#THIS GAME HAS SO MANY FUCKING PROBLEMS MAN

[headcanonsfromthecabin]

cw for HOLY YAP but need people to hear me out on this one pals. smitten is so bpd to me, as someone with borderline personality disorder and it drives me crazy (/pos)

second ending i got when playing was HEA and ever since then its been my favorite route, and it's got me psycho analyzing it like a mad man. I know a lot of people interpret it as a toxic/abusive relationship (specifically like on reddit or youtube, less fandomy spaces lol), and in a way, it IS a toxic relationship and The Damsel is absolutely a victim in this situation but i never really read smitten as a bad guy. It screamed as someone having an unhealthy attachment on their FP (favorite person)

the entire scenario gave off "a desperate attempt to keep a loveless relationship going". I don't think he ever did anything to actually hurt her (other than keeping her there) and only wanted to please her. to make her, and TLQ, happy. the entire time he keeps summoning things to keep her happy and entertained. to have her stay with him. in a desperate attempt to not lose her. when she finally says what she ACTUALLY wants and that she isn't happy, his shadow disappears. no fights, no ifs/buts or anything. just silently leaves, because if him leaving makes her happy, then he'll do that even if devastates him.

people with bpd aren't inherently abusive, but are truthfully just scared of being alone. and forming unhealthy attachments with people (and having their ENTIRE world revolve around them) is a common theme. This fucking bird has no goals other than being with the princess and making TLQ happy and its sooooo. Going as far as killing himself in the alternative damsel route when she is killed because he quite literally isn't anyone without her (the entire monologue he gives there can be read as him splitting on hero and the narrator). smittens entire existence is to please the princess and he literally doesn't have anything else going for him other than that. all he wants is to please and please and please. to be with her and make her happy and have their fairytale ending. but this isn't healthy! and it's not because he's a bad person but it's just that his way of love is misguided!!!!! by god!!!!!!!

it drives me insane. he drives me insane. when you are blind devotion itself. when you don't understand that love and loyalty aren't the only qualities you need to provide for others. when your entire existence revolves around another person and if they aren't happy being with you, then what are you worth? when you shift the blame towards others because you can't handle the fact that you could be the problem. that you aren't perfect for your beloved. that you are capable of hurting those you love. because how could you be when all you want is for them to be happy with you? when you have so much love in your heart that it becomes a problem. THIS BIRD IS SO DISORDERED!!!!!! IT HURTS!!!!!!!!!!

bpd is so much more than "unhealthy obsession disorder" but this is just my interpretation/headcanon :') HEA made me feel so seen and just. big fan of this game

YOOUUUUUU you get it!! like I myself don't have BPD so I cant speak on it much but im gonna be so real this is possibly the most accurate interpretation of HEA Smitten that I've seen recently!!! just the way you phrased all of this as well is so so good :DDD god I love hea its honestly one of my fave chapters in the whole game there's just so many layers auuuugg <333

[talentforlying]

♠ — IF YOU WERE A DEITY, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR DOMAIN?

WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE. you are the divine guardian of truths both knowable and unknowable, of all words and languages spoken and unspoken. much like Death itself, you are perhaps one of the least understood of all deities, and yet the secrets you hold are highly sought after by scientists, philosophers, and theologians alike.

the origin of all innovation, your realm is the source of crucial advances in architecture, agriculture, political governance, and military strategy which have allowed many civilizations to become a dominant force in the mortal realm. your domain may also include the forces of magic and mysticism, and many cautionary tales exist among mortals of those who have unwittingly destroyed themselves or lost their minds in the reckless pursuit of mysteries and technology far beyond their comprehension.

your mythological equivalents are greece’s athena, egypt’s thoth, mesopotamia’s enki, and india’s ganesha.

tagged by: @eladead thank you!! tagging: @asteritm, @n1cap, @normaltothemax (any muse), @agentharkness, @demidritch, @whcwashe, @compatiissante, @devilscheck, @h3xappeal + @1carri0n (any muse), @outlawiism, @handgiven (any muse), and you!

[bonemeal12]

stupid comic that just kinda takes up a lot of space under the cut

[sieglinde-freud]

my confession is that i love peri fire emblem and she is one of my absolute favorite fates characters. yes she is poorly written. yes everything about her character contradicts corrin’s army’s values. yes she does drag almost all of her support partners down when they talk (not u laslow stay safe bby). yes she looks like a 13 year old’s edgy oc, dual colored hair and heterochromia with a red eye that she has. but you all fail to understand that that’s literally camp. like fuck it she literally ate!! “im feeling stabby!” girl you are psychotic. i love you. xander gets me, literally hired her bc you know what, crazy IS hot and we need to stop pretending like its not. i made her the queen of nohr and didnt look back. its MY sandbox fire emblem game and i’ll do whatever the hell i want thank you very much.

[perilegs]

I would love to get into more new farm sim and visual novel games, but I feel like a lot of them not only fail to create their own unique games, but present a very sanitized story and characters.

For the uniqueness aspect - it's not enough to create "stardew valley but 3d and in space" or something. It's still a stardew valley copy. Taking inspiration is one thing, but what new are you bringing to the table if your only source of inspiration is one game? I've already spent hundreds of hours with these exact mechanics on another game, why should I do that on something that is basically just a reskin of that?

And I feel like when it comes to characters and story, a lot of creators are afraid of negative feedback or doing something wrong, so they keep all of their characters very "morally good" and pure and sanitized so there's no real character development. Characters may have a troubled past or struggle with something, but god forbid if it affects them as a character in any negative way.

Idk something about marketability ruining creativity.

[gyaruhana]

pls write for thanos with hatefucking… like that man has that potential after seeing how he talks to the other contestants

Thanos/Choi Su-Bong - Hatefucking

Synopsis: You and Thanos hate each other and, no matter how many death threats he sends your way, you never listen. So he decides that, if threats don't work, maybe you need to be fucked instead.

A/N: wrote this in like two hours max so it may not be the best but I tried anyway !! I love Thanos so much and hatefuck with him has me thirstyy

Warnings: smut, penetrative sex, blowjob, degradation, thanos is a little meanie and you're sassy

If there was one thing that could be said for sure about Thanos, it's that he was a total fucking dickhead. 

From the very first game you played in this hellhole, he had been nothing but a problem. He skipped around like he owned the place and had no problem with sacrificing a few people. Not to mention, he was loud. So annoyingly loud. 

Unfortunately for you, he seemed to really hate you too. Maybe it was the fact you kept glaring at him like he did something or the way you'd make some sort of sarcastic comment every time he spoke. Whatever the reason, the feeling was mutual. He hated you. You hated him. That was the end of it.

Well, it should've been. 

As if some divine being took joy in your pain, Thanos walked up to you while you were alone with an angry look - clearly having something to say to you. You could guess he was going to try to threaten you into choosing to continue the games next vote since you had chosen not to.

“Yo. It'd be in your best interest to choose the blue button. It's really pissing me off when you keep pressing that red x button every time,” he spoke as he looked down at you from where you sat.

“Or what?” You say as you stand up and look at him with disdain. You weren't about to let this idiot try to scare you into doing what he wants. You weren't his slave. “Or I'll fucking kill you,” he says as he steps closer with a look that seemed like he meant it. Honestly, you didn't doubt that he was telling the truth. He's been killing people since the first game and it certainly won't be any different for you.

“Ooh, scary,” you say sarcastically before pushing past him. You didn't get far before he grabbed your wrist and turned you around, pulling you close to him. “You don't think I'll do it? Cause you'd be wrong,” he says as he looks at you dead in the eyes. You harshly pulled your wrist away from his grip and gave him a scoff.

“You're too much of a pussy to do shit. The only thing that gives you confidence are those dumb little pills you take,” you say as you look at him, challenging him to say something else.

It was quiet as you two just stared at each other, both silently praying for the other's death. He lets out an annoyed huff before finally breaking eye contact to look to the side. Without another word, he pushes past you and walks back to the other side of the room where the rest of the people who wanted to continue playing the game were. If that idiot really thought he could sway you, he'd soon learn you aren't swayed by death threats from high dumbasses.

When it came time to vote, you could feel Thanos staring you down. You turned your head to look back at him with an eyebrow raised and he turned his head away. You could see the annoyance all over his face. 

One by one, each player went up and placed their vote. The numbers were quite even and it was hard to tell who'd end up victorious in this vote. When it was Thanos's turn to vote, he made a point of stopping right behind you before he walked down.

“Remember what I said earlier. I'll kill you,” he whispers before walking past and skipping down towards the buttons. He kissed the blue button before walking over to the corresponding side but he was looking straight at you.

You ignored his hard glare and walked down to the buttons. You raised your hand and, no surprise, pressed the red button. You turned to him and flipped him off with a small smirk before walking off to the other side. 

For a moment, you actually thought you'd get away with that because it seemed that more people wanted to leave now. However, that was not the case as the result ended up being a tie.

Great. You were stuck here for longer. You definitely wouldn't be able to avoid Thanos if you were stuck here till tomorrow. He didn't seem to walk up to you immediately. It was like he was waiting for the right time to strike. All he did was stare at you from across the room as if he was formulating the most brutal way to tear you limb by limb. And, wow, he stared at you for a very long time. 

It wasn't until there were 5 minutes before lights out did he come to you. You were all by yourself in a corner and no one seemed to be paying much attention. They were all so busy in their own whispered conversations.

“Hey, it seems you didn't understand me the first time,” he says as he grabs you by your shirt and pushes you against the wall behind you. “I said I'd kill you if you pressed the red button,” he continues as he looks at you with annoyance.

“Go ahead then. Kill me,” you say as you look at him with a small smirk. He might have already killed a few people but you didn't believe he'd have the guts to kill people outside of the games.

He was quiet. All he did was stare. It was as if he was calculating some thoughts. He looked toward the timer on the wall before looking back at you.

“You're fucking unbearable,” he speaks before he's suddenly slamming his lips against yours. You didn't expect this move. You expected him to stab you or choke you - not kiss you.

You push him away with a glare. You couldn't be kissing this idiot. You hated him and he was fucking stupid. But even with that hate, there was something about the way he kissed you that had you thinking twice.

Fuck, you were doing this. 

You pulled him in by his collar and pressed your lips against his. There was nothing romantic about this kiss. It was pure hate. Just angry, rough kissing as if it would solve anything. His hands were all over your body before they finally decided to settle on your hips with a tight grip. He pulled away before starting to leave kisses along your neck. He wasn't gentle at all. He was biting you as if he wanted to draw blood.

“You're such a fucking bitch. Always acting so smug. I'm gonna shut you the fuck up,” he says as his hand goes to your hair before yanking it back roughly to give him better access to your neck. 

“You're the fucking bitch. Always walking around like you own the place,” you say back and in response he bites your neck hard making you wince slightly at the pain. “watch your fucking mouth,” he spoke as he pulled away and wrapped a hand around your throat. As if on cue, the lights suddenly turned off leaving you two in the dark.

He let out a small laugh as it went dark before he removed the hand on your hip and instead started pulling your pants down. 

“I'm gonna fuck you till you learn you're not in control, I am,” he says before pulling his own pants down. He wasn't going to play nice or take it easy. Not when you hadn't played nice with him. 

“You think you can fuck me into submission? You're way too fucking cocky,” you say with a quiet laugh, finding it amusing how he thought you'd fold once he started fucking you. “We’ll see,” he says, his grip around your throat tightening to shut you up. He pulled his boxers down slightly, enough to let his dick out, before he pushed your panties to the side.

“I'm gonna show you not to fuck with me again,” he whispers into your ear as he lines himself up with your entrance. Without another word, he starts slowly thrusting himself in till he's all the way inside you.

“You're such a fucking whore,” he says as he starts to pull out before thrusting in again with one stroke. He kept a pace of being fast and hard as if trying to make you feel his hate on a spiritual level. 

Well, God you could definitely feel it. He kept leaving aggressive bites all over your neck as he thrust into you. His hand around your neck kept its firm grip, enjoying the way you struggled to breathe. 

He wasn't fucking you for pleasure, he was fucking you to make you learn a lesson. He wanted to make you cum. He wanted to choke you till your vision got blurry. He wanted it to be clear he hated you with every fiber of his being. 

His free hand went down to your clit and he pinched it before rubbing it with a circular motion. He wasn't gentle so it brought a mix of both pain and pleasure. A feeling that brought you closer to the edge of a sweet, sweet release. He could feel you tighten around his cock and it made him let out a groan which turned into a small mocking laugh.

“Fuck, are you- going to cum? Already?” He says mockingly with a smirk. He took pleasure in knowing he could control you like this. Control someone who seemed to hate him. “C'mon, cum on my cock then, whore,” he said before pressing his lips to yours roughly. He forced his tongue into your mouth and he was clearly eager to get you to cum. 

With a slight angle of his hips, he thrusted into just the right spot that had you tipping far over the edge. He let out a groan at the feeling of you coming undone on his cock before he quickly pulled out. 

He released your throat and grabbed your hair instead before forcing you onto your knees. You looked up at him with a glare and he returned it with the corner of his mouth just barely quirked up. “suck my cock so I can come,” he said as he brought his cock closer to your mouth. He really didn't hesitate when you opened your mouth and immediately forced himself in with a groan at the feeling. 

“God.. do you taste yourself on my dick?” He says as he looks down at you. He thrusts into your mouth making you gag and he just laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. “You're such a fucking bitch when you talk shit. I like you better like this,” he speaks as he mercilessly thrusts into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat over and over again.

“I'm gonna cum in your mouth and you're gonna swallow, yeah?” He says before throwing his head back with a groan. It didn't take long before you felt his cum run down your throat. He thrusted a little more as he came down from his high before finally pulling out of your mouth. There was drool running down your chin as he pulled his boxers and pants up before kneeling in front of you.

“Swallow my cum,” he orders as he tilts his head at you and waits. You look up at him before turning your head and spitting onto the floor instead. 

“I think I'll pass,” you say as you look up at him once again with a glare. Tension rose between you two again but this time, it was different. Sure, it was hate, but there was undeniably a different punishment waiting instead of an argument.

“Then I guess you haven't learnt your lesson,”

[madamechrissy]

PS5 remote Sukuna ruins your twitch career!

pairings - PS5 Remote Sukuna x gamer reader (YEP)

contents/warnings- You're a pro streamer, and your remote has broken! You dig up your old favorite remote, but it just SUCKS! - You're so mad you throw it, but that's when a sexy ass demon comes out of it! He's NOT HAPPY with being locked in your junk drawer, so he decides to give you a lesson in the form of backshots!!! Explicit sex/oral (m receiving) sukuna calling you a slut

My contribution to the unholy trifecta @indiewritesxoxo @yenayaps <3

You're trying your best but you keep losing in every match during your APEX stream. It's because your favorite remote is broken and you're stuck using this old crappy one with a joystick that keeps spinning you to the left! This was the first remote you had and shoved in a drawer forever, but you hoped it'd get you through the game.

"I know, I know! I carry you all the time, pick up my banner, shit! Yeah I'm the number one Loba so- and I'm broke!?" You're cursing with your teammates, furious as this stupid red remote keeps fucking yanking every direction.

It's an old, raggedy remote, your cat literally chewed on the toggles so the rubber is falling off. The buttons are sticky - you don't even know what from! You long ago loved this damn thing and called it your lucky remote until you bought a fancy pro one for several hundred dollars.

