versions or additions to them.

The date went well and it definitely helped to fuel both of your delusions of being cool and oh, so edgy. In reality, you were just two nerds walking and laughing in an inappropriate place, while not having the guts to admit this was a date. 

When the “hanging out” turned to actual dates, you knew it was going to be impossible to hide it from Robin. And you braced yourself for her reaction.

“How many times did you kiss him?”

If she'd asked a day before, you would confidently say ‘three times’. But after the makeout session the night before, it wasn’t like you could keep count of that.

Your skin crawled by imagining telling this to her, so of course, you omitted the question.

“No, wait wait! Don't answer that. I need a complete timeline: from the first date to the first kiss, to now.”

You scoffed.

“What are you waiting for? Start talking.” 

Oh, she was serious about it.

So you talked, knowing there wasn’t any way of getting out of it.

She already knew about the graveyard, so there was little comment to make about it. 

The words you chose were careful, though. Robin wasn’t too thrilled about Munson at all, so you had to put effort in making him look as good as possible while keeping it in the realm of possibility. 

You spoke about how witty he was, but didn’t mention the fact that you held your breath the first time you walked into his room. Not that you were the picture of cleanliness, let’s be honest, but you had wondered just how long had it been since his sheets had seen the inside of a washing machine. (Not like that had stopped you from rolling around on his bed, anyway).

You talked of how he was actually a bookworm and really interesting to converse with, but kept quiet about how, just on your third date, he immediately asked you to stay the night after getting his hands under your shirt. 

You told Robin about his encyclopedic knowledge of music, similar to Robin's, but carefully omitted the fact that he had bitten you despite you asking him not to. You had moaned at it, either way.

Trusting him was a hard task. Sure, maybe you were paranoid, but this guy made up stories as a hobby. And even if he didn’t, he seemed too eager to impress any girl in his vicinity to be a hundred percent trustful.

“Oh, I don't believe you.” That phrase came out of your mouth so often now, it was almost funny.

“I swear! Cross my heart and hope to die.” Dramatic as always, of course.

“Sure, whatever you say, man.”

But truths and lies weren’t that important when he kissed you so sweetly. As sweet as this brute could be. It was very endearing. 

You didn’t give a fuck if that fight he was telling you about was real, or if his band was as awesome as he said, not when he pulled your hair and bit your lip in that way that made you shiver. 

Let him talk, you thought, he had a cute mouth anyway.

Between nerdy conversations about Lord of the Rings or music, and heated makeout sessions on his bed, or yours (whichever was available at the time), there was always a debate that bubbled up between you two.

“Doesn’t that fuck up your brain or whatever?” 

“princess, it’s 1986. Everyone smokes weed.” You had stopped fighting that nickname long ago, you even stopped cringing at it, somehow.

“Not everyone!” 

“Yeah, well, it’s you and Vicki against the world, then.”

It’s not like you ever expected him to change his ways; that was stupid. But it was annoying when he expected you to just… be okay with it.

Still, he stopped smoking when he was with you —wow, what a gentleman!— and you ignored the fact that he may or may not sell pot. Closing your eyes and letting his hands wander was the best way to forget everything about it.

The sun was already setting on a beautiful Saturday afternoon when you brought it up.

“Remember how I told you Robin doesn’t like you much? Like, at all.” Your breath felt a bit shallow, you had kissed for what felt like hours at this point.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, uh… It’s mostly because she told me she saw you and Chrissy Cunningham together the other day… You know, alone and everything.” Your gaze was unblinking, boring into his eyes as if you were trying to read his mind.

His blush was a little more intense than before, reaching his ears, but he didn't hesitate in answering, “I never talked to her before, Robin must have mistaken me for another person.”

Your silence must have freaked him out a bit, because he croaked a tiny “I swear!” that sounded quite pathetic, even for him.

The intention of this whole afternoon was to talk to him about being exclusive. You hadn’t been mad about the Chrissy thing, really. It wasn’t like Eddie and you were official at all. Even if he liked to make it very obvious that you were together every time he crossed paths with you at school. But now that he was denying everything? Yeah, the exclusivity thing didn’t sound so appealing to you anymore.

Because you’d lied. It wasn’t just Robin that caught him, you were there, too.

“Are you sure, Eddie? I’m not… I’m not mad about it.” But you were starting to be.

“Yes, yes! It’s funny, actually… I, uh, had like, the biggest crush on her in middle school, you know? But not anymore, princess! I don’t even look in her direction, I promise.”

You felt like you hadn’t blinked in the last five minutes. 

Fuck this! You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. That was never the intention with this whole thing. You just wanted to have some damn fun for once.

“Okay…” You said carefully, “just… don’t expect Robin to talk nicely to you, okay?”

“I’m used to people not liking me, princess, nothing new.”

Your smile was tight, and the way he twirled his hair had never bothered you this much before.

“So, I heard there’s this party next Saturday...” You said.

The mirror smiled back at you after you applied your lipstick. You were already a little tipsy after the pregame at Vicki’s, but you did your makeup flawlessly in front of her bathroom mirror. 

’Hot’ was the right word to describe you that Saturday, you felt confident, you looked cool, and you were definitely ready for some kissing and smooching. If you ended up in Eddie’s van? Even better.

Your friends were not so thrilled about seeing Eddie, not after the Chrissy thing, but they knew they couldn’t do much to stop you. Those were your bad decisions to make.

The party was flooding with people, and it took an absurd amount of time to find Eddie, even when he was the flashiest thing in the room. 

By the time you got to him, you were way too drunk. No longer just tipsy. The unknown substance in your red cup was doing its job, and you could barely keep steady on your feet when you found yourself in his arms.

Your friends were cringing hard when you kissed him in front of them, staining his face with lipstick. He was very, very pleased with it, though. Even if he felt heavily judged by everyone in your circle.

In the end, he ended up taking you home, but not in the way you’d have liked. Because the moment you stepped outside and started to walk to his van, heavy nausea hit you with the cold air of the night, 

Your vomit stained his sneakers a bit, but he didn’t complain. In fact, he had never been this gentlemanly before. Even your friends, usually very unimpressed with him, were surprised.

He made sure you drank water, wrapping you in his jacket and then drove you home, making sure you made it up the stairs without falling and tucking you in like a good, responsible boy,

“I’m sorry I ruined the night.” You murmured sleepily before he left.

“Are you kidding? You throwing up was so metal! I’m honored I got to witness it.”

He was such a freak.

You were tugging at your hair, frustrated. After just finishing it, you accidentally tipped your glass of water over all your homework, so you had to redo it. Then, your friends who were supposed to hang out at your house didn’t show up, and you had cooked for them. And while you tried to calm down with a nice hot coffee, your favourite mug slipped from your hands and shattered into a million pieces on the ground.

You needed to call Eddie. Maybe he’d help you laugh about it a little.

The phone call had been 30 minutes long at this point. You sighed, feeling a little better, but still guilty for talking about yourself and your own problems nonstop.

“I feel like I complain too much sometimes,” you chuckled.

“Princess, I know the female population, okay? They are always complaining about everything, all the time. I’m used to it, don’t worry.” 

He knows the what, now?

“Eddie, what the fuck?” But the idiot kept on talking.

“Yeah, princess, it’s fine. I mean, we guys don’t give a shit about most things. But that’s just natural, you know? It’s like, biological.”

Hanging up on him had never felt so good. No goodbye, no nothing. Seriously, who does he think he is?

You needed to call Robin. Maybe she’d help you laugh about it a little.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

This conversation wasn’t meant to be had over the phone, but the winter break had just started, and you were leaving on vacation the next day. Leaving this matter to stretch over time would just make it worse. You wanted to enjoy your holidays without anything weighting on your mind.

Not that he could ever convince you to stay with him, anyway. There had been a long talk with your friends about all this. And the jury had decided he should be executed out of your life. You agreed, of course.

There was only so many things one could ignore in the name of fun. And when your frustration started to surpass the enjoyment, what was the point? 

He was not the type of guy you could introduce to your parents. He was not even the type of guy you could see with a steady relationship. You realized you wanted a little bit more romance than he could get you.

So you mentally prepared yourself for this phone call, for his insistence, for his endless questions, even for some anger.

“I didn’t mean to tell you this over the phone, I’m sorry.” Your voice was steady, clear, no sign of doubt.

“Oh…” Silence. And then, a moment after: “It’s okay, I get it. Thank you for these last few months.”

“Uh, Eddie-”

“Goodbye.”

You stuttered a goodbye, but it was too late, he had already hung up. 

Shortest phone call of your life.

“Honey, he sells drugs. You didn’t know that?”

