#but there is a future for them to face together

[im-a-broken-jar]

[First Image Description:

An artwork of someone curled up into a ball, surrounded by a gray soup with carrots and potatoes floating around. Above them is a flame with lots of mouths and bubbles inside it. Above that is someone drowning in it. Text reads, "it is so easy to give up right now. They are trying to drown us in hate and negativity. They want us to be catatonic. A sad potato in their horrific stew."

Second Image Description:

An artwork of a pot tipped over on the grass, stew and a person spilling out of it. There's someone bending down to help them. Text reads, "don't submit to their stew. I am begging you to;" there are four panels positioned as if they're part of the dirt. The first one is of a catgirl and the autism creature standing side by side. Text above them reads, "check in with your friends." The second panel is of two autism creatures looking at each other, hearts surrounding them. Text above them reads, "tell them you care about them." The third panel has someone pulling a witch away from a long scroll that's covered in sad faces while saying, "no more." The witch responds, "nooooo." Text above then reads, "stop doomscrolling. Really. Stop." The fourth and last panel is of someone standing in front of the transgender pride flag. They say, "we will persist." Text above them reads, "be gay. Do crime. Keep existing."

Third Image Description:

An artwork of a witch standing next to three green creatures, looking out at a burning city with tentacles destroying it. Text above them reads, "the future is scary. And things are looking bleak. But none of us have to face this alone. You are not alone. The sun will rise. This too shall pass. We will face this evil together." "You are not alone" and "together" have been underlined for emphasis.

/End I.D.]

[lostinlovingrevery]

Cute SMUTTY moments I like to imagine with Logan ~

CAUTION: smut. Lol. Like straight smut and nsfw ideas

-Logan having a bad day, sitting in a chair while he complains about Scott, or Wade, or just some aashole pissing him off. Hes so absorbed in his complaints he didnt notice you pulling all your clothes off, and standing in front of him butt ass naked. His mouth hangs open when he realizes as his eyes take you in.

"Better?"

"Yeah." He nods simply, leaning back in his chair, taking a sip of the whiskey you had handed him too. Spreading his legs and still eyeing you.

-dont worry, he still gets to vent and you listen to him. He just gets to do it with you naked and on his lap.

-Logans thrusting into you and its passionate and clumsy and youre both panting and accidentally bonk your heads, leaving you both giggling, your arms wrapped around each other in a romantic embrace, taking a moment to just kiss and enjoy being together

-lazy sundays (sorry god) where youre both just being naked together in bed, holding each other. His hands explore every part of you as if he hasnt have your whole body mapped out in his head already. Its not so much sexual but more intimate

-messing with his dick. Hes sprawl on the bed and youre between his thighs, playfully jerking him off, and tapping his tip against your lips, giving him teasing kitten licks ams grinning when he groans. Part of him wants you to make him cum already, another part doesnt want you to stop playing with him.

-him coming up to you, his fingers pushing into your jeans, hooking into your panties and lifting, then snapping them against your skin- making you yelp while he grins devilishly.

"Just wanted to see what pair you got on today."

-wearing a dress (esp for plus ladies!) That accentuate your curves and belly. Yknow that cute belly pouch us ladies got? That shit would drive logan insane if youre wearing the right clothes to show that off.

-he sees you in the dress, the lighting just makes you look so damn good, hes pushing you somewhere private to get you both off (the dress stays ON)

-logan would kneed on your tittes or ass when fucking you like deadass.

-surprising him for the first time with lingerie. Omg hes so excited. The way his face lights up like a kid on christmas morning.

-hed probably torture you for an hour because he cant stop looking over how good you look. Hes tracing his fingers over the lace and shape of your body. Hes literally obsessed.

-hes praising you and everything. Calling you pretty girl, how sweet you are to put this on for him. Hes gonna treat you real good for this.

-for girlies with love handles, logan definitely makes good use of those. (Theyre called love handles for a reason 🤭)

-sucking him off and after he cums, you just rest your head on his thigh, your hand running soothingly up and down his other thigh. Its soft and intimate and makes logan feel like you really love him. (You do)

-i made a fic about this but fucking in the shower and then washing each other afterwards. So intimate!!