You even nicknamed it baby girl, and would give it a little kiss as you climbed to the top - the number one player for your main in the country. Usually, streaming made plenty of money, but you had far too many expenses this month (and a really bad Love and Deepspace addiction - oof!) and ol' reliable had to come out.

"Come on baby girl, work with me," you're biting your lip as you sit in your bright pink gamer chair, with your kitten headphones, and people are talking shit in the chat, earning you talking shit right back at them. They're tipping you a fuck ton telling you to buy another, but it's late and you'll have to order online!

You feel the damn remote vibrating against your lap as you wait for them to revive you again, cursing as it shakes your hands, you're not even sure what it's doing now. It keeps vibrating nonstop, flashing different colors over and over, and you're smacking at it, shaking it, but it's like it's possessed!

"Oh fuck this," you pick up the remote and throw it against the wall now, your name isn't crash out queen for no reason! "God, I can't wait to get paid again."

You're turning off the PlayStation now, when a hand -a huge tattooed fucking hand with black nails - grips your wrist. You scream then, looking up to see a huge man with red eyes and pink hair, naked!?!? You can't help but look and see his cock thick and huge even on soft, growing under your gaze.

"What the... who the fuck are you? A stalker?" He chuckles then, towering over you - god this dude must be seven foot tall almost!? His cock is just swinging all heavy, raising up more as his strong hands grip your arms now.

"I'm baby girl or whatever dumb fucking name you call me, insolent brat!" You gasp now, eyeing where your remote was thrown - and it's GONE!

"No way," you're shaking your head, and he smirks at you, before picking you up like you're some doll. "Hey!"

"How about I fucking throw you, huh?" He tosses you across the fucking room and you land on your bed, it bounces as he's unceremoniously tossed you. "Call you a 'cheap peace of shit' what do you think?"

"I'm sorry, fuck are you some... demon!?" He's chuckling then, the sound far too throaty and inviting, when he yanks off your cat headset, throwing them. "Hey!"

"Tired of your attitude, you're always raging - you're not even that fucking good at playing-" You smack him then, hard, and his ruby eyes glare, but the problem is you've made him hard now.

"I'll fucking exorcise you, demon!" You're shoving at him, when you notice his thick, throbbing cock, wrapped with veins and leaking pre. "Are you horny right now! Where are your clothes??"

"You think remotes fucking have clothing?"

"Go back in there then!"

"I think I'll cum inside you instead," he's yanking your panties down, ripping them in the process. "Had me shoved in your junk drawer next to your broken vibrator? Throw shit out."

"Should've thrown you out - ngh!" Sukuna's shoved two long fingers right in your hole, it gets way too wet, you're trembling, thighs shaking on either side of his hand as you cry out. "What are you doing, you can't fuck... you're a remote!"

"Hah, I was trapped in there, but finally you threw me hard enough you freed me - fuck you're wet," he's moaning now, scissoring his fingers in and out, stretching you too much. "Also, think I didn't notice how you'd set my on your lap when I vibrated? Slut."

"Am not even! You're a stupid... oh fuck, there... remote- no, don't stop!" He's yanked his fingers out then, sucking your drippy cunt off them, his cheeks hollowing.

That's when it hits you -

He's hot.

Your attitude shifts a bit as his cock gets even bigger, red tip leaking pearly drops onto your bed, and your tummy clenches. "Oh, dropped the attitude huh? Ya think I'll let you cum?"

He's shoved your thighs up now, putting his tip along your slit and rubbing, groaning as he feels a wet cunt for the first time in years. He's been sealed away for at least six years in this fucking remote, last time he was shoved in a Nintendo Gamecube! He's not going back in again.

He's determined to make sure he fucks you good enough you never send him back, also, Sukuna always missed you, locked away! He'd only see glimpses of you with new remotes, and that made him very sad. He loved you touching all of his toggles and buttons </3

"Beg for it, brat," he's talking shit even though he honestly wants to tell you you're pretty, but you're shaking your head. "Stubborn huh? Beg for it."

"Put it in! No - no not there!?" Sukuna's pressing against your ass hole instead, tip burning as you panic, he throws his head back and laughs at you.

"Can't take it up the ass? Pathetic mortal."

"Oh shut up - fine, please... what's your name? Baby girl?"

"I'm not baby girl!" He shoves his cock deep then, you're screaming out as your cunt barely takes him, drooling down his cock with each stroke as he presses deeper. He watches your tummy bulge and smirks at the sight. "Look, fucking wrecking your insides"

"You're... ah... so baby girl - your hair is so - pink and - hah!" Sukuna's fucking you hard now, for his pleasure, mean fucking strokes as he leans down, glaring and grabbing your chin, pink hair falling over his brow that you kinda wanna run your fingers through.

"My name is Sukuna, I'm the King - don't you laugh brat - of curses, okay!?" You're gasping in pain when he shoves so deep he hits your cervix now, you're so wet you hear it, the squelching wetness of your cunt, over and over. He shoves up your top, smacking your tits then, grinning as he sees them jiggle.

"Ah! Ow, baby girl!"

"I'm not baby girl!??!" He's done with your insolence! He flips you over then, using your crumpled up skirt as leverage as he starts making mean backshots. "Call me my name, now brat."

"S-Sukuna, fuck..." He's moaning then, shoving your head against your pillows, railing you as your game sits in the lobby, your character making weird NPC moves that somehow match the rhythm of Sukuna's cock.

"Beg me to cum, huh? Pathetic brat, look at you," he's talking shit because he's close, your gummy walls are gripping him too fucking good, he can't take it. He groans and leans over, shoving you in his prone position, biting your ear. "Beg me."

"Lemme cum, please... best remote ever..." He's moaning at that, it's just what he needed! He's reaching a hand around, finding your clit and running in circles, you're gripping your sheets and whining out, head falling back for more of his bites.

"Gonna fill you up s'good, won't even game without my cock inside you, huh?" That sounds great to you actually, you're so close now, whining and nodding when your - remote!? - kisses you, and drinks your moans.

His saliva drips in your mouth as he busts his hot white ropes in your cunt you're cumming with him, milking him for more, when he finally pulls back, he's standing and coming over to your drawer then, as you catch your breath. His cum is dripping out of your pussy, so much.

"What is it?" You manage to as, and he's holding up one of your mini skirts and glaring.

"This will never fit me!? You need to buy me a wardrobe."

"No, I need a new remote! I can't afford clothes too!" He's standing now, walking up to you, dick still on hard and dripping from you.

"You will have me naked all the time so you can game more!?"

"I'm a professional streamer!"

"That's it," Sukuna's shoved his cock in your mouth then, pulling at your hair, you get so fucked out you order him clothes when your direct deposit hits </3 Your pussy hurts too much to game right now anyway.

NOT EVEN SORRY anymore <3

perm tags - @cutelittlesugarfairy @kitananami @todorokiskitten @grapesandraisins @kymber96 @vamqyx @sleepykittyenergy @mistytojigetolover @jaeminsmilk @thisisew @innocent-and-angelic @amethystarchild @ohreallyfriend @raendarkfaerie @rjreins @ti-mame @ohio-gyatt-mega-sigma-rizzler @aeeliy @yourlocalcatscammer @angelzrulez21-blog @sabztov @beereadzzz @zetianzz @gamerhere @imsuperawkward @thelightknight21 @poopooindamouf @bhocalatebhipbookies69 @whorekyuu @simp-plague @chlefnikkl @jud3thedude @inotaku-talkz @morganmorine777 @1tsleesee @tolerantxo @hoesoflamentation @lizatonix @allilovessatoru @yamadramallamaqueen @delphiakira @felix4eversun @erendipi @nazzysworld13 @tenaciousavenueavenue @lucilleheart

[wonderlandwalker]

Fake It 'til You Break It

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve’s always been good at pretending. The problem? This doesn’t feel like pretend anymore. Now he’s stuck between two nightmares: watching you walk away when the act ends… or risking everything to make it real. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort mostly, my attempt at the fake dating trope, some spice of course, i've stared at this way too long so possibly continuity errors or too many synonyms

𝐚/𝐧: this might be a mess but it's a mess I made with love, might come back and edit it later, might redo the whole thing, but wanted to give you guys at least something after all this time, thanks for sticking around <3

There are plenty of things Steve regrets—a running list that gnaws at him in the quiet hours, the kind of thoughts that coil around his ribs and squeeze just enough to remind him they’re there.

He regrets his high school persona, with a shame so visceral it still makes his fucking skin crawl; God, the hair gel alone should’ve been classified as a war crime. He thinks about it when he passes the Hawkins High parking lot, when he catches a whiff of that godawful Axe body spray Dustin insists on dousing himself in, and when some old classmate gives him that look—the one that says,  I remember who you used to be.

But this?

This isn’t regret. No, that's too small, too flimsy a word for the way his chest caves in when he catches the scent of your perfume already clinging to his shirt. The vibration of your hum—low, amused, content—as you agree with something Robin says (fuck, what was Robin even talking about? Politics? Movies? That weird new video game?) travels straight through his chest like the most beautiful kind of devastation.  You’re right there, tucked against his side like you belong there, your warmth seeping into him like he’d hollowed out a space in his torso just for you. It’s not regret that winds around his throat like a noose he’d gladly tighten himself.

He regrets not visiting Aunt Cathy in Little Rock before she passed. She’d sent him those lumpy handmade sweaters every Christmas, each one uglier than the last, and he’d never even thanked her properly. Just a grumbled "Thanks, I guess" tossed into the receiver during some obligatory holiday phone call, already distracted by whatever party he was missing. Now, the last one she ever made—a pea-green monstrosity with lopsided orange reindeer, mustard-yellow accents that could blind a man, and sleeves so long they swallow his hands whole—sits neatly folded in his bottom drawer. He can’t bring himself to wear it. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it, either.

He regrets getting careless last summer, leaving that half-smoked joint on his nightstand like an idiot before his parents got back from Tokyo. His father’s lecture about "the dangers of marijuana" had been particularly rich coming from a man who kept Cuban cigars locked in a humidor like they were fucking crown jewels. (Not that Steve cared. Not that he ever cared what that man thought—except, well. Except.)

But those were warm-up acts.

Minor-league regrets.

The main event? 

The heavyweight champion of his fuck-ups?

The gold medal, hall of fame, once-in-a-lifetime screwup that’ll haunt him to his grave?

This.

This is one of those moments people invent time machines to undo. The kind of mistake that makes men swear off alcohol, religion, and women all at once. There’s a fire somewhere inside him, but it’s not the good kind—not the warm, crackling hearth of something real. It’s the sputtering, desperate flame of a match held too close to skin, the kind that leaves blisters if you’re not careful. His brain has rehearsed this moment so often that muscle memory takes over as his thoughts are stuck. He still interjects at the right moments, laughs at the right beats, and plays the perfect doting boyfriend with terrifying precision. The irony is a blade twisting inside him: after so long of pretending not to love you, now he’s being judged on his performance of pretending to.

God, Robin really has the uncanny ability to turn his world upside down without even meaning to. When she first brought it up, her words had been going a mile a minute, tripping over each other like a drunk gymnast, her mouth running faster than her brain, and he should’ve known right then:

Category Five Disaster.

Code Red.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

"—so… I suggested we could go on a double date to make it more, y’know, casual." Her grin hadn’t wavered, even as you blinked at her, slow and uncertain. "What does this have to do with us, Robs?" you finally asked, voice laced with the same wary suspicion that was crawling up Steve’s spine like a particularly persistent spider. 

"Because you're the ones we're going on a double date with, duh!" She had beamed, absurdly pleased with herself, looking for all the world like she’d just solved cold fusion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa."  He had cut in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. His pulse hammering—a wild, traitorous thing. He had shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged. "I don't know what delusional world you've been living in, Buckley, but we—" He jabbed a finger between you and himself with more force than necessary, "—are not dating."

The words tasted like acid on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Which was stupid.

Because it’s the truth. 

You’re not dating.

You’ve never dated.

Except in his head.

And it's fine.

Totally, completely, achingly fine.

Except—

Except for the way his breath stutters in his chest when morning light catches you just right, turning your features golden and ethereal like some Renaissance painting he’s not devout enough to worship.

Except for the way he’s painstakingly catalogued every variation of your laugh—the inelegant snort you immediately try to smother with your hand, the full-bodied one that makes you double over and clutch your stomach, the quiet, private chuckle you reserve exclusively for his dumbest jokes, and the one that somehow makes him feel like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

And now Robin wanted him to casually drape his arm over your shoulders like he had any right to touch you so familiarly?

To press a kiss to your temple and act like his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest like it’s making a prison break?

To call you "sweetheart" with all the easy affection he’s been choking back for months, the pet names piling up behind his teeth like an infatuated dragon hoarding woeful treasure?

That wouldn’t just be dangerous—that's downright suicidal.

It’s handing a loaded gun to his weakest impulses and praying he has the self-control not to pull the trigger.

But he’s backed into a corner with no exits, no clever quips, and no patented Steve Harrington Charm™ that can talk his way out of this.  If he refuses, Robin’s going to poke and prod like a determined archaeologist at a dig site until she uncovers the pathetic fossil of his crush, dusting it off for the whole world to see. If he agrees…

Christ.

He might as well just drop to one knee right here in the food court, ring made from a soda tab, and confess every embarrassing, lovesick thought that’s kept him awake at 3 a.m. for months. 

"—come onnnn, you two both owe me one!"  Robin had continued to whine, limbs flailing so dramatically she nearly sent her Diet Coke flying. Her foot connected with Steve’s shin under the table—a sharp kick that would’ve hurt if his entire nervous system wasn’t already short-circuiting. He shoved her away with a grumble that did nothing to hide the panic clawing up his throat. So he fixed her with his best withering glare—but it looked more like a man facing the gallows. "This isn’t the same as eating the last of the takeout, Robs."

"Oh, but it is," she countered, stabbing a finger in his direction with enough force to displace air molecules. "You literally stole my last egg roll—which, by the way, was clearly marked with my initials—"  (Steve mouthed 'psycho' at you over his shoulder — because seriously, who the hell initials their egg rolls? His reward was that poorly suppressed grin of yours, the one that makes his stomach perform acrobatics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. The way your lips quirk unevenly, one side rising higher than the other in that lopsided smile he's come to crave, eyes crinkling at the corners like you're trying to contain sunlight — he could write sonnets about that expression if he knew anything about poetry beyond what he'd skimmed in senior English) "—you said, and I quote," Robin went on as she adopted a terrible impression of his voice, all lowered pitch and exaggerated bravado," 'I'll pay you back someday.' Well, guess what, Harrington? Today is someday."

And yeah, okay, maybe he had said that. In his defence, he was running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, and Robin had been mid-panic spiral about never finding love. But this? This was way beyond their usual favour economy of borrowed five-dollar bills and shitty closing shifts — this was playing Russian roulette with his heart as the bullet.

"And you," Robin whirled on you next with the terrifying focus of a bloodhound catching a scent, accusation dripping from her pointed finger. "Promised to help me 'get the girl' after the whole Dallas Cowboys cheerleader fiasco. This," she declared, slapping both hands on the sticky food court table with finality, "is me collecting."

Your mouth fell open in protest—tongue darting out to wet your lips in that unconscious gesture that's starred in approximately seven hundred of his late-night fantasies—before snapping shut again as you came up empty. He watched the debate play out across your features: the furrow between your brows, the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip. Every expression was a language he'd become fluent in without meaning to. Steve could practically hear the gears turning in your head, the same way they were grinding in his own skull.