“Not until very recently…” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Your friend laughed, shaking her head.

Now, your friends would have something to tease you about for the rest of your life. And you’d have all that time to pretend you didn’t enjoy his company or act like you didn’t notice what a mess he was.

And maybe he’d try to contact you again, try to get close. But you’d ignore him, walking awkwardly past him in the school hallway.

Still, he’d live forever in your mind as the one your friends didn’t like.

[thbbie]

༄ nerd!choso x f!reader (uni/college au)

nerd gojo is cocky and loud and honestly? a little mean. nerd choso on the other hand is the nerd poster child. a fumbling stuttering mess. nervous and shy and he can never look anyone in the eye. need choso who's glasses always slip down his nose at the most inconvenient times pushing them back up with a shaky finger.

he's just so easy.

so eager too. like the word no doesn't exist to him, ever the people pleaser choso just want to do well and never inconvenience anyone no matter what. that was you're impression of him at least.

what ends up catching you off guard is when the shy stuttering demeanour disappears like the flick of a wrist.

the two of you had been assigned a project together, and god were you happy about that. you moved to go sit next to him and before you could even say anything he told you not to worry about the project not making eye contact at all.

oh. maybe he just didn't like you. i mean, not wanting your help at all? that's rude, sure you aren't the smartest but you aren't an idiot either.

he invites you to join him when he plans on work on it —sometimes the library sometimes a cafe; still not letting you do much though so what was the point?

the projects due in a few days so he called you out again, texting you that it's all done and just needed to go over it with you so you know what your talking about during the presentation.

you sit across from each other at the little table, knees nearly touching beneath it. he's wearing a band tee that's maybe meant for someone ten times his size, swimming in the fabric practically, his dark hair falling over his eyes and down his neck instead of his cute signature pigtails. choso pushes the bulky frames up the bridge of his nose every once in a while in between his aggressive typing.

no promised run through in sight.

bored, and feeling terribly useless you get up to order yourself something else; it's been hours and the end doesn't feel any closer, a great way to be spending your saturday evening.

once you've placed your order, about to pull your wallet out to pay, someone beats you to it; handing the barista the cash of your shoulder before smoothly adding his own drink to the order.

he puts his card back in his wallet when the order is paid and offers you a handsome grin when you turn to look at him in question raising your brows at the content smile on his lips. before either of you could get a word out you're interrupted by a hand sliding around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.

choso.

you can't see his face but you imagine there's a scowl on his pretty face, the other man (who's name you are yet to receive) is still all smiles but it's tense. menacing. you are so confused

the awkward tension with you stick in the middle goes on until the superhero in disguise of a barista swoops in to save you, "umm, your drinks," as she slides the three of them over the counter flashing you a reassuring smile when you give her a sheepish look of thanks.

you free yourself from chosos hold to hand the man his, a smug smile shot choso way, lifting the cup slightly as of to say cheers.

you then grab your own and hand choso the one you ordered for him; sure he didn't ask but you guys were doing a project together. the last thing you need is for him to hate you and end up telling the prof you hadn't pulled your weight (which would be his fault anyway)

"thank you baby" wait what? who? he whispers it close to your ear, the sound sending a shiver right through you. "let's go baby we've wasted enough time here already" huh

yes one could assume that choso doesn't get much ver often (at all) but calling you baby after buying him one (1) drink? it cannot be that bad.

the stranger looks unfazed, offering you a small wave and a wink as you walk away with choso. smiling when you respond with your own polite wave.

choso and you leave, rounding the corner of the coffee shop, still confused you ask "choso what the fuck was that? baby?? i thought you didn't like- mph"

he presses you into the cool brick wall of the cafe, his slips crashing against your own, fervent and needy. your drinks fall to the ground, contents spilled and forgotten,"mmph- do-hahh- don't like you? what do you think all those dates were?" "dates? mmmhn~ what, are you-" is that why he'd only ever want to work on the project on the weekends? outside of school hours? he thought of them as dates? is that.. his idea of being romantic?

you push him back by his shoulders, panting a little "you never said they were dates!" "did i have to spell it out? i though it was obvious! i even asked if you were seeing someone before. now shut up i wanna keep kissing you.

..i can keep kissing you right?"

unbelievable. "yea, cho. you can keep kissing m- not here!"

and he listened, he took your hand and led you back into the cafe, making a beeline for the bathroom and locking the door behind you both. his lips are back on your without a moments notice, still just as needy as they were a moment earlier.

your hands wrap around his neck as you melt in the kiss, using his shirt and hair as leverage. chosos hands start to wander slipping beneath your shirt and teasing the band on your pants, his fingers slipping beneath it to smooth over the soft skin.

his hand descends and moans in your mouth when you tug at the ink locks further, touching more of you until your pants won't allow him further access. cursing under his breath as he impatiently tugs them down, a little paper falling out of the pocket to the ground with them.

curious, choso leans down to pick it up; a set of numbers written on it. a phone number. "hah! what's this? the guy from earlier?"

he runs to fingers over your wet folds, collecting the slick to push them both in at once. leaning down to middle your moans with his mouth. "maybe we should call him, hmm? what do you say pretty? lets show the stranger you liked so much hm how slutty you are for me hmm?"

he dials the number in his phone while speeding up the two fingers inside you. it rings once, twice, thrice before the other man picks up "hello?"

choso pulls his fingers out of you, quickly replacing them with his cock and brings the phone closer to you "come on pretty, say thank you for the drinks that we spilled on the pavement. so thoughtful of him wasn't it?"

"mmph- choo~ sttop i-it's ahhh"

"hm, i guess not, sorry man she doesn't sound all that thankful" and choso doesn't sound remorseful at all. he speaks through gritted teeth and repressed moans, shit you're gripping him so tight.

he drills into you faster, holding you body up against the tiled wall of the bathroom. it's actually quite pretty, clean and well lit, you might've been able to admire it better if choso wasn't fucking you like he hates you, his hips slamming against you repeatedly, after he's just told you he didn't. he liked you. a lot by the looks of it.

you'd completely forgotten the guy on the phone until he finally speaks up, chuckling into the line as he says "well, the pretty girl might not be thankful i certainly am. so thoughtful of you to call me, sharing her pretty sounds with me. you're so thoughtful cho~" his voice is unserious and teasing, but low — like he's somewhere crowded and wants his words to be heard only by you and choso.

"nghh~ fuck [name] 'm close- s-shit hold the phone" handing it to you to free up his hand and rub angry little circles on you clit.

"awhh is that because of me cho~ am i getting you close?"

choso twitches inside you. his glasses low on his nose but both of his hands are too busy to push them up, preoccupied with more important thing.

"shut up dumbass"

you're completely delirious, your head thrown back in bliss, loud squelching sounds coming from where the two of you meet. you clench around him, tight. sweet wet cunt squeezing his high out of him, he pulls out just enough to release on your folds and inner thighs, biting your shoulders to ground himself.

everything stills for a moment while you both catch your breaths, flushed and sweating. "the phone" you both say at the same time only to discover the screens gone dark. you hung up, it must've been sometime between when choso handed you the phone and when you both came.

regardless of when it was, good riddance is all choso can think as he straighten his glasses and cleans you up with toilet paper and cool water from the sink.

[householdcryptid]

Cockwarming anon again! Dude… that fic was so fucking good, i’m still reeling from it. Like, read it multiple times, squealing and kicking my feet 🙈❤️❤️❤️

So, I offer you this idea as a little thank you (also apologies in advance if this sucks, i’m not a writer, i’m just extremely thirsty and bobpilled rn);

So they’re not fucking, right? But they’re also technically not not fucking.

It’s taken Bob a little while to actually process what’s going on, and what exactly he’s feeling. It takes him a little while to figure out that, sure, he’s getting comfort, but there’s something else in there, something deeper, more primal.

He develops little fixations, and right now he’s fixated on her thighs. He doesn’t know how he’s never noticed them before, how soft and supple they look. Pure comfort. He finds himself wanting to touch them at all times, and she lets him without question, of course, but it only makes him worse.

He’ll sit closer to her so his legs can press against hers as much as possible, he’ll grab them under the table at meals. He’ll even ask to lay his head on them when they’re watching movies together. Slowly escalating, pawing, rubbing his face against them like a cat, sweating, whining, drooling, until his head is enclosed between them, face pressed against against her core. Panting, shaking, eyes closed in complete bliss like he’s finally found heaven.