His gaze flickers to you—always to you, like a compass finding true north even when he wishes it wouldn’t. God, what heinous acts did he commit in a past life to deserve this particular hell?  You and Robin are his best friends—his people. The ones who stayed up with him getting high and laughing at shitty B-movies, your thighs pressed together on the couch until the lines between friends and something more blurred in the haze of weed and sleep deprivation. He still remembers the way your head eventually lolled against his shoulder, how he’d sat there, paralysed by the possibilities. 

You’re the ones who were there for him when he shattered after his parents’ last nuclear fight, when the silence in that too-big house threatened to drown him. Your arms around his shaking shoulders, your voice soft in his“ ear—“You’re better than they’ll ever be, Steve.”

He’d almost kissed you that night.

Almost.

The memory still haunts him like a ghost he can’t exorcise: your face tilted toward his in the dim glow of the porch light, your breath hitching when his thumb brushed your cheek. For one reckless second, he’d let himself truly imagine it—closing the distance, swallowing your gasp, letting the dam break.

You've seen him at his worst—red-eyed and ugly with grief—and you stayed. Wrapped yourself around him like human armour against the world, your heartbeat steady against his back when his own couldn't find its rhythm. That alone should have been enough. Should have cauterised this stupid crush before it took root like some invasive weed cracking through concrete. Should have reminded him that what you have is too precious to risk for something as reckless, as temporary, as fleeting as romance. But then came that first perfidious flutter in his stomach months ago, that stupid, hopeful zing when your laughter curled around him like smoke from one of Robin's clove cigarettes—sweet and intoxicating and impossible to ignore. He'd written it off immediately as his brain's latest attempt to ruin something good (a speciality of his, really), except the feeling didn't fade. It grew, fed by every accidental touch and lingering glance until it became something monstrous and beautiful and utterly inescapable:

The way you'd bite your lip when concentrating, unaware of how his gaze snagged on the motion like fabric catching barbed wire, how his fingers twitched with the need to tug it free, to soothe the indentations with his tongue.

The way you'd stretch in the morning light after crashing at his place, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal that sliver of skin above your hipbone—a soft crescent that made his throat go dry, that made him ache with the knowledge that he could reach out, trace the dip of your waist with just one fingertip—but he won't, he can't, because you're trusting him to be better than that.

The way you'd sigh his name when tired, dragging out the last vowel like it was something precious, something yours, and he'd have to clench his jaw so hard his molars ached against the urge to beg you to say it again, again, just like that, maybe against his mouth this time, maybe with his hands on your—

Now he's trapped in this sick parody of everything he's ever wanted—your body warm against his on the couch, your smiles sweet and fake, your touches choreographed for an audience like some grotesque puppet show. Every time he whispers "babe" (a word that tastes like sacrilege in his mouth), every time he laces his fingers with yours and pretends not to notice how perfectly they fit together, every time he pulls you closer under the guise of selling this lie (just because he can, just because for these stolen moments, you let him)—it's all salt in the wound.

And he knows this is the closest he'll ever get to having you—playing pretend for Vickie's benefit, his heart drumming against his chest with every touch he's not allowed to mean. Because even if—if—there is some part of you that feels it too (that invisible magnetic pull, that quiet hum and deep vibration when his fingers brush yours like a struck tuning fork), there are just too many variables. Too many landmines are hidden in this no-man's land.

Maybe he'd get a few weeks of heaven before you realised he wanted way more than you ever could. Maybe he'd find a way to screw it up like he always does, condemning himself to a lifetime of awkward pauses and avoidant glances every time your paths crossed. Or worse—maybe, maybe, even if you fell for him as badly as he's fallen for you, this dream he's conjured up would still be an impossible standard. A fantasy no real person could live up to, least of all a washed-up king with nothing but a handful of half-kept promises to his name.

But his performance opposite you is working too well—the Romeo to your Juliet (star-crossed and bleeding out), the Heathcliff to your Cathy (ruined and howling on the moors). The world watches staged romance through rose-tinted glasses, seeing only what it wants to see. Stolen glances mistaken for tenderness rather than theft. Casual touches interpreted as affection instead of self-flagellation. Devotion is heard in the harmony of your laughter rather than the dissonance of his slow unravelling.

These have never been love stories.

This has always been a tragedy dressed up as romance—all the warning signs painted over in pretty pastels. There's no happy ending waiting in the wings, no last-minute reprieve where the audience learns it was all a bad dream. Just the whirlwind of maybes and the inevitable collapse, the credits rolling over two people who used to know how to look each other in the eye.

Steve knows doomed narratives like he knows the scars on his knuckles—intimately, painfully. Could chart their progression from meet-cute to catastrophe with his eyes closed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the script flips—in the arch of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a touch. He's lived this story before and knows all its variations by heart.

His fantasies might be vivid.

But the reality is crushing.

The effortless synchronicity you two normally share is already gone, replaced by something jagged and electric—every glance a live wire threatening to burn everything down, every touch a lit fuse that comes dangerously close to the gasoline running in his veins. It's like dancing on a knife's edge where every step could either cut him open or set him free. The hesitation terrifies him—the way his fingers twitch toward you instinctively before he remembers with a gut-punch of awareness: he's allowed to touch you now. 

Supposed to, even.

But God, it hurts.

Because it's not real.

And yet—

And yet he'll drink the poison willingly if it means he could stay in this play with you. Would let the curtain fall on him mid-scene if it meant pretending, just for one more night, that this might actually end well. He can tell you feel it too by the way your fingers linger a second too long on his wrist—just enough to feel his racing pulse. By the way, your breath hitches when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear (for the bit, he reminds himself, even as his skin burns where you touch like he's been graced by something holy). By the way, your eyes keep finding his in the dim light, dark with something he doesn't dare name.

And then, like fate itself is laughing at him, Vickie leans forward with margarita-slick lips, her eyes bright with tipsy curiosity. The question hangs between you all, innocent and devastating.

"How did you two first start dating?"

Perhaps it's the tequila loosening his tongue, or the way the overhead lights reflect in your eyes like distant stars, or he's just so goddamn tired of lying that the truth starts clawing its way up his throat. Whatever the reason, the story spills out before he can stop it.

"It was the night of Robin's last birthday."

His voice is rough, scraped raw by the memory as he looks at you—seeing the ghost of that night superimposed over your face now. The way your nose had scrunched when you laughed at something stupid Eddie said. How he'd counted every one of your smiles like a man keeping track of his last breaths.

"We were both drunk, but not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Happy." He doesn't say how beautiful you looked that night or how your laughter had turned into something he wanted to bottle and keep forever. Doesn't mention how he'd gone home and pressed his forehead to his bathroom mirror, begging his reflection to get it together as his hands shook.

"You kept leaning into me—shoulder against mine, knee bumping my thigh. Normal shit." His throat bobs like he's swallowing glass.

"But then—" God, he can still feel it—the weight of your palm on his chest through his thin shirt, the way his heart had leapt like a fucking dog on a chain, wild and desperate. The way you'd noticed.

"—You put your hand on my chest and said—" ‘Steve,’ you'd murmured, voice thick and slow with gin and something sweeter, ‘your heart's going crazy.’ Like it was a fascinating scientific discovery. Like you hadn't just signed his death warrant.

"—something stupid." He huffs a laugh, sharp and humourless.

"And I just... knew. Right then."

Knew he was fucked.

Knew he'd never recover.

Knew he'd rather live in this harrowing limbo of almosts and not-quites than risk losing you entirely.

Robin is staring at him now, her expression a mix of dawning horror and pity.

She knows. 

Knows this isn't part of the act.

Knows he's just handed you his still-beating heart on a silver platter.

And you—

You're looking at him like you've never seen him before. Like he's just peeled back his flesh and exposed every pathetic, yearning part of himself.

That's when you rip the script right out of his hands.

Within a second, your lips are on his—actually, wholeheartedly on his—warm and slightly sticky from margarita salt, tasting of lime and something sweeter. It’s slow and deliberate and agonising in its gentleness, the way your hand finds the nape of his neck like you’ve spent nights tracing the curve of his spine in the dark, memorising the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush just beneath his hairline. Time stretches, warps into an alternate reality where your sigh vibrates against his mouth like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers, This is a mistake. There’s no coming back from this.

And then, too soon, before he can even properly react, it’s over.

Steve is pretty sure he just died and went to heaven. Or hell. At this point, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Now that he knows what you taste like—now that he knows the reality is a hundred times better than any of his desperate daydreams could have conjured—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag you back in and ruin himself completely. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into his palms just to keep from reaching for you. There’s a heat crawling up your cheeks, lashes fluttering like you’re caught in a storm. There’s an uncertainty in your eyes he’s never seen before—which is rare, because Steve has every expression you’ve ever made meticulously catalogued in the neat file cabinets of his brain: the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh, the way your lips press together when you’re annoyed but pretending not to be, and the way your eyes soften when you think no one’s looking.

But this look—like you’re caught between absolution and damnation, like you’ve just stepped off a ledge and aren’t sure if you’re falling or flying—he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know how to read it.

Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of smooth exits and practiced charm, of knowing exactly when to lean in and when to pull away. But right now? With you?

After all this time of carefully rehearsing his lines, he’s been thrust into an improv scene in front of a live audience, and for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington has stage fright.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

His heart lurches, heavy with possibility, and he’s not sure he can survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

The rational part of his brain—the part that still remembers how to breathe—tells him this is just another layer of the performance. That you kissed him because it was easier than finding the right words, because the script demanded it, because, of course, you’d commit to the lie rather than let it crumble in front of Vickie. Of course you’d give him the one thing he’s always wanted without letting him know if he’s allowed to want more of it.

But the part of him that’s hopelessly, ruinously in love with you?

That part doesn’t care.

It will take whatever scraps you’re willing to give him—every staged endearment, any kiss that isn’t real but feels like it could be. And all those careful promises he made himself (don’t ruin this, don’t cross the line, don’t fucking dare fuck this all up) are gone, incinerated in the wake of your lips on his. The Library of Alexandria his heart has built for you is collapsing in flames, and you’re the one holding the torch. Every boundary he’s painstakingly written down in careful self-denial blackens at the edges like ancient parchment tossed into the wildfire.

But he’s just as much to blame.

He lit the match the moment he said yes  to this charade.

And God help him, he’ll let the fire turn him to ash if you’ll just stay this close a little longer—with those eyes that see straight through his constructed bullshit to the raw foundation beneath. Like his thoughts are a precious collection of first editions you’re desperate to read but are worried will fall apart in your hold before you get the chance to finish the preface. Like he’s something worth keeping close rather than the human equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign taped to the universe’s back.

Like maybe—maybe—you’ve noticed the way his breath hitches when you enter a room and finally decided you like the power more than you fear its implications. He’ll choke on the smoke of this fantasy and pretend it’s oxygen if it means breathing the same air as you for just a few more seconds. He’ll gladly let his lungs blacken with the residue of this exquisite cataclysm, swallow every burning ember of inevitability if you’d just let him.

He’s leaning in again before he realises it—drawn like a moth to the flame, knowing it will kill him but too starved to care. The barely-there hitch of your breath is all the encouragement he needs, his body moving on autopilot, already addicted to the way you—

"That’s so romantic!"

Vickie’s voice shatters the moment, fracturing the fragile illusion into a thousand glittering shards.

You jerk back, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream, and Steve’s stomach plummets.

Right.

Romantic.

Not devastating.

Not life-altering.

Not I’ve been in love with you, and that kiss just rewired my fucking DNA.

Just… romantic.

The Rosaline he never stood a chance with—except in this version, he doesn’t move on, doesn’t get over it. He’s stuck in the first act of hardship, perpetually wondering, perpetually trying, while the audience watches with pity. In this version, he burns as time slips by in a haze of forced laughter and brittle smiles, but Steve’s internal clock is jammed—stuck on that single, breathless minute when your lips were on his and the world stopped.

He catches you staring every so often, your lips slightly parted like you’re holding back words—or maybe waiting for his. And there’s Vickie, still chattering away, blissfully oblivious to the way the air between you two has gone thick with everything unsaid.

It’s dangerous, this hope. Because if it isn’t fake for you either, if that kiss meant something—

But before he can even begin to untangle that thought—before he can decide if he’s terrified or thrilled by the idea that you might feel it too—Robin grabs his wrist and yanks him up towards the kitchen under the flimsy guise of "helping refill the snacks". The second the door swings shut behind them, she whirls on him, her voice a hissed whisper.

"What the hell was that, Steve?"

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He can’t. Not when the memory of your mouth on his is seared into every synapse, not when his pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment you pulled away.  Robin’s eyes are wild, her hands gesturing erratically as she steps closer, backing him against the wall like she’s about to interrogate him. Steve opens his mouth—to argue, to deny, to something—

"I don’t know," he admits, running a hand through his hair—tugging at the roots like he’s trying to channel Munchausen, like he could physically pull the solution out of himself. "I can’t—fuck, Robin, I can’t keep doing this." Her expression flickers—sympathy warring with alarm. "What do you mean?"

"This." The word cracks between them, jagged and desperate. "Me and her. The—"the pretending." His throat burns, like the truth is acid on its way up. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. "It’s horrible."

And it is.

It’s horrible because it’s too good. Because every laugh between you two is a shared secret, something fragile and precious that he hoards like a thief in the night. Because the kiss—the short, fake, perfect kiss—felt like coming home to a place he’d never been allowed to live in.

It’s horrible because he’s spent months carefully constructing walls between what he feels and what he shows, and now you’ve reduced them all to rubble. But he doesn’t get to continue; the door creaks, and when he turns—

You’re there.

Your face is pale, eyes wide and hurt for one fractured second before they shutter into something distant, something closed off.

His insides turn to lead.

Fuck.

"I was just—" Your voice is too light, too careful—the kind of tone you’d use with a stranger, with someone you’d rather forget. " —grabbing some more drinks."

You don’t meet his gaze as you brush past him, your shoulder barely skimming his, and Christ, it’s worse than if you’d shoved him. Steve is frozen, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Because he meant it—every word—but not like this. Not where you could hear it and twist it into something else. Not where it could hurt you.

His hands flex at his sides, useless.

Go after her.

Explain.

Beg.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

And for the first time since this started—since he let himself believe he could do this and walk away with his dignity intact—there's a terrible certainty crystallising in his chest like ice forming over a lake: if he doesn't get himself together, his nightmares of losing you for good will become a reality before he ever gets the chance to tell you the truth.

Before he can say,  It was never fake for me.

Before he can beg: Please don't walk away.

Before he can drop to his knees and confess that every touch, every laugh, and that godforsaken kiss has been real for him in ways that terrify him to his core.

Robin spares him one last look, caught between annoyance and sorrow, a silent battle raging behind her eyes about which fire to put out first—his stupidity or your hurt. The decision comes quickly as she turns on her heel to follow you, but not before shooting him a final glare that screams, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' 

The rest of the night unfolds as the worst one of his life.

And that's saying something, considering the literal hellscape he's survived—but this slow unravelling of everything between you two? The way you’re pulling away? Retreating in that devastatingly subtle way of yours—carefully recalibrating every interaction like you're dismantling a bomb, trying to save yourself while simultaneously preventing the explosion of this lie. Every brush of your fingers against his—once electric, now agonising—feels like a choreographed step in a dance you no longer want to perform. He watches helplessly as you turn what used to be effortless connection into careful calculation, and it fucking destroys him.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

Doesn't even know where to start.

He'd watched from a distance as you talked to Robin, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from storming over and demanding to know what you were saying about him. His lungs had burnt with the effort of staying put, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears that drowned out all other sound.

He should have followed. Should have swallowed his pride, his fear, and just talked to you. But the moment passed, as moments do, and now the opportunity is gone.

When he finally cornered Robin, before he could even open his mouth, she gave him that look as she tilted her head in that particular Robin way, and he knew.

It's no use.

Robin Buckley would rather face certain execution than betray your trust, no matter how much he might beg.

And you?

You won't tell him anything at all.

Not anymore.

So he does what Steve Harrington does best when he's in over his head: he fakes a smile, cracks a joke no one laughs at, and pretends the way your avoidance feels like a thousand papercuts doesn't bother him at all.

By the time The Exterminator II ends, it’s past midnight, and the conversation turns to sleeping arrangements—because it’s dark, and you’ve all been drinking, and no one should be driving.

Robin, ever the martyr, offers to take the couch so Vickie can sleep in the guest room, already gathering spare pillows with a pointed glance in his direction.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even dare look at your expression.

Because the implication here is obvious.

You’ll sleep in his room.

Of course.

Of course he has to share a bed with you now, when everything is fractured and wrong, when every glance between you is a minefield.

Just hours ago, the idea of you in his bed would’ve sent his pulse into overdrive, would’ve had him imagining the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath might hitch if he pulled you close.

Now?

Now the thought is agony.

Because you’ll be lying beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss again—but he won’t. He can’t. Not when you flinch at his accidental brushes, not when every word between you feels like walking on broken glass.

And he can’t refuse.

Not without making everything worse.

So he just nods, his jaw clenched tight, and tries not to think about how cruel it is—how close you’ll be tonight and yet how far you suddenly feel.

He tries to tell himself you’ve shared a bed before—you haven’t, not like this, never like this—not with the weight of everything pressing down between you. And yet here you are, in his bedroom, tugging one of his shirts from the drawer—his shirt, the fabric swallowing you whole, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder.

The silence is deafening.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter, sitting stiffly on the left side of the bed. Your fingers comb through your hair—a nervous habit he’s memorised by now.

“We’re adults; we can handle it.” you add.

Handle it.

As if trying to handle it isn’t the whole fucking issue.

As if he hasn’t spent every single second since that kiss handling the urge to drag you back in.

He hesitates, jaw set tight, but then you look at him—and fuck.

There it is: that same quiet worry he feels in every nerve ending, the same unspoken what now?  hanging between you.

So he lies down, careful to leave space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And he’s all out of excuses to tell himself.

There’s no audience left to play this off for, no flimsy justification for the way his fingers twitch toward you, and no lie left to hide behind.

Then—

“I’m sorry, I—”  Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the quiet between you. And Christ, he’d rather carve his own heart out with a dull spoon than let his stupid, self-sabotaging fear leave you like this—shoulders hunched, lips trembling, like you’re bracing for a blow.

What do you mean you’re sorry?

Your breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—and he realises, too late, that your eyes are glistening; the sight punches through him like a kick to the gut.

“I didn’t want to mess this up,” you whisper, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt like you’re clinging to an anchor. “I mean. I just thought—” Your voice wavers, and Steve watches, transfixed, as a single tear escapes, tracing a slow, damning path down your cheek.

He stares at you, stunned.

His hand lifts before he can stop it—before his brain can catch up with the chaos roaring in his chest—and his thumb brushes the tear from your cheek. Your skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through him, sharp and sweet.

“You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the words are being dragged out of him.  You freeze under his touch, eyes wide, lips parted, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you might pull away again—but then your lashes flutter shut, and you lean in, ever so slightly, your breath warm against his palm.

And finally—he’s done pretending.

His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you in, forehead resting against yours, his breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips—close enough to taste, but not close enough to consume. 

“I’ve always been yours,” he murmurs, and you search his face, eyes flickering over the curve of his mouth, the desperate crease between his brows, trying to find the lie—but you don’t find it. Another breath punches out of you, shaky and sharp, and your gaze shifts—unsure to decisive, hesitant to hungry—before you’re surging forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that mirrors his own.  Where the last time was slow—careful, testing—this is messy. Teeth and tongue and hands that can’t decide where to settle—his fingers dig into your hips, then skate up your sides, dragging your shirt along with them, exposing bare skin to the feverish heat between you. It’s violent in its desperation, a collision of pent-up want and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally, finally giving in. And, God, it’s even better than the first time.

No, wait—that’s not right.

It’s different.

The first kiss was discovery; this is destruction.

Like comparing the strike of a match to an entire forest burning, like the difference between dipping your toes in the ocean and being dragged under by the riptide.

He drags you closer, hands spanning your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise (and fuck, the thought of marks on your skin—his marks—sends a jolt of heat straight to his dick). He pulls you into him with all the force he’s been holding back finally unleashed. For a second, that nagging voice of hesitation flickers in the back of his head—too much, too fast—as your lips leave his. His grip loosens, just slightly, giving you space to pull away.

But then you make a sound.

The most beautiful sound in the universe, probably. Better than any symphony, any song on the radio, better than anything he’s ever fucking heard—a soft, breathy moan, spilling from your lips like you can’t help it, like it’s been ripped out of you as he tugs you into his lap.  Your thighs bracket his hips, and the contact is electric. The friction is maddening, the way you press against him, already seeking more. His breath hitches, fingers tightening possessively on your waist as he grinds up against you, just once—just to hear you make that sound again.

And you do.

Louder.

And fuck, if this is only the beginning—if the simple act of his hands roaming your body, skimming the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, tears noises from you that already have him aching—then he’s sure you’re going to be the end of him.

But, God, what a way to go.

He wants to cover every inch of your skin with his touch, to map the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver, and to learn exactly how to reduce you to the same desperate, unravelled mess he’s been for you all this time. He wants to find out how many times he can pull this kind of bliss from you before you’re writhing, before you’re begging—for more, for mercy, for him.

You find his pulse point, teeth grazing the frantic beat of his heart, and he’s ripped from his thoughts, reminded with dizzying clarity that this isn’t another fantasy. This is real. He anchors himself back to the moment, needing to show you his devotion, no longer hedonism, finally able to worship without fear. His fingers glide lower, flexing over every bit of skin—until they reach the wet heat already pooling between your thighs. A guttural groan tears from his throat—half at the sensation, half at the confirmation that you want this just as badly, that you’re just as far gone as he is.

Every fantasy, every what if  he’s ever tortured himself with—he’ll get to live them all.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over, your head landing against the pillow, your hair already sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat and the sheer tension coiling between you. You’ve never looked more beautiful—not in the soft morning light, not laughing at some stupid joke of his, not even in the hazy afterglow of his most desperate daydreams. This is the moment he’ll remember forever. The way your chest rises with each ragged breath, the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re already begging for his mouth on yours again. If he could freeze time, if he could live in one single second for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

He trails kisses down your body—slow, worshipful—mapping every dip and curve. The hollow of your throat. The valley between your breasts. The trembling plane of your stomach. He wants to take his time, wants to ruin you with patience, but you’re already tugging him back up, eyes heavy lidded but locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Your fingers tangle in his hair—tugging—and when he slips one finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he sees stars. Christ.  Like your body was made for him, to take him, to want him. He can't remember how he ever breathed before this moment, before the staggering heat of you surrounding him.

As he presses deeper, your hand finds his aching length, stroking him in time with his movements until he has to break the kiss just to groan your name. He feels the vibration of it travel through your joined bodies when you guide him to your entrance, and who is he to deny you when you're like this—when you're pleading with your entire body, hips canting up against his, nails biting into his shoulders like you'll die if he doesn't give you what you need?

He's only human.

He pushes inside in one slow, devastating glide, his thumb now tracing quick, insistent circles over your clit. He's already teetering on the edge—from the way you take him so perfectly, like you've been waiting your whole life for this; from the silent gasp that parts your lips when he bottoms out; and from the goddamn way you're still looking at him, like he holds your entire universe in his hands.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn’t let up—couldn’t if he tried. Every nerve in his body is alight, wired on the way you clench around him, the way your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. But Steve isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re like this—breathless, boneless, his—falling apart beneath him with every snap of his hips.

His pace turns punishing, each thrust carving your name into the space between your ribs, pulling another broken sound from your lips. And god, each one is sweeter than the last—he’s addicted. He wants to bottle them, wants to memorize the way you unravel for him, wants to live in this moment until it’s seared into his bones. The high whine when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed. The choked-off moan when his thumb presses harder on your clit, circling with just the right mix of cruelty and devotion. The way his name sounds when it’s wrung from your throat like a prayer, ragged and reverent, like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He’s close—so fucking close—but he’ll be damned if he lets go first. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, not when your thighs are shaking, not when every gasp and whimper is a siren song pulling him deeper.

Until Robin's voice cuts through the haze:

"JESUS CHRIST—”

Her shriek could wake the dead.

Steve barely has time to yank the sheets up over your bodies before Robin whirls around, slapping a hand over her eyes like she's just stared directly into the sun.

“I knocked. Oh my God—" She's already out of the room again, the door slams shut behind her with a force that rattles the frame, her dramatic exit punctuated by a muffled, "Ugh, gross!" from the hallway. You burst into laughter beneath Steve, the sound bright and startled. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She has the worst timing," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Robin’s chaos is, after all, the reason the two of you are tangled together like this in the first place. (He’ll thank her later. Maybe. If he remembers anything beyond the way your thighs tighten around his hips.)

For now, though, his focus narrows to the way your laughter fades into breathless anticipation, lips still parted, eyes darkening as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. He drops his forehead to yours, grinning like an idiot—the kind of smile that used to be reserved for winning fights and stealing hearts, now softened into something just for you.

"You done laughing at me?" he teases, voice low, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.

You bite your lip, but the mirth still dances in your eyes. "Depends. Are you done pouting?"

Steve scoffs, but his mouth finds yours before he can protest, swallowing your next laugh and turning it into a gasp. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove—like every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth is rewriting the script of who the two of you used to be. 

[gremlingottoosilly]

I met a guy in the Summer (dilf!Konig x fem!Reader)

Your boyfriend is an asshole. Luckily, his hot dad just returned from deployment. CW and Tags: Cheating, dub-con, size kink, daddy kink, age gap(reader in 20s, Konig is early 40s), Konig is a pervert, slightly obsessive Konig, love(and lust) at first sight, fingering, dom!Konig Word count: 3713 AO3

“Just one more game, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. I don’t want to end at a loss.” You didn’t want to be a buzzkill, of course. You simply wanted to be a good girlfriend, have some domestically cozy date, and for your boyfriend to at least try to put an effort into being with you. It wasn’t much to ask for, really. You hoped so, at least. You didn’t want to be an annoying, nagging girlfriend who only ever waits for another reason to yell at him, but your patience started to run thin. 

You spend the past three hours either listening to his apathetic rambling about the shows he watched – really, you wanted to invest in stuff he liked, but an abnormally large amount of animes he talked about had 1000-year-old girls who looked like they were 10, wearing inappropriate outfits, and you started to raise the alarm. 

You also watched him play – and also listened to his rage quitting and angry voice messages to his team that, honestly, made you slightly anxious. You never liked loud people, people who were so easy to rage about something as silly as some colorful video game with too many characters to look after. 

So, like a good girlfriend would – you wanted to be a good girlfriend, he was such a nice guy before you started dating, and you need something to think about besides the tremendous amount of study work you are doing for college – you decided to go and look for snacks. Maybe bring something for him as well. 

— I’ll find something to eat, alright? 

He didn’t respond at first, so you shook his shoulder. Your boyfriend took off his headphones with annoying look on his face, half-turning to look at you. You gulped, suddenly feeling like a child in front of the principal – not a feeling that you were supposed to feel around your partner, but with him, you somehow constantly felt like you were being judged. 

— Nah, stay here. I don’t want my father to see you. 

— Ah…your father is at home? 

You never heard anyone else being at the house – big house, you must admit, and it’s embarrassing almost how you never thought about his family. He lives with his dad, apparently, and the depth of your relationships can only be judged by the fact you literally didn’t know what his father’s name was. 

— Returned from his fucking deployment. He’d ask too many questions about you. 

— You didn’t tell him about me? 

Ah, now you’re hurt a little bit. You knew it wasn’t anything serious or too committed yet, but you intended to make this work. To try and fix all the problems you can without ending things abruptly. 

— He never asked. Not like he cares too much, but…

An apathetic dad, huh. 

You started to slowly piece together the puzzle that was your boyfriend’s horrible boyfriend skills. Now, you want to meet the man who conceived him and kick him in the nuts for creating such an unlovable human being who somehow captivated your chronically lonely heart. 

— If you don’t want me to come and meet him, I can go home. 

He doesn’t answer because his queue is finally coming to another match – you simply nod, knowing everything you need to. You can grab a little snack for yourself, fuck off to your dorm and rethink your life choices while your roommate is getting pounded by some gruss British bloke with an accent that makes your ears bleed. 

You have dignity, and right now, it has asked you to get some snacks from the kitchen. 

*** Now, the only thing König wanted after returning from deployment was to take as many hot showers as he could, shut his bastard of a son up, and get some delicious food waiting for him in the freezer. He was already home for a few days, but adjusting is always hard when you basically fucking hate living at your own house. Of-fucking-course, his son was watching the house while he was away – and now he can’t even think of a good excuse to set him off to his mother. Too old to do this, and split custody never really worked when not even one part of the relationship wanted to take care of the kid. 

König closes the door of the refrigerator – of course, his son took every good thing that he stashed for himself. With a groan, the colonel fights the urge to finally throw him out of the house – a thing he needed to do a few years ago, just when he celebrated his 18th, but some sentimental part of his heart instead promised to help with finding a place close to the college. No good deed goes unpunished. 

With a groan, he takes a few steps from the fridge – and then he almost stumbles across an angel. 

Scheisse

Now, König never thought of himself as a predator who prefers running after college girls who might as well be his daughters. He never thought of himself as a gut who liked them young – his wife, god forsake her name, was his age when they started dating, and he hardly had any sexual encounters with a person under 25 in the past few years. Well, not like he had any sexual encounters in the past years, but…

The thing is – he never thought he liked girls with wide eyes, pouty faces, and trembling hands who were holding a bag of his cookies that he carefully stashed away from his son. 

You are wearing something cute, a nice skirt and an adorable pink cardigan that looks so cozy and warm and soft, and he fights the urge to grab your skirt and simply lift it, You’re dressed up for a cute coffee date, and König has to double check if he isn’t dreaming and no one has decided to play a prank on him and send him a cute callgirl. 

— Oh! Sorry. It’s yours, isn’t it? 

You give him his cookies back – but not before your fingers fished another salty caramel goodness out of the bag, and you bit it. He looks at your teeth, at your lips, and glimpses of your tongue – god, he is an old, dirty bastard because even his baggy pants aren’t enough to hide his boner. You have no right to look this pretty for a man who hasn’t seen a woman in three months and hasn’t had sex in the past few years. 

You lick the crumbs from your fingers – it’s such a deliberate action that he can’t believe he actually sees it, and it’s not even something from porn he used to like. 

— Ja. You can have it. 

He would give you the code to his bank account if you asked for it. 