Just wait until he figures out that he’s a munch.

babe i know you said you arent a writer but you SHOULD be holy shit 😵‍💫 also thank you! i'm so so so glad you liked the last one 🩷🩷🩷

i'm thinking about doing a part two to this just so i can write about him getting pussy drunk tbh he deserves that. # bob reynolds is a munch

cw: rob bein a nasty lil freak, uhhhh scent kink(? kind of?), nsfw but no real sex, reader knows robby is a weirdo and is Totally into it, talks of addiction (not a lot but mentioned), short because i got sick 💔👎, hope you enjoy 😌🩷

It starts off small. It always does with Bob. One tiny thing that snowballs into an addiction, and leaves him reeling. Once upon a time it was morphine, and then worse, but now? Now it’s you.

Small things— things no one but him would notice. The way you smile when he tells you about his day, no matter how boring it is. The way your eyes sparkle in the sunlight, the way you glow.

More recently though, he can’t stop thinking about your legs. He’ll sit in the gym and watch you spar with Walker or Yelena, not understanding why the sight of their hands on you makes his skin crawl.

Instead of focusing on that feeling though, he zeroes in on your legs. The way they tense up, strike out to catch your opponent in the gut, the way they look when you have them wrapped around someones neck, pinning them to the ground.

They’re beautiful, even when you aren’t fighting. He finds himself drawn in, big warm palm sliding over the fabric of your sweats to knead at your thigh mid movie night. He isn’t trying to be a creep, isn’t making any attempt to get handsy, just wants to feel the plushness of it in his grip.

It devolves quickly. Gentle squeezes turn to fingerprint bruises that he feels genuinely awful for. You don’t ever mind, though. Your best friend is just tactile, he doesn’t know his own strength sometimes, and it’s not like you’re complaining, so why is he upset?

He stops squeezing as much, but it leaves something of a hole behind in his day to day. An ache he can’t explain, a longing that feels bone deep. Until you pull him to lay his head on your lap one day, and he’s found a new thing to be hooked on. Revels in the way the plush skin bows under his cheek, how you always end up petting through his hair. It ends up being a surefire way to put him to sleep, eventually.

It’s just too comforting. To have your attention on him so completely, your fingers in his soft curls and his cheek smushed against your soft thigh.

One day, the tower is empty, save you and Rob. He’s twitchy, strung tight like a rubber band ready to snap, skin buzzing with a power he still doesn’t understand and doesn’t think he deserves.

But you’re there, too, and that helps. Pulling him in with gentle hands, and he expects the usual. His head on your lap, your hand in his hair, but you shift. Your knees part, and you pat your tummy invitingly.

“I wanna lay down too, goofy.” You explain, laughing softly at his puzzled expression. He can’t stop staring long enough to come up with a verbal response. You’re wearing shorts, cotton boxers that pull taut at your thighs, dimpling the skin a bit, and his mouth waters.

His sigh is heavy and tremulous when he nuzzles his face against your stomach, lays flat on his front between your legs, arms wrapped up beneath your thighs, his hands splayed under your lower back.

“S’better.” He mumbles, lashes fluttering as he breathes in the scent of you. That’s where it starts, really. Your scent.

Warmth, clean sweat and a heady musk that makes him a little dizzy, he seeks it out. Noses down your tummy, wriggles southward until his face is buried between your thighs.

You giggle— honest to God giggle— and heat licks up his spine.

“Sorry-” He mutters, not making any attempt to actually pull away. “M’sorry. You smell so good,” He whispers, hands sliding to press your thighs closer around his head, nosing at your cunt through the soft material of your shorts. “S’so fuckin’ warm here.” He croaks out, just on the edge of a whine, nails biting into your supple skin.

“It’s okay, Robby,” You murmur, ever so indulgent, especially when he’s whining against your clothed core, already drooling into the fabric. “You can stay. You’re good, bubs.”

He almost sobs at the reassurance, brain going blissfully empty when you squeeze your thighs around his head gently.

He’s trembling just a little bit, huffing these shakey breaths against your core like he can’t quite catch his breath, pretty blue eyes unfocused and heavy lidded. Blissed out on just the smell and the feel of you, the way your thighs block out the sound of the room and the constant buzzing in his brain when they press to his ears.

He falls asleep like that, mouthing at your cunt through the shorts, letting out short little whimpers and huffy groans, your fingers in his hair and your thighs pressed to his ears.

You can only sigh, slip into a nice catnap as well, knowing full well the whole process will begin again when he wakes up.

[woniwontons]

dead end - CHAPTER FOUR

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 4.2k

warnings: psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, murder, domestic bob, gore/bloody void, like a lot of blood & violence, running away in the woods

chapter nav: one | two | three | four | five | six

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

Your calendar had no color-coded blocks. No assignments. No meetings. Just one blank space stamped across the interface: DAY OFF.

It didn’t feel like relief though, just a boring day ahead of you.

You made breakfast and sat in the lounge with a coffee you barely tasted. Read the same paragraph in your data log five times without processing a single word.

Still, you could focus on nothing but the questions in your mind.

By noon, you were moving on instinct, feet carrying you to the gym without direction. You knew who would be there at this time.

You found Bucky where you usually saw him: stretching in the corner, his hoodie peeled down to his waist and gloves half-fastened. His expression didn’t shift when he saw you.

“You’re off today,” he said simply, gesturing to your plain clothes.

“So are you.”

“Not really,” he muttered, going back to the resistance band in his hands.

You sat on the bench across from him, watching the line of his shoulders tense and relax with each pull. A few beats passed in comfortable silence before you spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

His hands paused mid-stretch. “You just did.”

You offered a dry smile. “About the people who worked with Bob before me.”

He exhaled through his nose. “What about them?”

You hesitated. “They didn’t last long.”

He rolled his wrists. “That happens.”

“What kind of happens?”

He looked at you then—flatly. “The kind that gets people reassigned. Burnout. Not getting along with him. The usual.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You and the team haven't ever experienced that around him, have you?”

“I’m not an empath,” he said, almost too easily. “I don’t absorb what I don’t need to.”

You watched him carefully, waiting for the twitch, some flicker of discomfort. But Bucky Barnes was good at hiding his emotions for everything. Better than good.

“You don’t think there’s something unusual about it?” you asked.

“No more than usual.”

He clipped the band back to the wall and stood, wiping his hands with a towel.

“Sometimes things don’t work out,” he said, voice neutral. “Doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not curious?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

But he didn’t meet your gaze.

And when he turned to grab his water bottle. "Please just don't go looking for trouble, y/n," he added quietly, "for your own good."

It hung in the air longer than it should have, with a surprising level of concern and care.

You stood a moment later, nodding like the conversation had satisfied something. Like you were any closer to the truth.

You walked away with your jaw tight and your throat dry.

No one was going to tell you anything.

You weren’t trying to go anywhere.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you walked the endless hallways of the tower. No destination. No objective. Your shoes padding across the floor. Doors passing on either side like silent, judgmental witnesses.

Maybe it was just your nerves. Maybe it was the way your own thoughts had started to echo louder than sound. You’d been craving something you were unsure of. A reason to feel more. But the deeper you wandered, the more hollow everything seemed.

At some point, your footsteps slowed.

And when you looked up, you realized where you’d stopped.

The hallway was empty. The lights overhead flickered once. And in front of you—just a few feet away—was his door.

You hadn’t been here since that first night, and you froze.

The panel glowed the same:

SECURITY OVERRIDE IN PLACE — MONITORED ACCESS ONLY

But again, no guards or cameras.

And for a moment, you felt it—the pull. Not from the Void. From something subtler. Like gravity. Like muscle memory.

You stepped closer.

Your hand hovered just inches from the lock pad, like you already knew the passcode to enter.

You didn’t even know why. You just—

CLICK.

The lock disengaged.

The door hissed slightly, then opened.

And standing there, backlit in soft white light, brown hair tousled, expression still -- was Bob.

Neither of you spoke, but he didn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looked relieved.

"You came," he said quietly.

You let your hand drop from the lock pad. “I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled faintly, stepping past the threshold and into the hallway with you. “Doesn’t matter. You still did.”

The door sealed shut behind him.

Silence stretched between you, but it didn’t feel cold. Just cautious.

You both stood there a long moment before Bob leaned against the wall beside you, folding his arms. "Did you speak with Bucky or Yelena?"

"I spoke to Bucky, but all I got was a whole lot of nothing," you huffed in frustration.

Bob nodded, "So back to square one? Maybe there's a different explanation for all of this."

"I'm confident about what I saw," you stressed, "Do you think it has something to do with the nightmares?"

Bob's jaw tensed slightly. "The nightmares, you're still having them?"

You swallowed, his response throwing you off. "You don't remember them?"

He paused.

"No."

You turned your head. "The Void takes all of your memories?"