— Thank you, sir. I’m…well, I assume if Paul didn’t introduce me to you…I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you. 

You lick your lips and take a step back, pressed against the counter. He looks at the sway of your hips, a bit of crumbs on your shirt, and almost brushes it away with his hands. It would be a good excuse to touch your chest – but he can’t be like this, he has to keep his urges under control, or else his son will never forgive him. 

Yeah, like he needs a better reason to throw his useless son from his home. 

— Girlfriend? He never spoke about you. 

You look sad, and he immediately curses under his breath. For a moment, you look too fragile – too real. He can’t handle this look on a woman, especially as pretty and young as you are. You bat your eyelashes, even involuntarily, and he already prepares to give you the keys to his home just so you’d stop with such miserable expressions. He has a spare bedroom. 

He has his bedroom with a bed that would be enough for both of you. 

— Ah. Um. We’re…I guess we’re not at this stage yet. 

— Knowing him, you’ll never be, Schatz. 

You look at him immediately – you’re offended, angry, and sad at the same time. There is a certain stubbornness in your eyes that immediately makes him want to simply scoop you in his arms, lift you, and drag you straight to the altar – and here he thought that his impulses over getting married would be over after his first divorce. 

— What do you mean by this, sir? 

You look uncertain now, he can see this in your eyes – and really, knowing his asshole of a child, he is almost sure that Paul never once got you off, either physically or emotionally. 

Now, König never once considered himself to be a good man. He has killed countless people, overthrown many governments, and made shitty jobs for shitty people way more than saving hostages to help the good guys – and in the romantic field, it’s even worse. Wife, unsatisfied with his controlling tendencies and inability to feel normal love for a human being – and a son who hates him because, in fact, he never once wanted to have a kid. 

He looks at you and sees a pretty young thing, still in college or freshly out of, probably without a stable job and normal social standing – a good girl won’t be with his son if she isn’t stupid or extremely desperate for a relationship. 

The thing is, König is also extremely desperate for another warm body next to his, to feel a woman beside him, to love and obsess over someone – he looks at your pouty lips and shaky hands, at the way you bite the corner of your glossy mouth, and he almost wants to drop you on this very table and fuck you until you’re crying under him. He can’t do just that, of course. It would probably make you extremely uncomfortable and scared, but…well, quite frankly, his son doesn’t deserve you. 

König is. 

— I won’t sugarcoat it, Schatz. My son is a Scheiß Arschloch…fucking asshole, that is. I’m surprised he brought home someone as cute as you. 

You feel embarrassment collecting in your body. Paul’s dad is a…interesting man. 

Tall, broad, very muscular – even his baggy house clothes aren’t really concealing his extremely interesting physique from your eyes. He looks yummy and tasty, and you fight the urge to eye the bulge in his pants because you’re a good girl, you don’t look at your boyfriend’s dad like this. 

König has greying ginger hair, locks already curling slightly at the lack of cutting, and you fight the urge to sit on the counter and get your palm in his scalp, massage his head gently, and pull him closer for a kiss. You feel like a dirty, horrible woman – your boyfriend is in his room, probably enjoying his time on your “date” while you’re lusting over his father. 

Then again, this date already felt like a disaster. This relationship, too. 

— Paul isn’t all that bad, sir. 

“He at least has a nice dick,” you wanted to add but stopped yourself. Paul is tall and somewhat strong – if he weren’t sitting at his computer all day, you would call him even muscular. And he has a nice dick, yes, even though he had no idea how to use it. You liked the idea of laying with him, of spraying your jaw trying to fit all of this in your mouth, but his kinks and his sex skills being directly taken from porn…not really your thing. 

You look at König and wonder if they are similar in all of the places. He is his father, after all. 

König catches your gaze locked on his bulge and smirks. 

God, if he knew his son had such a cute girl, he would ask her to come earlier. He is two weeks off deployment and probably won’t take another long contract for a few months because they just upped his retirement payings, and he can afford to slack off a little bit, only visiting the home base for some training and instructions for rookies. 

He can afford to retire and never worry about money again – but he needs someone to make his days less boring, right? 

You look like a good candidate. 

— I’m sure my son was convincing, but I know him better than anyone. He doesn’t deserve you, Schatz. 

He is shitty at flirting, it’s not his forte – he can flaunt his money, maybe, show you in his wallet and bank account face first. He can just straight up ask you to be his sugar baby and suck his cock instead of doing your studies, but he can’t flirt and manipulate to save his life. Lying isn’t something he is good for, this is why his wife has left. 

— I…not sure we should be having this conversation here. 

You’re a good girl, and it’s infuriating. He knows that having someone in his bed shouldn’t be the end goal for his leave, but he wants you, and by the look on your face, you aren’t opposed to the idea. König doesn’t understand if he likes that you’re so reserved about it or if he wants you to be a bit more slutty – but he captures you in the space between the kitchen counter and presses you with his body. 

— You want to see the bedroom then?

Pushes you so close his knee gets between your legs – it might look involuntary like he didn’t exactly want for it to be placed here, but you aren’t dumb, you know what he wants from you. Like a good fucking girl, you’re too shy to give it to him right about now. God, sometimes he hates being so nice to people around him. 

— Sir, this is very…

He got you caged in his hands, body trapped in his embrace – you jerk your head upwards a little bit, staring at him like a small bird in the hands of a predator. He isn’t a strong man in regard of morals, he doesn’t see anything wrong with fucking his son’s girlfriend – if the girl is up to it. And if she isn’t…well, he better make sure she is. 

— What is it, Schatz? Paul won’t hear us in his headphones.

You know just how wrong it is, and you almost want to escape – his dick grinds on your pelvis through his pants, and you’re horrified to see how big it is. Excited too, of course, he is bigger than your boyfriend ever could be, and you don’t want to be a slut, but, oh well, not like you were in a committed and serious relationship anyway. 

Paul was seeing your friends more than you ever saw them – it’s probably a sign that you should settle for someone older. You did enjoy Lana Del Rey's songs, after all. 

— I don’t want to break his heart. 

— He doesn’t have one. 

You’re lost when he pushes his lips to kiss you over and over again – a surprisingly good kisser, and you give in because it was the first time in forever a kiss made you feel this good. His lips are sending electricity down your spine, you want to moan just from his knee, pushing on the softness of your cunt through that adorable skirt you liked so much – you feel so small like this, so tiny in his hands, you…

God, you feel like a slut, and you like it. 

Soon enough, you answered the kiss, your lips meeting his in a dance that made you feel hot, that made you feel like your boyfriend never could. Never thinking of yourself as someone who can fall so easily into the hands of an older man, now you know that he got you right where he wanted. 

You push your hand on his pants, trying to get the control back – but he stops you, a giant hand enveloping your wrist and pushing you back. With a surprise on your face, König just wants to kiss you all over. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that you deserve way more than being fucked on the rough kitchen counter while your so-called boyfriend is too busy dickriding his friends in some useless online game. 

— Not now, princess. You deserve better than being fucked on the kitchen counter, ja? It can come later. 

“Later” sounds like a promise, and you bite back your moan when he keeps pushing his knee against your cunt, making you throb and clench on nothing. He is such a gentleman, you can’t help but compare him to his son – and his fabulous ability to make you feel dirty after fucking you in the backseat of his car and tossing you to your dorm with your pussy still wet and messy after you didn’t cum. 

You sob, not from sadness, but from pleasure mixed with some weird, unnatural for you emotions – you feel weird, strained here like this, but you hug his neck and whisper something in his ear. Something, dangerously sounding just like “daddy, please” 

König is blushing, and he looks fucking adorable. 

— Daddy, ja? God, you’re dangerous, liebling. Going to get me in trouble with my son later. 

He laughs when he kisses you again, his hand slipping in your panties only to find them completely soaked – he knows you deserve a nice pillow and soft sheets under your body, and he pushes you up so you can hug his waist with your legs. You rely on him like a cute pet, and you’re so perfect in his hands he curses himself for not seeing you before. 

He is going to ruin you for anyone but him. Put so much cum in you, it will make your tummy bulge – make you his precious sugar baby, pay for your dumb college and make you move to his bedroom instead of some shitty dorm you probably share with four other people. 

He can be good for you – but he will ruin you for anyone else, anyone appropriate, every guy your age who clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady right. 

— So wet for me…such a filthy thing, I didn’t know my son dated a whore. 

— N…not a whore, please…

He kisses you on your forehead, silently apologizing. You feel his crooked, scarred smile, and you push your face up to kiss him – you want to touch him so badly it makes you feel stupid. 

— Sorry, Schatzen. Not a whore, a good girl for her daddy, ja? So nice for me, too fucking young…

— W…we really shouldn’t… — Tshhh, don’t think about it. Thinking will only hurt your pretty dumb head. — I’m not…

— Quiet, little one. Let daddy handle everything.

He kisses you over and over, his fingers playing with your pussy – meaty digits digging in your hole, making you whimper from sudden intrusion. He is big, bigger than anyone else, just two of his fingers are enough to spread you as much as normal cock would, and even though you’re used to taking Paul’s size, you just know that his dad would be much, much bigger. He is going to split you open, and you will love every fucking second. 

It feels so wrong, you still aren’t sure if you want him to touch you like this. 

It feels so right, he is experienced and eager, pushing every button to make you squirm in his grasp. Your orgasm comes embarrassingly quick – maybe because you haven’t gotten off in ages, only miserable masturbation sessions and poor attempts at faking your orgasm made it feel real. Paul never cared enough to actually get you off – but now…

You aren’t ready for him. You squirm in his grasp when the pressure becomes too much, and he soothes you, two fingers still buried in your soaked cunt. You feel so dirty, so wrong right now – you are cumming on the fingers of your boyfriend’s absent father, and you love every second of it. 

Post-orgasm clarity makes you whiny and sobby, and you whimper in his shoulder when he gently lifts you in his hands. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that he just scrambled your brain with that orgasm – it’s good, really, he might just want to keep your pretty head nice and empty for him. Not like you would ever need to think in his presence, the colonel can handle everything in- and out- of bed. 

König holds you close, not allowing you to scramble away no matter how embarrassed you are. You are his precious thing, with a pouty face, and he will do everything in his power to make you squirm on his fingers again and again before he makes you his wife for good. 

So impulsive, maybe this is why his son is such an asshole – taking the worst traits of his father. 

— Don’t cry, Schatzen. You’re okay, it felt good, didn’t it? 

— W…we shouldn’t have. Shit. I’m sorry, it was a m…god, I need to tell Paul. 

— I’ll tell him. 

— No! — I will tell my asshole of a son that you’re my girl now, ja? And then I will take you to the bedroom, so we can fuck. 

— I need to return to my dorm. 

— And then I will dine you properly, okay? Sorry, Liebling, I know I should court you before all of this…but we can afford to go a bit off board, ja? 

He is smiling, so smitten and obsessed over just having you cum on his fingers once – you don’t have the heart to say no. Never did. You’re a good, proper girl, and Paul was never treating you right anyway. You feel dirty, yes, but somehow, it is almost right. 

He peppers your face with kisses, like a dog lapping its tongue all over your skin – you’re so concentrated on the warmth of his strong, seasoned body that you don’t even look in the direction of the doorway to the kitchen. 

Paul, however, looks straight at you, disheartened and shocked. 

— W…what the fuck, dad?! König laughs, kissing you once again – deep, hot, with tongue and loud, sloppy sounds of your mouth pressing into one another. You’re stuck in place, still caged in his arms like a precious little pet you are. 

— She’ll make a good step mom, ja? 

You don’t even register his hands slowly caressing your fingers as if he already tries to check the ring sizes. 

[hamilando]

ੈ✩ drama island (smau) ੈ✩

pairing : lando norris x reader

tw : fluff; suggestive, tiny tiny angst, jealousy love island coupling, mentions of other celebs as cast, infidelity

fc : Jung HoYeon

a/n : I REALLY HOPE Y’ALL LIKE THIS, THIS IS PART TWO OF LOVE ISLAND

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

liked by user1, lando, user2 and 1,452,554 others

sojuyn drama ❌ prada ✅

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user1 THE LOOKS !?

user2 she really said I don't care

user3 LANDO AND YN IN THE SECOND PIC 😭😭

user4 THE FACE CARD IS INSANE

user5 But seriously, I loved how lando popped off at magui, not caring if she was a girl

user6 HE SAID NOT MY WIFE

user7 lando did the correct thing 💪🏻

user8 magui was literally abusing yn and yn was just listening quietly !? attentions seeker !?

user9 yn's always been polite, she has never been the one to speak in case she is rude

user10 lando is her protector 💪🏻

liked by sojuyn, user2, georgerussell and 1,325,647 others

lando never recoupling again

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user1 LANDO'S SMILE WHEN HE WITH YN 😭

user2 the couple pictures

user3 landhoe in his Loverboy era

user4 WE ALL SAW YN WEARING MCLAREN MERCH !?

user5 i can't wait to see her at the paddock

user6 the way they are total opposites-

user7 OPPOSITES ATTRACT

user8 MAMI ET PAPI

user9 ig cuddling is their love language

user10 never felt more single

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 324,845 others

landoislandfan bold of the girls to think our Y/N is the problem when you clearly have Jude Playingham

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user1 ep1-magui, ep2- evelyn, ep3- the new bombshell !?!?

user2 bro got football skills, but not commitment skills

user3 HE MAY LEAVE YOU REAL MADRID!

user4 never expected him to be like that

user5 none of the girls deserve him

user6 i can't watch him the same again

user7 i can't believe I found him hot once

user8 we all cancel him right?

user9 like seriously there is a limit to playing with people

user10 idk what to do with this man

liked by sojuyn, user1, user2 and 1,367,386 others

loveislanduk the sidebar’s open for episode 4!! WE HAVE A RECOUPLING COMING IN EP 5 !

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user1 YN IN LIKES !?

user2 she agrees with drama

user3 YES!! JUDE AND MAGUI ARE INDEED FAKE !!!

user4 the recoupling 😭😭

user5 jude and his "manly charms"

user6 JUDE IS INDEED PLAYING THE BIGGEST GAME IN THE VILLA

user7 ofc evelyn is bored

user8 love how every drama is around jude Bellingham

user9 lando's little smirk watching jude be judged

user10 i am not ready for the recoupling

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 2,876,265 others

loveislanduk IT WAS THE BOY’S CHOICE AND JUDE CHOSE Y/N!!!

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user1 OH HELL NO

user2 UNO REVERSE !?

user3 WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK !?

user4 EVEN WHEN HE KNEW HOW MUCH THEY LOVE EACH OTHER!? ITS LIKE SO OBVIOUS

user5 LANDO'S FACE IN THE SECOND PIC 😭

user6 lando is barely controlling his anger

user7 the way yn ran to kiss lando-

user8 jude is getting so many curses

user9 that's like his fourth girl -

user10 my landoyn 😭

part 3..?

let me know if you want to be added or removed to the tg!

permanent tg: @isotopemylove @chair-things @justaf1girl @nichmeddar @bibblemiluvr @blushmimi @nikfigueiredo @amz824 @ivegotparticulartaste @raizelchrysanderoctavius @freyathehuntress @piastri-fvx @sadiemack9 @ilivbullyingjeongin @cherry-piee @sweate-r-weathe-r @jxnellat @loveofmylife12 @budgetcupid @lilaissa @scorpiodiosa @wondergirl101ks @nichmeddar @hoeforlifee @urfavnoirette @lily-ann-b @okcurran @miniboast

[a99jazzybean]

With a Taste of Your Lips... (Part 2)

Part 1

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 3.4K

includes: chancexfem!reader, oral, breeding kink, slight dom/sub, smut

a/n: Here's the second part for my lovely readers. Thank you for all of the love from the first one! This is pure smut! No minors!

“Oh? Did you have something else in mind?” You ask Chance  with a hooded gaze. 

His face turns red as he tries to find the right words. So much for his attempt at taking control. Seems like he’d remain putty in your hands as long as you were sitting on his lap. 

Taking advantage of the pause, you pressed your lips to his die. Leaving a long kiss against the eight side, eliciting an overstimulated whine from the man below you. His cock jumping at the ghost of your lips. 

“Ah! Fuck…” He gazes up at you with pleading eyes. “You’re gonna get me hard again.” 

“Is that a problem?” You gave him a cheeky smirk before bringing the dice back to your lips. Leaving a trail of kisses along his body, ending with his cock. 

He whined again, grabbing your hips tightly with his hands. So that’s how you want to play? 

His pleading syrupy gaze suddenly turned dark and calculated.  Licking his lips, he pressed you closer to his body. Now back to a dominating mindset. At the move, you felt your heart rate pick up. 

Leaning up, he pressed wet kisses up the column of your throat. One kiss hitting your sweet spot, making you keen. Pressing your breasts against his chest. Warm hands trailed up your shirt, cupping and squeezing them. You felt so soft. With nimble fingers, he teased at your nipples. On his lap you squirmed with a whine. Your crotch brushed up against his re-hardened length. Both of you groaned at the feeling. 

“C-Chance…” You breathed out shakily. 

“Hmm?” His eyes remained dark and hooded. The lustful gaze made you shiver. 

“What are you doi- oh!” He pinched your nipples. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asked lowly. 

Oh, this was certainly a change of pace. The man that had been writhing and whining below you just mere moments ago was suddenly very, very confident. Perhaps it was a case of post-nut clarity. Regardless of the reason, you knew you wanted this. Wanted him. Badly. However, it didn’t seem like you could form a coherent sentence when your mind was soaking in his dominant manner. 

“Oh, um, I…” 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He gave you a knowing smirk. 

“N-no? Ah!” He pinched your nipples again. 

“Then why won’t you tell me what you want?” He lifted up your shirt, pressing soft kisses up your belly and sternum. 

Pulling back, he raised a brow. Waiting for you to give him an answer. 

Biting your lip, you tried to come up with something. There was nothing coming to mind though. So many options of what he could do was overwhelming. Flitting your eyes around, you wracked your brain. But no conclusion was to be found.

A warm hand took yours, grounding you. Chance brought it up to his lips placing a tender kiss against your palm. 

“I can choose. I am your Game Master, after all.” He winked at you with a smirk. 

How that phrase managed to be the sexiest thing ever? You have no idea, but it had you soaking your panties nonetheless. 

As if he could read your thoughts, Chance dipped his fingers under your waistband. Tenderly brushing over your panties he groaned. Those dark eyes looking back into yours with a hunger that had you shivering. 

“You’re soaked.” A blunt statement said in a husky voice that had you reeling. “I bet I could easily slip in and fuck you right now.” 

A long moan escaped you as you felt his fingers press harshly on your clit through your panties. His thick fingers continued to tease over your clothed sex. His ministrations making you grind against his hand. Your body desperate for more friction. 

A strong hand forced your hips to stay down, making you take the teasing motions. 

“Look at you now, not so high and mighty anymore, yeah?” He chuckled lowly. “Think you’re the only one that’s capable of teasing?” 

“N-no.” You hiccupped out as he lightly flicked over your sensitive nub. Still over your panties.

Fuck, this was frustrating. You gave him an irritated pout. He used your expression as an opportunity. Kissing you slowly, then nipping at your jutted out bottom lip. Quickly, you caved. Allowing his tongue to take over your mouth. Greedily lapping against yours with a groan. 

When he pulled back, he smirked. Eyes memorizing the dazed look you held. A flush on your cheeks as your mouth hung slightly open, just begging for his tongue to tangle with yours again. 

All in due time… 

First, he wanted to try something. Strong arms looped around your thighs, making you lock your legs around Chance’s torso instinctively. He lifted you off the chair with himself, then lowered you onto your office rug. His body pinning you beneath him. 

Slowly, his warm hands pulled off your shirt. His eyes studied you for any objections. When you nodded in approval, he quickly discarded the garment. As he looked over your exposed torso, he whistled lowly. Letting out a quiet “Holy Crit!” That you just barely made out. 

You weren’t wearing a bra under your shirt. Allowing the man to see your bare glory. Again, you were like a goddess in his eyes. One that he desperately wished to worship. 

He looked at your hand that was holding his die and grabbed it. Pulling it to your lips, he gave you a command. 

“Kiss it.” 

You obeyed kissing the die on the number five, the sweet feeling of your lips on his thigh had him shivering.  

“Again.” 

You nodded, kissing the 10 this time, right on his lower belly. 

“Mmmph.” He held back a moan, bringing his attention to you. “Everywhere you kiss on the die, is where I will kiss you.” He watched your eyes light up at the thought. 

Before you could turn the die to the eight, his hand stopped you. 

“Ah, ah! Not so fast, sweetheart. Any number but the seven and eight. Got it?”

As you nodded, he released your hand. Above you, he motioned for you to continue. Deciding to start safe, you pressed a kiss to the 19. Chance let out a content sigh, then leaned down. Soft lips pressed into the crook of your neck. The kiss landing right on your sweet spot, making you shiver. 

This time, you pressed a kiss to the six. Chance shuddered, cock jumping and the touch on his thigh. Looking down he gave you a smirk and airy chuckle. What a tease.

“May I?” He asked, hands resting at the top of your pants.

“You may.” You nodded a bit too enthusiastically. 

Slowly, Chance peeled down your pants. He chuckled at your panties. A pair that had G&G graphics covering them. 

“Were you expecting something?” He questioned with a smirk. 

“Not necessarily. They’re comfy. But do you like them?” 

“I love them.” He was being honest.

Maybe it was his love of the game, but you in nerdy attire did something to him. Something that had his cock straining even harder than before. As much as he enjoyed your underwear, he decided those had to go too. 

Now you lay before him full bare. A mouthwatering sight to say the least.  Between your legs your pussy glistened with want. Slick dripping onto your thighs. 

Following the little game he had begun, Chance kissed your inner thigh. Earning him a whine.  As he neared your sex, he let out a low groan. You smelled so fucking good. He couldn’t wait to get a taste. 

Putting the dice to your lips you kissed the 14. Chance felt the kiss on his bicep. Tenderly, he lifted your arm, placing a kiss there. 

When he pulled back he was met with your gaze sparkling with adoration. His heart swelled in his chest. Leaning back down, he couldn’t help it. He pressed a deep passionate kiss against your lips. Your hands went to his head, fingers carding in his hair. 

You continued to kiss the die, and Chance’s lips would follow. Trailing down your neck to your breasts. Tongue teasing at your nipples before continuing further. Featherlight kisses down your belly, on your thighs and arms. His mouth on you felt like bliss with only kisses. You wondered how he would feel elsewhere…

His hand slid down between your thighs. Thick fingers teased at your slick lips and he groaned. You were absolutely drenched right now. All because he was kissing you. 

He brought his fingers to his mouth, letting out the most lewd moan you had ever heard. It had you practically gushing. 

“Fuck, you taste good.” He moved to kiss you again, tongues tangling with the aftertaste of you. 

“I want more.” He growled lowly. “Kiss the eight and seven.”

You followed his command. Kissing the spots on the dice with a long press. He clenched his eyes shut and moaned as he felt your lips press against his length. He kissed back down your belly, then stopped between your thighs. 

Spreading them, he groaned. The sight of your slick, needy pussy was too much. He desperately needed a taste. So he dove in. Kissing and sucking at your lips and whining at your taste. Unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He would gladly get drunk on your weeping cunt if you would let him. As of now, it seemed you would. 

Your body jolted as he began to eat you out with fervor. Whines and moans escaping your lips as he lapped away at your folds. The feeling of him moaning against you had sparks of pleasure travel through your body. It was pure ecstasy. 

With what little thought you had left in you, you managed to bring the die back to your lips. This time trying something new. Sticking out your tongue, you gave it a light lick. Between your thighs Chance let out a low groan. You licked the dice again, earning you a moan. 

“Oh, oh. That…” Chance lifted himself up from between your legs. Lips glistening with your slick. 

He leaned himself over you, then pinned the hand holding the dice down. His gaze was dark and hungry. 

“If you keep that up, I’ll cum again.” You spotted a twinge of worry in his eyes as he said that. 

“Is that a problem?” You cocked your head to the side.

“Yes.” He said lowly, like he was holding himself back.

“Why’s that?” You bit your lip with a smile.

Leaning next to your ear, his hot labored breaths had you shivering. 

“Because I won’t get to cum IN you otherwise.” He trailed kisses down your jaw as you whined at his words. Feeling a smirk on his lips against your skin.

Lifting up, he took a long look over your naked form. He hummed in approval. 

“Now, may I get back to my meal? You’re quite delicious.” He winked at you, a flush on his cheeks. 

You nodded, and he slid back down between your legs. Immediately, his lips returned to your pussy. Licking stripes up and down your cunt had you writhing and moaning. Occasionally he would flick his tongue over your clit, making you cry out in pleasure. His actions were making a heat grow within your belly. The licking flames of pleasure would soon turn into your climax. 

The man wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, pulling you as close to him as possible. Burying his face in your pussy, licking through your folds quickly. He nosed at your clit as he continued to eat you out like a starved man. It felt like he was one. There was no way he wouldn’t be addicted to your taste. Especially when him tasting you had you making those lovely noises that were shooting straight to his cock. 

With each pass of his tongue over you, you felt the heat grow more and more. Till it was becoming too much. You knew it was going to snap soon. 

“C-Chance, ah! I’m ah!” You couldn’t make a coherent sentence, instead focusing on the pure pleasure coursing through your body.

Chance groaned against your heat, pushing you over the edge. 

Thighs locking around his head, your climax had you gushing over his face. Which Chance lapped up gratefully. Accepting every and all of the offerings your body had to give. 

With slow licks, he helped you down from the high. Your body buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure. Legs shaking and breaths labored. 

Before Chance pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your clit that had you yelping at the overstimulation. He smirked, crawling back over you. Leaning down, he pressed a wet kiss against your lips. Making you taste yourself on his tongue. It had you shivering with anticipation. 

For a moment, Chance paused. Taking in everything that had occurred so far. You beneath him, shivering from your earth shattering orgasm. His cock, straining against his pants after all of your teasing. Fantasy was one thing, but this reality was something he never could have thought up. 

Bringing him back to you, you gave a kiss to the 20. Chance feeling your lips on his cheek, gave you a bright smile. It was interesting, the shift between the man’s playful and dominant side. Not that you minded, all of it just made you want him more. It seemed like he wanted you too. 

Looking down, you could see the outline of his hard length pressing through his pants. With a cheeky grin, you trailed you hand down his chest to his crotch. Giving his cock a soft squeeze through his clothes. He whimpered as your hand worked him through his pants. As soon as you started, he made you stop. Pinning your arm back. A wild desperate look in his eyes. 

As quickly as he could, the man stripped himself of all of his clothes. Leaving you staring at him open mouthed. You trailed your eyes over his body. He was fairly fit with a tight and broad chest, but had a bit of a soft tummy that had you drooling. Trailing further down, your eyes widened. Oh, he was large. Extremely thick. Almost concerningly so. However, you looked down between your own thighs. Yeah, you could probably handle it at this point. Probably. 

Chance crawled back over you. Warm hands slid up your thighs as he closed the open space between your bodies. The head of his cock was hot against your pussy lips. He teased you, brushing up against your clit. His movements make you keen, raising your hips to grind against him. With a strong hand, he pressed down on your stomach. Forcing you to take his teasing, a satisfied smirk on his lips. 

He leaned down, giving you a quick peck. Then he lined his cock up with your weeping entrance, just barely pressed in. 

“Ready?” 

There was a brief hesitation on your face as you realized you weren’t using any protection. You were on birth control, but there was still a chance…

As if he could read your mind once more, he let out an airy chuckle. Hand cupping your face tenderly, he reassured you.

“I’m a personified object. I can’t get you pregnant.” He gave you a soft smile. 

“What if you could?” You genuinely wanted to know.

The question had his face blooming red. Getting you pregnant… it wasn’t like he never thought about it. What object wouldn’t dream of a reality like that? 

“Uh, well. Um, I can’t, but I have thought about it once or twice.” He bit his lip, nervously. 

“You’re not the only one.” You shuffled beneath him, feeling the head of his cock press into you more. 

Pulling him down to your face, you gave him a deep kiss. He groaned as your tongues tangled.

“Now,” you breathed against his lips, “please fuck me.”

“Mmm, since you asked so nicely.” Slowly, he pressed into you.

Wet warmth greeted his cock, as he moaned. You felt fucking amazing. Soft, warm, wet, perfect. 

You felt similarly as he filled you up perfectly. His length hitting every part of you perfectly. The head of his cock just pressed against your gummy sweet spot.

After you both adjusted to the feeling, Chance began to move. Slowly pumping in and out of you. Both to not hurt you at first, and to make sure he didn’t bust right away. You felt fucking amazing, and he felt like he could cum at any second. While he was very excited to cum in you, he desperately wanted to feel you cum around him. Your pleasure was his top priority. 

Beneath him, you were a moaning, writhing mess. Hips jolting up to meet his thrusts as his cock continually pressed against your gummy spot. His pelvis brushed against your clit in the most delicious way. Every movement he made had pleasure coursing through you. If he kept this up he would get his wish soon enough. Your pussy spasmed around him with each thrust, making him groan. 

Each pulse of your pussy made his cock twitch inside you. Above you, Chance was a moaning mess. Letting out sounds of pleasure that shot straight to your core. Knowing you were making him feel as good as he was making you feel made you feel, well, amazing. 

“You are perfect… oh!” He moaned out.

In your hand, you realized you still held his die. Deciding to have some fun, you brought it back to your lips. Placing a kiss to the eight side had him shuddering against you. His eyes were wide as he realized you had brought the die back into the fold. The mixture of feeling your pussy and lips on him was very unique, and felt amazing. Then you made it better, tongue flicking out against the eight side. 

The action had him shuddering against you. If you kept this up he was certainly going to cum before you. So, he had to make sure that didn’t happen. 

Lifting your legs, he shifted them onto his shoulders and folded you over. Putting you in a deep mating press. The head of his cock now brutalizing your sweet spot with perfect precision. Each push against you had you crying out. The pleasure growing that heat in your belly once more. He continued to pound into you, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. 

“S-so deep…” You mumbled, cock drunk. 

“Yeah? You like that?” He groaned at the feeling of your pussy tightening around that. “Bet you’re gonna cum soon, huh?” He was babbling at this point now. The only thing on his mind was making you reach your peak. To have you screaming and clenching around him. Just so he could fill you full. 

“I l-love it, mmmph…” Your eyes rolled back as pleasure overtook your body.

Any moment now you would cum. He could tell. The way you were pulsing around his throbbing cock, oh you wouldn’t last long. Just what he wanted. Then he could follow, spilling into you. 