His voice was quieter now. “There are gaps. Long ones. I know I’ve said things I don’t remember saying. Felt things I can’t explain. I used to think it was the Void blocking things out.”

"How can I stop him from," you started, before being cut off.

"You can't stop it, none of us can once it starts," he said sadly, "I'm sorry."

You exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding before nodding slowly, taking in his response. He stared down at you then, his eyes scanning over your facial features, over every tick of non-verbal response. The guilt eating at him, making him feel so useless.

"It isn't your fault, I'm sorry for involving you."

He scoffed before suddenly picking up your hands, clasping them in-between your own. "Don't apologize. I've never felt bad for listening to you, please, if you have anything to get off your chest. I'm here for you."

You gazed up at him, feeling your heart rate speed up. Brows furrowed in confusion, you bobbed your head in agreeance. "I appreciate that."

"I appreciate you."

You told yourself you were just passing by.

That your feet brought you here again out of habit. A wrong turn. An aimless loop through the admin level. But as you stood just around the corner from Dr. Harding’s office, that lie grew too heavy to hold.

The hall was quiet.

Her door, like always, was closed. But the lockpad light was green. Not red. Not yellow. Green.

Unlocked.

Your heart stuttered.

You glanced both ways. Empty.

You stepped forward—slowly, cautiously—reaching for the panel.

It chirped softly under your touch.

One press. That’s all it would take to slide the door open and—

“Hey.”

You jerked so fast your elbow banged the wall behind you.

An intern—probably no older than twenty-two—stood at the other end of the corridor, holding a datapad and a cup of coffee. Her brows knit together.

“You lost?”

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—no. I was looking for… the sensory deprivation room.”

The girl blinked. “Sensory deprivation is two floors down.”

You forced a smile. “Right. I must’ve hit the wrong button in the elevator.”

She didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you.

A long pause stretched before she gave a tight, practiced smile and turned on her heel.

“Have a good one.”

You nodded, then retreated in the opposite direction at a normal, casual, totally-not-panicked pace. It wasn’t until you rounded the next corner and pressed your back to the wall that you let yourself breathe.

You almost got caught doing something horrendously stupid.

No—worse.

That light on Harding’s door hadn’t been green by mistake.

What if you were being tested?.

Tested.

And you failed.

In Your Nightmares, In the Maze

You opened your eyes and the world was wrong.

The floor beneath your feet was cold concrete, cracked and damp, covered in grime that had soaked into its pores. The air reeked of mildew and rust, thick with dust that scratched the back of your throat. Made you feel sticky, dirty.

You didn’t know how long you’d been standing.

Only that you had no memory of getting here. And your feet ached.

The hallway stretched in both directions—long, narrow, and dimly lit by broken fluorescent tubes overhead. One of them buzzed in a stuttering rhythm, flickering so violently you couldn’t tell if it was about to go out or explode.

You turned in a slow circle, arms folded tightly across your chest.

The walls were tiled, but discolored. Yellowed, cracked, and tagged with smeared fingerprints like someone had clawed at them over and over again. Shattered mirrors were mounted in uneven rows, jagged corners jutting out like teeth.

You caught your reflection in one of them.

And froze.

It was you. But not exactly.

The reflection stood too still. Her arms weren’t crossed. Her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes wide and expressionless. She blinked—but too slow. Like a puppet learning how to mimic human movement. Then her lips moved.

You took a step back, heart hammering.

No sound.

Another mirror—this one lower, shattered into shards across the floor. The sharp edges caught the flickering light, reflecting your face in fractured pieces.

You crouched, trembling, reaching toward one of the shards.

It wasn’t curiosity. It was like you had to see, you had to know if this was real.

The moment your fingers touched it, you flinched.

A thin line of blood opened across your palm, bright and stinging.

“Ah—”

You dropped the glass with a suck of your teeth.

It clattered against the floor with a sound too loud, too final.

And from somewhere behind you—

A whisper.

You spun around, heart in your throat.

No one.

Nothing.

But the hall behind you looked... different.

You hadn’t turned around, but now there were more doors. More mirrors. And the mirror where your reflection had been was gone.

Your blood dripped onto the floor, each drop loud in the silence.

You stumbled backward, away from the glass, away from the mirrors, clutching your hand.

And that’s when you heard it.

Breathing.

Not yours.

Slow. Steady. Too close.

You ran.

Your footsteps echoed down the hall, too loud, too fast. The breathing behind you had stopped, but only because it was closer now. You could feel it. Like hot breath against your neck, even though nothing touched you.

You turned a corner—

and another

another

—until your shoulder hit a doorframe and you stumbled sideways into a room.

The door shut behind you on its own in a violent slam.

You whirled around, heart pounding, but the knob was gone. Hell, the door was gone. Replaced with cracked tiles and a bloodstained seam.

The light in the room was a single bulb hanging from a frayed cord in the ceiling. It swung gently, casting warped shadows against the walls.

But you weren’t alone.

There was someone else here, and this room felt horrifically familiar.

At first, you only saw her back; hunched over, gasping softly, her arms trembling at her sides. The room was small, just a few paces wide. The tile beneath her knees was slick, and something thick and dark glistened across the floor.

You took one step closer.

Her head lifted slightly. Then her arm.

And she slammed something down.

A wet, sickening crack echoed through the room.

You jolted back, mouth open, but the scream got stuck behind your tongue. Her hand lifted again.

Another, crack.

You couldn’t see who she was hurting. The body beneath her was just shadow. Faceless, formless, made of blood and bone and the sound of something breaking.

Crack, again.

Again and again.

You stared in horror until she finally slowed, breathing hard, hand shaking in the air.

And then she turned.

It was you again.

Your face—spattered in red, eyes empty, chest heaving.

Her gaze met yours across the room, tears streaming down her bloody, sunken face.

You screamed. The bulb burst above you, showering the floor in sparks and blackened glass.

The floor dropped out beneath you.

In one blink, you were standing. The next, you were falling.

There was no wind. No scream. Just the sickening weightless feeling of your own body surrendering.

You hit something hard, your bones crushing with pain as they protested against all movement.

The world bent around you—walls folding like wet paper, corners bleeding into one another. Your knees struck concrete. Your palm, still bleeding from the earlier cut, left a smear across the warped ground beneath you.

Your breath came ragged, your head spinning.

You crawled forward, but the walls spun in circles around you. Lights blurred into trails. The air stung your eyes.

“Where am I?” you whispered aloud.

No answer.

Only a low hum in the distance. Like the power grid of a dead city flickering back to life.

You tried to stand, but your legs gave out.

You reached for a wall that wasn’t there anymore.

The floor cracked open.

And you dropped once more.

In the Nightmare, In the Maze

Your vision cleared all at once.

Flashing red and white lights pulsed in your peripheral.

Siren tones wailed in the distance, but muffled, like they were underwater. The air was cold now. It smelled of metal, antiseptic, and the copper tang of blood.

You were standing on the edge of an open ambulance bay. Night stretched beyond the parking lot like a black ocean, with figures moving just at the edge of the darkness. Too far to see, too distorted to name.

Inside the ambulance, the doors were open.

You stepped forward, and saw her.

Yourself.

Again.

This time she sat on the gurney, knees drawn to her chest, face streaked with blood. Though, none of it looked fresh. Her skin was pale and blotchy; eyes glassy and swollen. Her hands trembled around a disposable shock blanket, still clutched tightly around her shoulders like armor.

She wasn’t speaking. She just stared down at her lap, jaw tight, fingers twitching.

A paramedic stood off to the side, whispering to someone you couldn’t see.

“She wouldn’t stop screaming. Had to sedate her. We think it was self-defense… but the scene was brutal.”

Another murmured reply: unintelligible to you.

You took a step closer.

And then she glanced

Just barely—her gaze lifting enough to meet yours as her lips moved.

But no sound of a woman came out, but something akin to that of the void himself.

"Ever my ś̸̡t̸̨͛r̶̤͝o̴̻̓n̶͉̔ǵ̴̘ ̴͙͆g̴̭̈́ȉ̷̡r̴͕̿l̴͔̽."

The scene around you began to shake, like the ambulance bay itself was coming apart. The sirens slowed. Then stretched. Then distorted.

"Not everyone could, but ÿ̴̫́ò̸̤ǘ̴̮ ̶̳͑m̸̢̊a̸̧̿d̴̬̆e̶͈͆ ̶͎͊i̶̻̒t̴̤̑ ̵̰̂ò̷͙ů̶͜t̸͎̄. Didn’t you, little liar?"

You clutched your ears as the air seemed to pulse against your skull.

And the ambulance doors slammed shut in your face.

You blinked.

Open, Close, Open.

And the world changed again.

Gone were the lights, the pavement, the sirens.

Now there were trees. Towering silhouettes pressed in around you, black against a gray sky smeared with faint clouds. Their branches clawed overhead like bones, creaking faintly with every whisper of wind.

The ground beneath your feet was mud and moss and broken roots.

It was dark.

But not silent.

Snap.

A branch cracked behind you.

You spun around, chest rising sharply, but saw nothing. Just more trees. More endless darkness.

Your breath came faster now, eyes darting to every shadow, every movement of wind-tossed leaves. You took a step—

Crack.

Another behind you. Heavier this time.

Then—

Breathing. Fast and angry, barely contained.

You ran.

Your legs burned, your lungs screaming with every intake of cold air. Branches sliced across your arms. Something wet ran down your face; blood or rain, you didn’t know.

The breathing followed.

Always just behind you.

You didn’t dare scream. The sounds around you were too loud already. The woods echoed everything. Your heartbeat, the dead leaves crunching, and...

his voice.

"You've run faster than that."

You stumbled, but caught yourself. Feeling the bark of the tree imprint itself into the skin of your palm.

You couldn’t tell where it came from, but it was close.

So close that you pumped your legs faster, ignoring the pain of your bare feet hitting the forest floor.

Something grabbed your sleeve and snatched you backwards —no, just a branch.

You tugged roughly and broke free, but your breathing was slowing you down now. Your chest willing itself to explode as your lungs stretched for oxygen.

The trees grew tighter. Narrower. Like the forest itself was closing in to crush you. The breathing behind you accelerated.

It was laughing at you now. Not just with joy, but with certainty that it would catch you.

"They might have carved it out, but I remember. I always remember."

You saw a shape ahead—barely visible.

A black door. Standing hauntingly alone in the woods.

You didn’t think, only sprinted towards it. Heaving now, your lungs threatened to rise from the bottom of your throat. It pained you horribly, but nothing else mattered except escape.

Mud flew from your heels. Your vision blurred with tears.

"You were never meant to be happy, y/n."

Your hand hit the door handle, slipping on its sleek handle with the slick of blood that coated your palm.

"You're meant to be with me here."

You yanked it open—

And fell inside.

In the Nightmare, Outside of the Maze

The door vanished behind you.

The ground was… nothing. A space with no walls, no ceiling, no shape. Just pressure and the oppressive weight of silence.

You were alone.

Until you weren’t.

He emerged from the dark without warning; no footsteps, no sound. It was just there, like he’d always been waiting.

The Void. A silhouette carved from everything the world wasn’t meant to touch. His skin absorbed the light instead of reflecting it, black as rotted stars. His hair curled weightlessly like smoke.

Your legs gave out and you collapsed forward into his body, wrapping your arms around his legs in terror. The coldness of his body comforting to the exhausted heat being expelled from your own.

And then he was lowering himself to meet you on the ground. Arms slowly coiling around your back.

He held you like you were fragile, digging his fingertips into the sides of your waist as he held you upright.

You cried harder.

Not just from fear, not just from exhaustion, but from the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that this was the first time you felt like yourself in so long. Broken, hurting, and miserable, such a familiar feeling to you.

"There she is," he whispered into your hair. His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers impossibly gentle. He pressed your body to his like he could bury you in his chest.

His breath brushed your ear. Your throat. Your skin.

"It's no wonder you always come back to me, and every time, we end up here."

You tried to speak, but your voice was shattered glass in your throat.

He lifted your chin with a single finger. His gold eyes burned straight through you. "No need to speak, just think. Know that I remember, no matter what they take from you, I will always remember.”

You shook your head, but he only smiled. A reverent, broken thing.

"Let me keep you. Just like this. Broken, bleeding, and mine."

His lips ghosted over your forehead, slow and steady, like a temptation. "You don't have to run from it anymore."

And then—

You gasped awake.

The scream didn't make it out properly—lodged deep in your chest like a stone, but your body snapped upright. Drenched in sweat, your sheets tangled like restraints around your legs.

Your throat burned. A heartbeat galloped in your ears, loud enough to drown everything else.

Your eyes darted across the room, searching corners, shadows, the cracks beneath the door, expecting to see blackness leaking from the walls, gold eyes waiting in front of you

But instead:

He was sitting there.

Bob.

Near the edge of your room. In the dark. His form barely outlined in the weak glow from the hall’s emergency light.

Not moving, and certainly not speaking. Just watching.

Your breath hitched.

"Jesus—” You scrambled backward on the bed until your shoulders hit the headboard. “What the hell, how did you get in here?”

He didn’t rise or even answer at first. Just studied you, head tilted, brow furrowed. Quiet concern etched into every line of his face.

"I heard you," he said finally. Voice low and careful. "Screaming through the door, but... you were asleep."

You stared at him, heart still slamming in your chest.

You couldn’t even remember doing it. Only the maze. The blood. The gold eyes that felt too close to forget.

"I didn't want to scare you," Bob said softly. "I just didn't want you to wake up alone. It looked terrifying."

That cracked something inside you.

Because it meant he hadn't come here with any ulterior motive but to just make sure you weren't alone, having night terrors in the dark.

You wiped at your sweaty face, breath still uneven.

"I don't even know when I fell asleep," you murmured.

Bob’s voice was impossibly gentler now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, but after a moment you spoke anyway, "I was in a maze," you whispered. "And something was chasing me. I think."

Bob exhaled, slowly, "Do you remember who was chasing you?"

You looked up. "No, I don't, I never looked back."

"That's good," he hesitated, "did it feel like a dream or a memory?"

"Both."

The room fell quiet again. You noticed then that his hands were clasped in his lap. Knuckles white. Like either he wasn’t sure if he should come closer, or he was terrified of your response.

"They're not just dreams anymore," he said. "Are they?"

Your hands trembled in your lap, and you fought to answer him honestly. "No."

Bob stood slowly, careful not to make a sound too sharp or sudden. He looked like he was trying to give you space, even as his eyes lingered on the sight of you trembling in your bed. "I'll let you rest," he said carefully. "I shouldn't have come in. I just wanted to be sure you were okay."

He turned toward the door, but for some reason, your panic spiked.

"Wait—" You reached out and caught his wrist, hand tremoring. He stopped to listen, and your voice was barely more than a breath, "Can you stay... please?"

He turned back toward you slowly. “You sure?”

You nodded, pulling on his arm, just enough to guide him back. "Please," you whispered again, tugging him towards your bed.

He hesitated only a moment longer. Then sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain.

You didn’t wait.

You shifted beneath the covers and pulled him with you, tugging gently at his wrist until he followed. His weight dipped the mattress, and then he was lying beside you. He was awkward at first, stiff from uncertainty.

You curled toward him, face pressed to his chest.

And only then did he move.

His arms came around you, gentle and hesitant, like you were made of glass. One hand stroked your back; the other came up slowly to comb through your hair.

The moment his fingers threaded through the strands, something deep inside you twisted.

It was… familiar.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t pull away.

"You're okay," Bob murmured into your hair. "You're still safe here."

Your eyes burned. "I don't feel safe," you confessed. "I don't even feel like myself anymore, I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I can't understand any of these emotions inside me."

His fingers brushed behind your ear. "Like a phantom emotion?" he asked, voice low but firm.

You pressed your face tighter against his chest, trying to keep your breath steady. But you couldn’t. The tears came quietly at first, then stronger. "I'm scared to fall asleep," you whispered.

Bob didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, one hand never leaving your hair. "Then be scared," he said softly. "Feel everything. Cry if you need to, but don't ever think you have to do any of it alone."

You cried harder. You didn’t know if it was the nightmare, the silence, or the way his voice made the grief inside you finally feel seen.

But for the first time in what felt like so long, you let it out. And he didn’t let go.

His thumb brushed soft circles across your shoulder as your tears soaked through his shirt. His heart beat slow and steady beneath your ear. "You're not alone," he whispered, "I promise."

You weren’t sure when you stopped crying. Only that at some point, the world grew still again, and you stayed there, curled against him. And yet, it felt as though this had happened before, as if you were experiencing deja-vu for this very moment and couldn't fathom any reason for it.

His breath moved softly against the top of your head.

And sleep, when it finally came, did not take you kicking and screaming.

It came wrapped in warmth and wool.