God, he wanted it so badly. He hadn’t realized how badly till he had you folded over beneath him. Cock abusing your overstimulated pussy with thrust after thrust. 

“C’mon, please.” He moaned, leaning down to press his lips to yours. “Cum for me, cum for me and I’ll fill you up. Just like you want.” He panted, trying desperately to hold back his impending orgasm. 

His words had the heat in your belly hit its peak. Body shaking with ecstasy as your climax flowed through you. Sparks of pleasure shooting from your clit through every nerve of your being. It had you screaming out and clenching around Chance. 

With the feeling of you clamping around him, Chance came. Hot ropes flooding into you as he continued to ride out both of your orgasms. Each pump of his cock making you whimper with overstimulation. 

With a groan, his body relaxed. Gently, he unfolded himself from you and placed your shaking legs back down onto the floor. He lightly laid his body over yours, cock still stuffing you full. Both of you twitching with aftershocks. Letting out soft moans and whines as you came down from your highs. 

When you returned to earth, you brought the die in your hand to your lips once more. Placing a soft kiss to the 20. Chance nuzzled your nose, then placed a soft kiss against your lips. 

“You know… as much as I enjoy you mouthing my die. I think I prefer the real thing.” He gave you a sweet smile. 

Both of you joined lips, humming with content. 

[hypertechnica]

exploring unexplained darkner lore: WHEN does a darkner gain consciousness, exactly?

alternate title: WOODY THEORY IS ACTUALLY RELEVANT BUT NOT IN THE WAY WE THOUGHT??? MAYBE???

there are so many unanswered questions regarding how darkners and dark worlds “work” and i’m really fascinated by the worldbuilding put out so far - but we still don’t really know what the deal is, not really.

the way ralsei explains dark worlds in chapter 3 basically tells us what we already know, but explicitly - darkners are objects in the light world. they’re not “real” and derive “purpose” from being needed by lightners (which is a whole can of worms.)

as evidenced by lancer’s “all gone!” reaction to susie asking where his dark world went in chapter 2, sealing dark fountains DOES effectively destroy the world, but not necessarily the people inside it (if you decide to recruit them.) there’s an obvious ethical dilemma here that’s been on people’s minds since chapter 1 came out. to me, the biggest question is:

does the dark world always exist, inaccessible to lightners, or is it physically created and destroyed on the same day? are the fountains portals or creators?

the repeated phrase “the unending pillar of darkness that gives my body form” (ralsei’s unused manual)/“the dark fountain that gives the world form” (tv time credits) (there might be more instances im forgetting idk) does imply the latter, as well as the descriptions of “creating fountains” “making dark worlds” as opposed to, say, “opening doors” to them.

but the concept of time here is… weird. darkners consistently refer to the past, every dark world we enter has history, darkners even speak of people from other dark worlds! and the histories always parallel what happened to their corresponding object and space in the light world. chaos king is bitter and hates lightners because they abandoned him and everyone else - because they’re toys left in an abandoned classroom. cyber city doesn’t have this problem because they’re situated in a computer library regularly used by lightners, but queen is struggling with the internet outage. kris’ living room is… a child of divorce. and chapter 4? man i don’t even know. the darkners in the church are so cryptic i haven’t been able to analyse it properly.

so if darkners remember their lives as objects, were they always alive, or were they created by the fountains and “implanted” with those memories? are they even “real” memories?

chapter 3 raises the most questions regarding this. tenna KNOWS kris, watched them grow up. ramb comments on how kris and their friends used to play make believe WITH THE SAME OBJECTS we know now - im failing to remember the line but i know it mentioned how queen and king were at war! and in chapter 4 it’s revealed that dark worlds are warped by the mind that creates them. this raises so many questions - are all objects in the light world sentient and able to communicate with each other, just invisible to lightners? or are objects “summoned” into consciousness with memories of their lives automatically created for them?

and that made me fucking realize. ARE DARKNERS LIKE THE TOYS IN FUCKING TOY STORY???? THINK ABOUT IT. TGINK ANBOUT IT

tenna’s past with spamton is a huge indicator of this - they were business partners, right? and they had a falling out because of a mutual misunderstanding involving the mysterious person calling spamton and making him a Big Shot. well, how the hell did spamton know tenna, if they’re from different dark worlds?

in what i’m fairly certain is game tenna’s last piece of dialogue in the sword route, he says “they never should have brought that computer home…”

spamton knows tenna and mike before tenna’s dark world is created. they communicated and had a relationship before ANY of the dark worlds were created if we take “1997” as the literal year of spamton being a big shot. all because the dreemurs brought a computer home, allowing tenna to meet spamton… now, you could argue that this is because the prophecy is controlling everything, but we already see ways in which the prophecy has been contradicted, so i’m uncertain if the prophecy has THAT strong of a hold on the world. (if that ages bad in the next ten years womp womp)

AND. although we don’t know if this is every object or just objects that have previously been animated via fountains, but tenna shows signs of sentience even in the light world!!! y’all know the line of dialogue with mettaton where he plays a “salacious music video”!!!! look!!!!! THE OBJECTS ARE SENTIENT ITS FUCKING TOY STORY

DARKNERS EITHER LITERALLY LIVE AS SENTIENT OBJECTS (LIKE TOY STORY, THE BRAVE LITTLE TOASTER, ETC) OR IN A MORE ETHEREAL SENSE LIVE ON A SEPARATE PLANE OF EXISTENCE AS DARKNERS BUT CAN ONLY DIRECTLY INTERACT W LIGHTNERS WHEN A FOUNTAIN GIVES THEM ANTHROPOMORPHIC FORM

WAITER! MORE WOODY THEORY PLEASE gets shot 57 times

[munsonsmixtapes]

I'm Still Your Boy

Ex=boyfriend!Eddie x fem!reader

After your boyfriend cheats on you at your birthday party, your ex Eddie reminds you that he'll always be your shoulder to cry on.

cw: hurt/comfort, mention of cheating

You don’t know what you did to deserve this. Maybe it’s because of something you did in a past life. Some sort of karma, perhaps? Whatever the reason, you don’t think you actually deserve to be cheated on by your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who told you that he wanted to save himself for you and you alone, which seemed to be a fucking lie just to get in your pants considering you caught him with the very girl he told you not to worry about. 

They were fucking and to make it even more sad, they were fucking in your bed at your birthday party. Well, wasn’t that just the cherry on top of the shit sundae? And they were so caught up in each other that they didn’t even hear you slam the door. 

Before anyone could see you cry, you hurry to the bathroom, thankful that you’re upstairs and that no one else was around. What’s supposed to be a fun celebration has turned into something you’ll remember forever for all the wrong reasons. 

As soon as you’re alone, you sit on the toilet and begin to cry. Maybe you feel a bit pathetic but you can’t help it. Sure, it’s not like you actually loved the man, but it still hurts like hell. Especially when Josh told you time and time again that Chelsea would never be a problem. 

And now you find yourself wondering how long they’ve been doing it behind your back. And why you feel so hurt. It’s not like you even liked him that much. And now this is the excuse to break up with him that you’ve been looking for. 

You’re full on sobbing now and it’s not like you’re surprised, you were expecting it to happen with the way they’re always looking at each other, but you’d think your boyfriend would at least have some decency to not cheat on you at your birthday party. But apparently that was too much to ask. 

You grab some toilet paper from the roll next to you and blow your nose, absolutely positive that you look terrible with mascara tears streaming down your cheeks, but you can’t get yourself to look. That would just make you feel even worse. You spent hours on your makeup and now you let some stupid boy ruin it in a matter of minutes. 

Eddie doesn’t even know what he’s doing at this party. He wants to be here, but he’s not even sure why he was invited. The two of you broke up years ago and even though it was mutual and there was no bad blood, you just drifted apart. 

He feels so weird being here in this house. There are so many memories that the two of you have created here, a time capsule of your relationship. He wants to be there to celebrate you, but being there with all of the little moments the two of you shared throughout your relationship is far too painful to relive. He misses you so much more than he’d ever care to admit. 

He wants to be your friend again, but seeing the way your new boyfriend was glaring daggers at him when everyone was singing “Happy Birthday”, he’s not so sure that’s a good idea. He’s only known he guy a couple of hours and he’s already convinced with a few drinks in his system, he’d knock him the fuck out. 

His name is Josh for starters. Fucking Josh. That should be a red flag on its own. He also somehow got you the wrong cake which was clearly mostly for him since he seemed so excited about it. That seemed to be a common theme considering the same went for your gift. He got you a video game for a system that you don’t even have and it was the second one in a series. 

And Eddie swore he wasn’t going to leave the party alive when you opened your gift from him. It was a special edition of your favorite book as a child and if looks could have killed, he would have been dead. You seemed so grateful for the gift, even going as far as hugging Eddie, nothing but happy tears pricking your eyes. 

He didn’t realize just how much he missed holding you until you were in his arms again. You just fit so perfectly. Before he could reminisce too much, you pulled away, moving back to sit in Josh’s lap, but he was nowhere to be found. 

Out of all of your friends who were there, Eddie seemed to be the only one who could tell just how little fun you were having. How was it that you seemed to be invisible at your own birthday party? Why was he the only one who seemed to care? The two of you weren’t even friends anymore. Maybe after tonight, that’ll change.He really wants to reconnect. Maybe he can invite you out for coffee and the two of you can catch up. 

It’s almost midnight. Most of the guests have already left or they’re so drunk that they’ve passed out on the various pieces of furniture around the first level of the house. You’ve disappeared and that’s all Eddie cares about. He wants to find you so he can say goodnight and get the fuck out of there before he does something he’ll regret. 

He heads up the stairs on the hunt for you, but he realizes that he needs to go to the bathroom first. He knows he should anyway before he hits the road. He sees the bathroom door is cracked and heads for it, opening it expecting to see it empty, but he finds you sitting on the toilet sobbing your eyes out. 

“Eddie, hey,” you grin at him, trying your best to look normal even though your eyes are red and your cheeks are tear stained. 

“Hey.” He waves awkwardly in a way that you’ve always found so adorable. “Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here. I’ll give you some privacy. He turns to leave, but you grab hold of his wrist before he can get too far. 

“Will you stay with me?” You ask with a sniff. He would stay with you even if you weren’t crying, but he especially will because you are. 

He shuts the door all the way then sits on his knees in front of you, forcing himself to look at you even though seeing you cry always broke his heart. He doesn’t know why you’re crying but he has a guess. He doesn’t ask even though he really wants to. He wants to wait for you to speak, not wanting to pry, but just keep you company as you go through a hard time. 

He takes the toilet paper from you and wipes away your tears, gently dabbing to preserve what little makeup is left. He knows how important that kind of thing is to you. Well, he’s actually not so sure you feel that way still. He forgets that he doesn’t actually know you anymore. 

“I look terrible, don’t I?” You look up at him, lips trembling and he really doesn't think he can take seeing you cry anymore. It’ll just make his heart break even more than it already has.

“You look beautiful as always.” It’s his go-to response but it always worked like a charm. He wonders if his flirting still has the same effect on you. He used to love seeing the way you’d get all giggly when he would compliment you. 

“But you have to say that, you’re my-” you cut yourself off, remember that Eddie isn’t your boyfriend anymore. Your boyfriend is the reason why you’re crying. “Sorry, habit.” 

“Don’t apologize,” he shakes his head. “You do look beautiful, though. That dress is great, but I wouldn’t expect anything less. You always did have good style, y/n.” 

“Is this all just your clever way of getting into my pants?” The words are dripping with venom and Eddie wonders what he said that made everything shift. He was just paying a compliment, nothing more, nothing less. 

His eyes widen and he stammers, trying his best to save himself quickly as he’s drowning fast. Your eyes widen as well so clearly you’re just as surprised by your sudden outburst. You have no idea where it came from especially since Eddie has never been that kind of guy and he especially wouldn’t be now knowing that you have a boyfriend.

“No,” he finally says as he’s able to find the words. “I was just paying you a compliment and you know that.” 

“I-I’m sorry.” You’re shaking your head, hating how you’ve spoken to him, accusing him  of something that he clearly wasn’t even doing. “I just caught Josh cheating on me and I guess I’m taking it out on you.” 

“He what?” Oh now he’s livid. He’s got to kick this guy’s ass now that he finally has an excuse. 

“It’s my fault,” you shake your head again. “I wasn’t giving him enough attention-” your words are cut off by Eddie taking your face in his hands, staring you down. 

“It’s not your fault. Stop making excuses for him y/n. That guy is a fucking loser and he doesn’t deserve you. He deserves to end up broke and alone.” You know he’s right but just want to pass the blame onto yourself because then there would actually be a reason for Josh’s cheating other than the fact that he just doesn’t seem to care about you. 

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” He does in your eyes. ever since the two of you started hanging out, he had a knack for telling you exactly what you needed to hear even if it was a little too blunt for your liking. You appreciated that he never failed to tell you the truth no matter how much it may have hurt.

“I try.” It seems like all of your feelings for each other that have been bottled up are pouring out, now almost palpable because of how strong they are.

“I miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” Eddie replies, moving his thumbs back and forth across your cheeks just like he used to do. “I’ll be kicking myself for letting you slip through my fingers for the rest of my life.”

“What if we gave it another try? The friendship part?” Your face lights up at his suggestion and you decide that this is the best birthday present you’ve ever received. 

“I’d really like that. Hey, I think Benny’s is still open. Do you want to get something to eat?” 

“I’d love nothing more.” Eddie helps you up from the toilet and leads you out the front door where you head to his van to head to the diner. 

The two of you find yourselves in your favorite booth, eating and laughing like no time has passed. You stay there into the early morning as the sun comes up, finishing off your meal with a milkshake that the two of you share for old time’s sake and right then and there, Eddie realizes that he’s still is very much your boy, still wrapped around your goddamn finger just the way he likes and there’s no other place he’d rather be.

[ferrarifinnick]

FOCUS | KANG DAE-HO (PLAYER 388) AU

pairing: dae-ho (player 388) x gymgirl!reader AU genre: fluff; in an alternate universe where dae-ho doesn't enter the games. summary: dae-ho can't keep his eyes off his gym crush, but she has some things to say about his manners. warnings: rewritten! suggestive content, shy!dae-ho, dae-ho checking reader out, lust, confrontation, sweat, partial nudity ? (sports bra), flirting, teasing, intimidation, a man who YEARNS. 1.2k

dae-ho tried to focus on lifting the dumbbells. the stretch of his muscles, the music playing softly in the background of the gym, he tried to focus on it. but his gaze kept drifting to you. clad in only sweatpants and a sport bra, you lifted nearly as much weight as him, but unlike dae-ho, you made it look easy. the only giveaway was the shiny gleam of sweat on your body.

it was just sweat. it wasn’t unlike anyone else hard at work in the gym, and it certainly wasn’t anything to be enamoured by. but if that were true, why couldn’t he tear his eyes away from it? away from you.

every time you dropped the bar and took a quick rest, he snapped his head back down to his shoes and tried to look busy. he fiddled with his shoe laces, pulled up his socks, even redid the topknot holding up half his hair. all to hide from your suspicion.

he gave it another moment before he took one last glance, only this time, you were staring right back at him.

he dropped his head before you could see the heat rushing into his red cheeks. his water bottle suddenly a point of fascination as he examined and drank from it, hoping to blend in. to seem normal. like your hands on your hips and the scowl you shot him wasn’t frightening.

dae-ho decided to call it a day. he pulled the hoodie over his head, snatched up his belongings, even readied his car keys to make a quick escape as he fled to the exit. he rushed past a little old lady power-walking on a nearby treadmill, but her pace was no match for dae-ho’s. he reached the door, could see the light of day pouring in from the street outside, he could see freedom.

so why did he turn around to look at you one last time?

more importantly, why weren’t you still at your machine? he glanced around, catching sight of so many girls but not one of them was you.