Alright friends, I'm sure you're very confused as to what the heck is going on. I added a lot more hints in this one, in hopes that maybe some of you will catch on ;). Answers will come, to be revealed in the next chapter, followed by a full Bob Point-Of-View in part six. We are at our halfway point now since I'm thinking of eight parts total for this. If that changes, I'll be sure to edit this and update you in future notes. Thank you for all your love on this story, it motivates me to write more everyday, and I appreciate you. xoxo -woni

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on previous chapters, don't worry because i've already added you :)

continue to part five

[grenadehearts]

sun drunk and honey eyed.

synopsis: childhood memories, sun kissed skin syrupy mouths, lingering pinky promises and first kisses.

cw: wc 1.5k, izuku x fem!chubby!reader, fluff and mutual pining (heavy on izuku though)

authors note: this was a commission :) pls remember my commissions are always open and help immensely during a very tough time im currently going through. emergency comms linked here. masterlist link here.

You remind Izuku of summer— Of saltwater and laughter carried on the wind, the kind that clings to skin and never quite leaves. Of berry-stained lips and sticky fingers from popsicles melting too fast under the sun. He thinks of how you used to chase each other barefoot down cracked sidewalks, your giggles echoing louder than the cicadas, arms outstretched like you were flying, like nothing could ever touch you.

You remind him of those All Might movie marathons, the ones that stretched deep into the night under blanket forts made of couch cushions and dreams. The screen would flicker against your faces as you quoted lines by heart, stuffing your mouths with popcorn and daring each other to stay awake through the entire trilogy. You always won. He never minded losing to you.

He still wears that dumb plastic ring you gave him when you were seven—part of a "marriage proposal" you made with all the seriousness two sugar-high kids could muster. You handed it to him after making him pinky promise to always stay by your side, forever and always, and he’d grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. It was blue raspberry flavored, so you both took turns licking it until it was nothing but a sticky memory, the plastic heart now kept safe in the little box of treasures under his bed.

You remind Izuku of scraped knees and band-aids with cartoon heroes on them, of nights spent whispering secrets through tin-can telephones strung between your windows. Of the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid and ended up staining the bathroom sink and getting grounded together.

When he looks at you now, he still sees all of that. Still hears the soft crashing of waves behind your laughter, still feels the warmth of your hand grabbing his as you drag him toward whatever adventure you've set your mind on next. The world could be burning and you'd still look at him like you believed in something better. Like you believed in him.

You remind him of everything good he ever knew before the world got hard and sharp. Before the weight of being a hero began carving into his shoulders. When the world was small and bright and all it took to feel brave was you beside him, holding a flashlight like it was a sword.

He thinks he might always look at you like that—

Like you're sunlight in human form.

Like you're the reason he keeps going when everything else feels heavy.

Like maybe, just maybe, if he keeps holding your hand, it’ll always feel like summer again.

Izuku knows.

He’s known for a long time, really—how you hold a soft spot for him. It’s written in every shy smile that tries to stay small but always grows into a beaming grin, round cheeks flushed with pink like watercolor spilled across your skin. He sees it in the little doodles you scratch into the corners of his notebooks with your colored pens—hearts, stars, clumsy sketches of his face mid-ramble or his hero costume with too many freckles. He knows in the way your knees bump his under the table, not moving away when he gets carried away talking about All Might. Or when he suddenly swerves from that and starts gushing about your quirk and how cool you are and how brave and how kind and—

He knows because even when you’re quiet, you stay.

Sometimes you rest your head on his shoulder when he talks too long, your eyelids fluttering like you’re not bored—just calm, lulled by his voice. And he’ll go still, afraid to move too much and disturb the peace. And in those moments, he can smell your shampoo—floral and soft and faintly sweet, like the petals of a garden only he gets to stand in.

Right now, it’s different—but it still feels like that. Like the calm between all the noise of the world is right here.

It’s a golden afternoon, sun bright and heavy in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the lawn. The blades of grass tickle at your bare feet, soft and green and warm beneath you. You’re stretched out beside him, your legs lazily tangled with his, your bikini bottoms peeking out from under loose unbuttoned denim shorts. Your T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, skin kissed pink by the sun, collarbones glowing where the sunlight touches. There’s syrupy popsicle juice dripping down your fingers and chin, staining your lips and tongue a deep berry red.

And Izuku is shirtless, freckles scattered from his cheeks down to his chest like constellations. His green curls are a little damp at the edges, clinging to his forehead, and his chest rises and falls in slow, lazy breaths as he lays back on the blanket, glowing under the sky.

You're both laughing—soft and breathless—over something stupid he said, some corny dad joke that wouldn’t have landed with anyone else but made you wheeze with laughter. You lean your head against his shoulder again, your cheeks sticky and warm and your heart full, and Izuku thinks he could stay like this forever.

Your laughter quiets into something gentler, something almost wistful, and your fingers reach up to tug at the edge of his hair. You’re staring at him, sun-drunk and honey-eyed, and then you glance away again—off to the sky, or maybe back in time.

“Remember that summer,” you start softly, “when we thought we could build a treehouse in your mom’s backyard with just rope and cardboard?”

Izuku chokes on a laugh, rolling onto his side to look at you better. “You mean the one that collapsed on me and you cried for like an hour because you thought I broke my leg?”

“I thought you did!” you say, half laughing, half scolding, nudging your foot against his. “You wouldn't stop screaming!”

“I was screaming because you were screaming!” he counters, grinning. “You stepped on my limited edition all might figurine trying to get help!”

“I was panicking!”

Izuku is laughing now—really laughing. His shoulders shake with it, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest, and he rolls closer to you until his forehead almost bumps yours. His arm falls around your waist in the motion, loose and easy and too close, and you don’t move.

You never do.

And your heart stumbles a bit when he looks at you like that—cheeks pink from the sun, lips wet with melted popsicle, eyes that could catch stars in them if they tried hard enough.

The sound fades from his chest, slowly, but the grin remains. Just a bit softer. A bit shakier.

Izuku stares at you for a long second, and his heart starts doing that thing again—that terrified, aching thump like it’s not sure whether to leap forward or fall back. You’re close. Too close. The kind of close that would ruin everything if he made the wrong move. The kind that makes it impossible not to look at your lips and wonder.

He swallows, and his voice goes quieter than he meant.

“Y/n…”

Your name sounds like something sacred in his mouth. Like something he’s never allowed himself to say like that before.

You blink, gently, brows tugging just a little. “Hey, Zu… You okay?”

You brush a curl from his forehead, fingers light against his skin, and that’s it.

He breaks.

Because he isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since he realized you’re not just his best friend anymore. Haven’t been okay since he noticed the way your hand feels different when it’s wrapped around his wrist instead of just touching his arm. Haven’t been okay since he dreamed once about kissing you and woke up with tears on his cheeks because it felt so far away.

So Izuku doesn’t think—he prays, silently, to All Might or to fate or to whatever power is watching—and he leans in.

The kiss is soft and sun-warmed and tastes like salt and berry-flavored popsicles and summertime. His lips move slow against yours like he’s scared you’ll vanish the moment he presses in too hard, like you’re made of smoke and the slightest pressure will send you scattering.

You kiss him back with your whole heart.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels quieter. Softer.

He’s still leaning over you, green eyes wide and almost scared, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. His cheeks are blazing, his fingers trembling where they’ve curled around your side.

“I—” he starts, breath catching. “I love you. I… I really do.”

You smile. So softly it almost hurts.

You thumb over his cheekbone, gentle, tracing the freckles kisses by the sun, like you’re memorizing them for later.

“Zu,” you whisper, voice barely a breath, “I love you.”

You always beat him to it.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since childhood. His forehead drops against yours, and for a while, you just stay like that—knees tangled, lips pink and sticky, hearts finally, finally on the same page.

The popsicles melt into the grass. The sun dips a little lower.

And the summer stretches on, sweet and golden and full of promises finally kept.

taglist: @xoxojisu @candiiee @luvseraphh @cvnt4him @soundtrqck @chlosology @lotusstarr @cupkiki @wokasiv @badslittlemuffin @princessshnazzy @203steph @chitteringcicadaeyes @idk1187 @notartemis777 @chosostonguepiercing @chocolatedefendorbaa @t33th--r0t @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @tuneinwlosers @badslittlemuffin @dreamcastgirl99 @gethexxed @moonstonejpg @pluto-9456 @wonubby @kye1aaazene @izukusfangirl @van9lla @dienamiight @sofi4dsam @kawaiiclubdaily @therefore-evermore @bluemailhiot @luckybibucky @sk1ppy-art @d011yyxx @myths-and-ledgends @icanread-icantwrite @changkyunnnie @blue-birdie-bixch @aj1j @twoplayergaymers @socialobligation @calliopemanga

[lalalychee-x]

"College boy." Rodrick Heffley x male!reader

THIS IS AN ABSOLUTELY GOATED request from 🌾🍞 anon!! I'M SORRY, ITS LATE!! Hope you enjoy though and feel free to give feedback!! Mwaaaaa asks always open guys, I love them!

cw: period-typical attitudes to being gay (not homophobia though), male/amab reader, older/college reader (21), kinda-rough making out, Rodrick in last year of highschool, so he's 18.

★ You are forced to come back home, stay at least a week during college break with your family. And you knew your sister had all the guys after her, but maybe leading on a guy who definitely was a joke to her was a bit much. You're just trying to help him out. You think so, anyway... click here for part 2

If you’d told Rodrick Heffley that he was gonna end up in the kitchen of a house that probably cost more than he’d make in his entire life — with another guy’s tongue in his mouth, no less — he’d have laughed in your face.

Not that he had a problem with gay people or anything. He was cool. Chill. Open-minded, in a way only someone who’d spent most of his life in a suburban basement with an eyeliner pencil and a drum kit could be. But him? Making out with some rich guy? Yeah, no way. Wasn’t gonna happen.

Except it was happening. Kinda. He just didn’t know it yet.

It all started when he got Heather’s number when he’d flirted with her outside the bowling alley, giggling behind their hands as they gave him the digits and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley. Girls loved him. Right?

So now here he was — standing on the porch of a massive house tucked into a dead-end road he didn’t even know existed until tonight. There was no answer when he rang the bell. No party. No Heather. Just silence, a pretty porch light, and a feeling that maybe, maybe, he was getting punk’d.

He was just about to leave — muttering under his breath about rich girls and their mean-girl cliques — when he heard that sleek convertible purr down the street.

You pulled up like you owned the whole goddamn block, engine shutting off with a smug little hum. You stepped out slow — lazy, bored — dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans that fit too well, rings on your fingers, hair still pushed back from your day, face unreadable.

Rodrick blinked.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there on the sidewalk, one brow raised, keys jingling in your palm as you looked him over with the kind of stare that made his flannel and band tee feel suddenly...lame.

There was a second where you just stared at each other. He looked a bit like a washed up rat, sad, pouty and definitely trying to hide it. Then the guy let out a small scoff.

“You lost or something?”

Rodrick swallowed. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged, trying to sound like he totally had his shit together.

“I’m here to see Heather.”

The guy’s brows lifted slightly more. It was you, and you're honestly not going to let... what seemed to be a creep, stand outside and look for your sister. “Heather’s not home.”

“Right, yeah.” Rodrick scratched the back of his neck, voice dipping into that awkward fake-confident tone he always used when he felt like he was two seconds from being told to scram. “She invited me.”

A pause.

You gave him a look — something unreadable, amused maybe, maybe not — before stepping forward and sliding your keys into your back pocket.

“You’re Rodrick, huh.”

It wasn’t a question.

Rodrick stiffened. “…Yeah?”

You sighed like this was the most exhausting development in his week, then jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’m not lettin’ you stand there like a creep all night.”

“What?”

You tipped your head, deadpan. “You’re just standing there. Staring at the door. Like a creep.”

“I’m not a creep, okay?” Rodrick shot back, bristling. “I’m here to see Heather.”

You gave a sharp little laugh under your breath — cold and amused.

“Right. Heather.”

Rodrick squinted, arms up in almost defence. “Wait. Who the fuck are you?”

You looked him dead in the eyes. "Her brother."

Rodrick's mouth opened. Closed. “…No the hell you're not.”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ am, hate this damn house so I barely come back from college,” you said, stepping past him like you lived there — because, well, you did. “And yeah, Heather’s a bitch. But you? You look like a fuckin’ Craigslist serial killer standing on my porch.”

Rodrick bristled again, like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Dude. I’m just—”

“I know who you are, Rodrick,” you cut in, unlocking the front door. “She told me. Didn't expect you to be real, honestly.”

You pushed the door open and stared at him for a second too long. There was something sharp in your eyes. Not hostile. Just…assessing.

He wasn’t her type. Not even close. But something about the slouch, the messy eyeliner, the smug little grin trying to mask the awkward twitch at the corner of his mouth — it kinda was your type. Not that you were gonna admit that out loud.

You stepped aside, voice dry. “Well? You comin’ in or what?”

Rodrick swallowed and stepped past you, suddenly hyperaware of how much taller (even if not literally) you felt. How nice you smelled. How warm it was inside.

“…This is the weirdest fuckin’ day of my life.”

You just shut the door behind him with a little shrug. “Get used to it.”

You didn’t say anything else — just brushed past him, your shoulder knocking lightly against his as you headed down the hallway like you owned the place. Which, yeah, you did. Rodrick barely had time to adjust to how nice the fuckin’ hallway smelled before you were already halfway to the kitchen.

He followed, awkward and out of place, eyes darting to the high ceilings, the family photos, the spotless hardwood floors. The house looked like it came out of a magazine. He felt like he tracked in dirt just by existing.

You pointed at the dining table as you walked into the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

Rodrick paused in the doorway. “What am I, a dog?”

You didn’t even turn around. “I mean, you showed up uninvited and you look like you bite 'nd have rabies.”

He opened his mouth, ready with a half-assed comeback, but you were already at the fridge, grabbing a can of something cold and cracking it open without looking his way.

Rodrick lingered for a beat before making a decision. Slowly — maybe a little stubbornly — he pushed off the doorframe and leaned against the kitchen counter instead, folding his arms across his chest, doing that thing where he stared at the floor like he wasn’t affected by anything at all.

You turned slightly, side-eyeing him with an amused little smirk.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait at the table?”

Rodrick didn’t budge. “Yeah. And I didn’t.”

Your lips twitched.

Huh.

He really was that kind of kid. All bark, too much eyeliner, and barely enough spine to hold up the act — but he was trying. You could tell from the way his jaw flexed, how he refused to look at you, as if meeting your eyes would confirm something neither of you were ready to admit.

You took a slow sip of your drink, leaning against the opposite counter, just watching him.

“This how you usually get into people’s houses?” you asked, voice lazy, teasing. “Show up lookin’ like you rolled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin and challenge the older brother to a pissing match?”

Rodrick’s ears flushed red. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding once. “You look disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

That smirk turned into a grin. “Sure.”

You let the silence stretch for a second, your gaze dropping to the edge of his jaw, the way he clenched his fists a little tighter when he felt you looking.

He was cocky. Slouchy. Barely legal and probably running on Monster and the fumes of delusion.

But shit — cute.

And way more fun to mess with than Heather's last boyfriend. Not that you believed he was Heather's boyfriend at all because NO WAY.

You tilted the can back and let the last of the drink slurp loudly, obnoxiously, like you were doing it on purpose. Rodrick flinched at the sound.

Then you turned, casually tossing the empty into the recycling bin like you’d done it a hundred times (you had), and cracked open the cooler on the floor beside the counter. The soft hiss of ice shifting echoed as you rummaged through it, then pulled out something in a blue-and-silver can — cold and probably cheap. Smirnoff Ice. A college classic. Trashy, sugary, everywhere.

You straightened up and glanced at Rodrick.

“You eighteen?”

Rodrick blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

“You drink?”

He froze for half a second — just half — but it was enough.

You snorted, laughing as you popped the tab on your can. “Yeah, okay. That’s a no.”

He huffed, defensive. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You crouched again, this time deeper in the cooler, your hand pushing past bottles of water and chilled energy drinks until you found a can of orange soda and stood, tossing it across the kitchen.

“Catch.”

Rodrick’s eyes widened — he caught it, barely, fumbling for a second like it might’ve hit the floor and shattered his already-fragile pride. He cleared his throat and turned the can in his hands like it offended him.

You watched him with lazy amusement, sipping your drink, leaning one hip against the counter again. “You’re lucky. If you dropped it, I would’ve kicked you out.”

Rodrick scoffed. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.”

“Try me.”

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the fizz in your drink and the hum of the fridge.

Rodrick cracked the soda open, took a slow sip, and stared at you over the rim. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes did — a flicker, a shift. He was trying to place it. The way you talked, the way you stood. How old were you?

You let the moment linger before you said it.

“Twenty-one.”

Rodrick blinked, straightening a little.

“Just turned. Last month,” you added, tapping the top of your can. “Heather threw a fit ‘cause I wouldn’t let her come to the bar, y'know? Gotta tell her to stop whoring it.”

Rodrick flinched, taking another tentative sip.

You looked at him again, head tilted slightly. “That what you were thinkin’? How old I was?”

Rodrick choked on his soda a little. “What? No.”

You grinned into your drink. “Sure.”