"looking for me?"

his head whipped around so fast it nearly unscrewed and fell to the floor. you stared up at him, hands on your hips, waiting for an explanation.

dae-ho's lips opened and closed, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force any words out of them. the narrowing of your eyes didn't help him find his voice, and the impatient sigh only made him shudder.

"well?" you urged. “why have you been staring at me for half an hour? what’s your problem?”

dae-ho swallowed. "i'm sorry, you're just–" really fucking hot, he wanted to say, but his mother would ring him by his neck if she ever heard him speak to a girl like that. those were thoughts to remain in his head, where they belonged.

"i'm just what?" you asked, and the frustration seemed to only be simmering with his silence.

"pretty," he blurted before he could help it, and the heat burned his cheeks the moment it dawned on him that he'd said it not only out loud but straight to your face. "i mean, that's not what i meant–i mean you are pretty, beautiful actually, but–no, that's not–" he let out an overwhelmed whine, squeezing his eyes shut as a last resort to escape you.

you reached out, the palm of your hand resting gently on his forearm. he nearly flinched at your touch, but when he caught the glint of amusement in your eyes, he relaxed.

"hey," you cooed. "i'm only messing with you."

the relief washed over his face and every tightened muscle suddenly released. “oh,” he said, unsure if he should laugh or run out the door. but when you giggled, he changed his mind and wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he didn’t know much about impressing girls, but he knew it was never a good sign for one to laugh in his face.

“where were you running off to?” you asked, gesturing to the car keys hanging from his index finger.

“oh, just… home,” he said, and immediately cursed internally for not convincing you he lived a more exciting life.

you hummed, unconvinced. “seemed like you were in quite a big rush just to go back home,” you said, nodding down at his full bottle of water and weightlifting belt he hadn’t used during today’s gym session.

he slowly looked back up to you. ��i was… tired,” he lied.

“bullshit,” you suddenly said, and his eyes flew open at your accusation. the crossing of your arms only pushed your breasts together, and he tried desperately to ignore the curve of them heaving up and out from under your sports bra. but the light was catching the sweat on your skin, and even though he had been raised better, he couldn’t help himself from glancing down for the fraction of a second.

he snapped his eyes back up to yours, but it was too late. you caught him. he knew for certain as your lips pulled into a smirk.

he gulped, desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat in case you asked another question. but you didn’t, you just stepped closer, and dae-ho realised this was worse than anything you could ever say.

you didn’t touch him, but as he glanced down at the closing proximity of your bodies, he was afraid one deep breath would push his chest against yours. you glanced up at him, the light catching your mischievous eyes.

“you were running away from me, weren’t you?”

he was wrong. maybe your words were just as daunting as your proximity.

he didn’t have to worry about responding, because the sheepishness in his face said everything he couldn’t.

you smirked as you caught him glance down at your lips, and you swore you heard his breath catch in his throat. “aw,” you cooed again, and the way your eyes softened almost had his knees giving out. “do i make you nervous?”

your relentless gaze made him feel like his back was against the wall, caged by your presence, but really he had the whole gym behind him. he could run away, he could free himself, but some part of him, the one that enjoyed the thrill of your attention, forced him to stay put.

besides, what was the point? you were onto him, and saving face wasn’t something he could achieve anymore. so he finally swallowed that lump and nodded. “yes,” he said, because the sweat dripping down his temple wasn’t from weights but the weight of your gaze.

you suddenly grinned. “honest, i like that.” suddenly you reached into your pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “i’m going to the cafe across the street,” you said, lifting up the paper for him to see five out of six stamps printed in it. “they do a great hot chocolate, and i’ve only got one more to buy until i get a free one.”

he nodded along. “that’s a good deal.”

you repressed the laughter bubbling in your throat and instead asked, “what’s your name?”

“dae-ho,” he said, and for the first time he sounded sure of himself.

you told him your name, and said, “dae-ho, would you like to come with me to the cafe?” you tapped the paper against his chest lightly, cheeks stretching as you grinned. “i’ll get you a hot chocolate?”

he processed your offer slowly, and although he had to study your face for any signs of mean spirited teasing, he eventually realised you were serious.

“yes!” he said, and quickly cleared his throat to try again, this time without being so eager. “yes!” he said again, but it came out just the same.

you grinned. “great answer, dae-ho.”

you lead him out onto the busy street of your gym, pointing out the cafe just a few doors down. it stood on the other side of the busy street, a stream of commuters and tourists blocking the path. you turned to dae-ho and offered him your hand.

“don’t want you running away again,” you teased, and he finally lost the sheepishness in his eyes.

he took your hand, and while it was much smaller than his, he felt comforted by your confidence as you pulled him across the street. but even in a sea of people, you were still the only one he could seem to focus on.

hehe i love subby dae-ho. please like, comment, reblog. love <3

[acquired-elfroot]

The annoying thing is that reducing Solas to a dislikable two dimensional caricature in Veilguard didn't even come close to fixing the problem they set out to fix in doing so, and it was never going to.

I can’t pull up the exact quote, but I believe one of the writing team said something along the lines that they needed to make Solas less sympathetic because at the end of Trespasser too many people agreed with him and wanted to end the world. Which is why they chose to have him kill Varric, among other things. 

While I will say that I agree with the choice to have him kill Varric(I like the idea of him making Rook hallucinate him too, that could have been sweet if it had been well executed rather than a bland set up for a M. Night Shyamalan level twist) to raise the stakes and set Solas up as a serious antagonist for a new audience, or an audience that hadn’t been paying particularly close attention to him - but there is no way it could have ever suddenly made his goal to tear down the veil unsympathetic for those who found it to be so.

The writers seem to have been under the impression that members of the audience sympathised with Solas’ plan to tear down the veil not on its own merits, but for the draw of his sparkling personality alone. Not for well established lore related reasons, or for extra-narrative reasons rooted in a desire for emotional catharsis and narrative satisfaction (which a fictional body count has even less bearing on besides) but because he’s a sad pretty elf boi and we want to kiss it all better.

I’m going to be real with you, if they had surgically transplanted Ogrehn’s personality onto Solas and had him stone cold murder every other beloved character in the series, I would still want the  Veil to come down, or at the very least a better solution than leaving it just as it is. How likeable he is or isn’t has fuck all to do with it? 

Making Solas more dislikable does nothing to change the effect the Veil has on spirits and mages, it does nothing to address the question of the value of mortal lives weighted against immortal ones. It does not change the narrative role of a trickster in bringing enlivening chaos and upheaval to a stagnating world, in this case one that’s been forced to stagnate in service of the illusion of player choice; nor does it quiet our desire to see the rotten roots of Thedas’ corrupt institutions torn up and put to the torch ect. ect.

Most annoyingly, attempting to use Varric's death to accomplish this betrays the writer's assumption that players that did sympathise with Solas’ goals did so out of a naive misapprehension that he’s some sweet uwu softboy that could never do anything truly ruthless or cruel in order to accomplish his goals, and that once we had been disabused of that belief we would clutch our pearls in horror(you mean he’s willing to kill people? In a video game series with protagonists that each have kill counts numbering in the thousands? Quick, summon my fainting couch!) and tidily dismiss the notion that he might have ever had any worthwhile motivations at all. 

Look all you silly little girlies that want to kiss the fictional man, I feel like you don’t understand that he’s the *bad guy* here, glad we’ve cleared that up for you sweetheart. And isn’t he just sooo condescending?

It does not seem to have occurred to the writers that, to his fans, his stone cold ruthlessness is both one of the most well understood and deeply compelling features of the character.

I would happily give that writer a pass on a wicked case of foot in mouth, but the way Anaris & Cyran are written seems to very much enforce their the stance that an overabundance of sympathy for Solas as a person, as well as a desire to see him vindicated are the primary reasons any of the audience would ever agree with his goals. 

So to fix this issue, it stands to reason that the writers needed to de-emphasise everything that humanised(for lack of a better term) Solas and made him sympathetic as a person. Because apparently the problem is that their attempts to do so in the previous game worked a little too well on some people, right? 

As @mythalism pointed out, we cannot see him comfort his friends through their panic or grief or their crisis of faith, or have hushed philosophical conversations with them. We cannot see him flirt awkwardly, or try to pretend he didn’t just set his own coattails on fire.

We never see the god of liberation free so much as a wisp bound to a teaspoon.

And all of those compelling character motivations you thought he had about free will and self determination? Don’t worry kitten, we’ve sanitised all of the conflicts those might be applicable to right out of the setting anyway. Yay <3

At the same time, it feels like they’re too scared to upset the very same audience that they imagine has this woobified rose tinted view of the character, lest they scare them away. They’re too afraid of the audience to let him be truly unwaveringly ruthless, prejudiced, bitchy, vindictive, and even genuinely sadistic towards his enemies, because that might upset our fragile sensibilities too much! 

He can’t ever say anything mean to Rook - that might hurt our feelings!

He doesn’t really do anything bad, and if he does he doesn’t really mean it. He committed war crimes, but only because Mythal asked him nicely. He killed Varric, but it was an accident. He makes Rook hallucinate Varric, but he doesn’t use that to manipulate them; Varric just hangs out and vibes. He uses blood magic on you, but he doesn’t do any of the truly fucked up violating things that we know full well blood magic is capable of. He misleads you when he says “the Veil will not fall by my hand”, but it’s so transparent that it’s laughable. He’s never allowed the conviction to really follow through on any of his misdeeds, while still he’s bizarrely framed as outright villainous for them. 

So what we’re left with is a character divested of most of his admirable qualities, but with most of the rough edges filed off as well. Toothless. Boring.

It feels so much like they’re talking down to their audience? Like they don’t trust us to see a character with BOTH vices and virtues in spades come to our own conclusions about them? 

So we get this bland mealy-mouthed version of the character that we apparently need watered down further with ‘our team’s’ insipid commentary, much of which is blatantly based on bad takes people were spewing online almost a decade ago, and many of which have no bearing whatsoever on the actual story we’re being told because ohh my godd apparently we need to have our hands held while we’re walked though every opinion the audience might theoretically  have about the character and gently reassured by proxy that it’s a hashtag #valid opinion and why does this game insist on speaking to us like we’re morons??

For all that they incessantly bring up how condescending Solas is, I’m not sure if I've ever felt more spoken down to by a story I had been so invested in.

So Solas is boring now and I still l wanna tear down the veil lol

[bullet-prooflove]

Blood For Blood: Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Brief mentions of torture and some gore.

Summary: Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

Companion piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

The second time that Charlie kills for you he doesn’t even get his hands dirty. He makes one phone call to Jesus Otero and the guy that started all of this Rik Morrow is attacked in the prison showers.

Beaten, sodomised, tongue cut out.

It’s a fitting punishment for the man who goaded his brother into putting a hit out on you.

“I don’t want him dead.” He tells Otero over his burner as he sits his office right after the ‘Who The Fuck Is Charlie?’ meeting. “I want him to suffer, I want him to experience a lifetime of pain every single day and on the anniversary of her shooting I want you to take something so he remembers why this is happening. I don’t care what, an eye, a finger, a kidney, it’s dealer’s choice.”

The thing that Charlie’s learned over the years?

You don’t have to stop a man’s heart to murder him, you can systematically destroy his sanity and achieve the same result. He hopes that everytime Morrow gets dry fucked into his pillow that he rues the fucking day he met you.

It’s past midnight when he finally makes it back to the hospital. He’s spent the hours since the meeting studying the Intelligence reports on Chris Morrow, trying to whittle down where the son of a bitch has gone to ground. Nothing’s come to fruition yet but sometimes it’s a waiting game. The problem is Charlie hates the waiting, he wants this whole thing over and done with so that you can come home and recovery safely.

He strips out of his CPD jacket in the parking lot of the hospital, folding it into the trunk of his car. He keeps the gun on his hip, along with the badge because he’s written up far too many dumbasses who have left their gun in the glove compartment only to have their car stolen, their weapon out there killing civilians.

He’s thinking about the new book he has tucked under his arm when he steps into the elevator. He’s decided to try a different tactic tonight, read you one of those god awful dinosaur romance novels you keep sending to his office as a joke. If anything will wake you again it’ll be ‘Ballin’ with the Billionaire Brontosaurus’. The edges of his mouth tip up as he remembers your hysterical laugh when you saw the business suit the damn thing was wearing on the cover.

“They classed it up with a little Armani this time.” He’d remarked as he flicked through the pages on the couch, your head resting on his chest. “But it’s still fucking nasty, he’s like what a million feet tall which means his dick…”

You’d fallen apart again then, your body vibrating against his as you buried your face into the hollow of his throat to stifle your laugher. Charlie had gathered you up in his arms, book forgotten as he kissed away the salt rolling down your cheeks.

He’s still smiling when he steps off the elevator, heading towards your room. His boots squeak on the tiles underfoot as he walks the empty hallway. Nowhere else does this happen, just this fucking floor in this fucking hospital.

He’s almost to the door when he hears the pops.

Three of them in quick succession. Each low boom ripples through the air, causing the book under his arm to slip from his grasp as he reaches for the SIG on his hip. He knows the sound of a suppressor when he hears one, especially when it’s on a semi-automatic.

His hand comes to rest on the door handle, his heart thudding against his ribcage as he twists it slowly. He nudges the open slowly with his boot, peering through the slender gap as it widens.

There’s blood on the wall, speckles of grey brain matter cling to it in clumps, each one leaving a sticky trail as they race towards the floor. He clenches his jaw, drawing in a shaky breath to force down the bile climbing in his throat as his stomach revolts. The stench of copper and cordite fills his nostrils, the acrid taste settling on his tongue.

He shoulders the door open the rest of the way to find himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 21. His finger flexes on the trigger as his shoe catches on the body, missing the back of it’s head, splayed out across the tiles. Sandy blond mingles with the blood and the bone fragments, matted within the gore. He doesn’t need to see the face to know that it’s Chris Morrow. He can tell from that fucking swastika etched into the side of his neck.

He never thought that asshole would be stupid enough to come here but he did, he came to finish the job and Charlie, he let it happen.

His gaze flickers back up to you, your hands trembling as you lower the gun so it’s pointing at the tiles. There’s blood blossoming in two places across your white hospital gown, the stain growing quickly as Charlie jams his gun back in his holster.

You follow his stare, swallowing hard as you fixate at crimson liquid that leaks down your torso.

“I must have reopened my wounds when I broke his wrist, trying to get the gun.” You say as you set Glock down carefully on the sheets. You press your palm to the wound above your left breast, trying to stifle the blood as it flows through your fingers.

You must have ripped out your IV as well because there’s burgundy droplets scattered throughout the white linen, the tubing hanging loose from the saline bag.

“Em.” He says gently as he stands in the midst of his own nightmare, trying to not to disrupt anymore of the crime scene. “I’m gonna have to call this in.”

“Call the doctor too.” You advise as you start to waver, the colour draining from your face as you pull your hand away, studying the red smeared across your fingertips. “I’m sorry Charlie but I think I’m about to pass out.”

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