Rodrick lingered near the kitchen counter, pretending like he wasn’t eyeballing everything in the room. The granite countertops, the fancy-ass stove that probably cost more than his van, the wine rack built into the wall. Who the hell lived like this?

You noticed him looking.

“Don’t steal anything,” you said, lazily sipping your drink.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“Sure. You got that feral look. That ‘I eat cigarettes for breakfast’ vibe.”

Rodrick rolled his eyes. “At least I don’t drink Smirnoff Ice. What are you, a freshman girl at her first frat party?”

You barked a laugh, full and sharp. “That’s cute coming from the guy holding a Fanta like it’s a beer. You want a paper straw too, princess?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when my mouth’s full.”

Rodrick froze for a second. Your grin widened. He looked like a raccoon caught chewing drywall.

You leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed, casually sipping your drink like that hadn’t just slipped out on purpose. The tension in the room shifted — still playful, but tight, electric.

Rodrick huffed and looked away, muttering, “God, Heather’s whole family’s insane.”

You cocked a brow. “And yet you showed up.”

“Yeah, well—” He paused. “Thought she gave me her number.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous, and started walking toward him — not threatening, but steady. You placed your drink down on the counter and kept moving, until Rodrick backed up just slightly, hips bumping into the edge.

“You really believe she gave you her number?” you asked, both hands coming up to rest on either side of him, boxing him in. Not touching — yet. But close. Close enough to watch him squirm.

Rodrick faltered. His voice dropped a little. “...Well. I mean. Not anymore.”

You laughed again, warm and low. “Poor thing. Got punked by a couple of high school girls.”

He rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, trying not to look at you. “Whatever.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him. “So what? You into her? That your type? Bitchy blondes who call you names and pretend you don’t exist in public?”

Rodrick scowled, brows furrowed and squinting. “Says the guy who is related to her.”

“Touché.”

There was a pause. Then—

“If it doesn’t work out with her,” you paused, “you could always get with me instead.”

Rodrick choked on nothing.

“I—What?! Dude, I’m not— I’m not gay.”

Your eyes glittered. “Didn’t say you were.”

He floundered. “I mean—not that there’s anything wrong with—whatever—but I’m not—”

“Relax, man.” You chuckled, real low and easy, tilting your head a little closer. “No one’s asking you to get on your knees.”

He swallowed. You could see the flush creeping up his neck, fighting the smirk he was trying not to let show.

You leaned in just a little more.

“...Unless you want to.”

Rodrick made a quiet noise in his throat — something between a scoff and a nervous cough — and set the Fanta can down behind him on the counter. Not because he was finished, but because he needed an excuse to look anywhere but at you. The fizz hissed faintly as it settled.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re messing with me.”

You smiled, real slow. “Am I?”

“You gotta be,” he muttered, eyes on the countertop now like it held all the secrets of the universe. “I mean. That’s what this is, right? You’re just fuckin’ with me.”

“Rodrick.”

You said his name like a joke and a promise in one breath. The way it dropped from your mouth made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t like. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure.

He looked up at you finally, jaw tense. “I’m not… like that.”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

“No, I mean— I’ve never—” He faltered. His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t my thing.”

“But you’re still here.”

Rodrick’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like a fish. An angry fish. A flustered, horribly aware he might be into something fish.

You tilted your head, stepping in just a bit closer — still not touching, but you didn’t need to. The tension was thick enough to sink in.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, voice low and amused, “if it doesn’t work out with Heather… you’ve got options.”

Rodrick cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh—well. I—I’m not…”

He trailed off. You waited. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before he immediately looked back down at the floor like it burned him.

Then, quietly — barely audible:

“…Have you ever kissed a guy?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded, sheepish. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “A couple times. Why?”

Rodrick didn’t answer. But he was chewing the inside of his cheek now, face pink, breath shallow. Hands shoved in his pockets like they might anchor him.

You stepped in just a fraction closer.

“…Wanna know what it’s like?”

If you’d told Rodrick Heffley that he’d lose his footing on his sexuality in the middle of a rich guy’s kitchen, with the house dead quiet and a guy’s mouth hot on his, he would’ve thrown a drink in your face.

Not because he was homophobic or anything — Jesus, no. He was punk, not a dick. It was just… him? Doing this? Never crossed his mind. Not until now. Not until you.

You were Heather’s brother. College-aged. Intimidatingly hot. Driving some sleek-ass convertible like you owned the damn moon. And now here you were, pushing him back against a cold marble counter, lips crashing into his like he was a fucking challenge.

And he liked it.

Rodrick grunted as his lower back smacked the edge of the counter, the sudden jolt making him gasp into your mouth. One of your hands slid down, rubbing over the spot gently in a rare flicker of comfort before it curled around his hip, pulling him back in.

It was messy.

Your mouth tasted like cheap spiked lemonade and something bitter. Beer, maybe. He’d never had alcohol before — not like this. Definitely not off the mouth of some guy he just met. It was a little weird. A little electric.

His hands fumbled awkwardly at first, catching the hem of your shirt, one sliding around your shoulder as if trying to find something solid to hold onto. Because he was TOO aware he looked like an idiot right now.

Your fingers found the edge of his studded belt, tugged him closer with a harsh yank that made him groan. His hips twitched. His whole body felt like it was catching fire.

He was… hard.

Embarrassingly so.

Rodrick stiffened, trying not to grind into you, but failing when your hand slipped lower to press at his back — guiding him in.

He gasped again. “Shit—fuck, uh, I didn't—”

“Relax,” you groaned actually annoyed with yourself when you should be feeling triumphant, as you kissed down to his neck, your own breath starting to hitch. “You’re not the only one.”

Rodrick's eyes widened slightly as he felt your crotch against his hip.

Oh.

Oh.

Well… shit.

You two stared at eachother a bit more until you slid your hands under his stupid band tee, both hands on his hips. You're surprised—you thought he would be a bit scrawnier. Not that he was built by any means,

Your mouth was back on his again — teeth catching his bottom lip this time, dragging until he hissed. Rodrick’s fingers clenched in your shirt, dragging you impossibly closer, hips twitching without meaning to.

“F-fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, shaky and stunned. “What the hell is this—what are we—”

You didn’t answer. Just kissed him again. Rougher. Meaner. Like you were trying to make up for every second wasted being normal around him.

“Look, do you want to do this or not?” Your hands were braced on his hips, and his belt buckle was digging into your palm. It was all metal and heat and confusion and want.

Rodrick's mouth opened, in nothing but a shakey breath.

Then— BANG BANG BANG.

A shrill, angry voice cut through the house: “HELLOOO? OPEN THE DOOR?? I FORGOT MY KEYS, WHERE'S MOM—”

You pulled back with a sigh, forehead dropping to Rodrick’s shoulder. His chest was rising and falling way too fast for how little space was between you.

He was flushed. Breathing hard. Lip red from biting. His hair was sticking up like he’d just been electrocuted and he looked fucking wrecked.

You grinned.

“Sounds like your little crush is home.”

Rodrick blinked at you, still half-dazed, lips parted. “Jesus Christ…”

You pushed off the counter slowly, casually fixing the hem of your shirt as if your dick wasn’t half-hard in your jeans and you hadn’t just kissed the guy your sister was supposed to be prank-dating.

“You comin’?” you asked, already walking down the hall.

Rodrick huffed, slamming back the last of the soda he’d left on the counter before following, muttering under his breath, “I fuckin’ hate rich people.”

And that was ironic because he was pretty well-off himself.

The door swung open and Heather practically exploded into the entryway, voice already halfway to a screech.

“Ugh, finally! I thought I was gonna get murdered out there, do you know how sketchy the suburbs are at—” She cut off mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Wait. Was that—was that fucking Heffley??”

You leaned against the doorframe, still slightly flushed, your knuckles brushing the curve of your bottom lip like you were trying to wipe away a smirk. Your eyes followed Rodrick’s retreating figure down the driveway, watching him fumble to get into his van like his legs forgot how to work.

You didn’t answer your sister. Just called out toward the driveway, voice syrup-smooth,

“Come back some time!”

Rodrick paused, mouthing what seemed suspiciously like 'fuck you' and then yanked the door shut behind him harder than necessary.

He was mumbling prayers and he barely even listened in church. I mean, he wasn't praying because he thought he had sinned or something — he was pretty sure Jesus would be fine with gay people.

No, he was praying because he was sure he just met the devil reincarnated.

Heather turned toward you slowly, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Seriously. Seriously? What the hell was that?!”

You shrugged like it was nothing. Like you didn’t still taste him on your tongue.

“Dunno. Might stay back for the rest of the holiday.”

Heather blinked. “You’re deranged.”

You just grinned wider.

click here for part 2

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