-the first time you and logan do it, youre so giggly and swooning over him. It ends up being more playful and romantic, which somehow makes it 10 times better. Youre comfortable with each other. Theres a lot of praising here. Logan is smiling like a fool in love over how giggly you are (plot twist he is)

-old man logan. Making him cum, praising his body and soul, giving him sweet kisses over his chest and face while he recovers post-coitus. His eyes shut and hes panting, because he hadnt felt that good in awhile. I want him to feel relief in his body, and know thay i love him ❤️

-dofp (70s and future) logan, yall I want this man to fuck me so hard i black out, he finishes, rolls to the side and lights a cigar while his cum leaks out of me and im shaking violently, and he turns back with his cigar, soothingly rubbing my back and telling me what a good job i did. (Snuggles and praises the rest of the night)

-origins logan, i wanna ride him on the floor of his cabin, while he holds my hips and looks up at me with that lovesick puppy face he makes. Him to whisper how he loves me, and wants us to spend our lives together UGH

-trilogy logan. This man is a mix of desperate sub and mean dom. I want him to fuck me hard into the mattress, hand on my neck- all the while begging me to let him come inside. Telling me im so pretty and he cant hold on much longer. Hes biting your lip, demanding that you cum bc he needs you to so desperately bc he cant finish unless he knows youre taken care of.

-worst logan. I want him to be so rough and mean because he hasnt known a soft touch in ages, only to be so gentle with him and he suddenly melts. Hes slamming into you bc he just has so much anger built in him and then your cradle his face and kiss him softly and he realizes that you really do care, and he slows down, melting into your body as he fucks you hard still, but more lovingly.

-youre wearing a skirt sitting next to logan at a table. He begins to put his hand on your thigh, going on your skirt till he gets to your panties and starts teasing you.

-logan doesnt take baths but then you surprise him with one (youre in it) and suddnely hes asking you everyday if you want to take a bath with him.

-you and logan just fucked and youre getting out of bed to do whatever, and he smacks your ass, a cheeky grin on his face as you yelp and give him a playful scowl

-two can play this game

-next time he gets up, you wind yourself out to smack his butt next, and you do it so hard he actually jumps forward, his hand coming over his cheek where your handprint very quickly faded.

-lets just say youre bent over his lap after that getting punished.

-i said in the fluffy logan scenarios thatll he lay om your titties and ass. Yes.

-hell bite em too

-youre naked on your belly in bed, he comes in and you feel him crawling onto the mattress and then you shout bc you felt his canines sink into your ass cheek, when he then runs his tongue over to soothe it. You glare at him but he doesnt notice bc now hes snuggling his face against your cheek. Does that little head shake to get comfy and content sigh too. What a dork.

-he'll bite your titties too. Its cuteness aggression.

-logan just bites a lot.

-sucking him dry. Like so dry his regenerative factor hasnt kicked in and hes just sprawled out on the bed nearly comatose and you climb up and kiss the tip of his nose and snuggle into his chest.

-once again im imploring you to think about giggly sex with logan. Hes thrusting into you against the wall, and you both cant stay serious, just laughing and moaning into each others mouths. Youre happy. Hes happy.

-awkward things happen in sex sometimes. But you and logan can laugh it off. A quick kiss, and back to it.

-nearly getting caught in the broom closet at the mansion. One of logans moments of grabbing you and yanking you into the most private place nearby. The close call makes you call it off, but he still takes your panties and keep its in his pocket.

-you visting old man logan during his work. You surprise him by requesting his ride. You have very sweet and soft sex in the back, where he praises you being such a sweet girl to him

-logan with his superhero suit i think we all agree drives us insane. The first time you see it on him you practically jump his bones. Hes loves that it drives you so crazy.

-also we talk about him praising us (and believe me as a girly w a praise kink i get it)

-praising HIM. The first time you do it, he becomes so flustered. He gets red in the face, starts stammering on his dirty talk and pretty much cums right then. He gets even more flustered by that but you praise and reassure him that it was SO hot

-youre riding him, the evening sun shining in the window over your figure, and hes looking at you, holding your hips, leading up and down. He looks so lovesick and he tells you how in love with you he is.

-logan has those big puppy eyes. Trilogy logan is super guilty of this. Old man logan is too. It doesnt matter the variant though, they all break out the puppy eyes when they want to fuck you.

-i mean, he definitely got that devilish seductive smile and bedroom eyes that he'll use to seduce you

-but if youre busy or dont seem to pay him enough attention or notice the bedroom eyes, hell break out the puppy eyes and borderline whine for you. (Sometimes you just like to hear him beg. Its all in good fun bc he does it with you too)

-no matter your size, logan definitely loves to pick you up, thrusting into you, hands supporting your ass and hips. Hes like displaying his strength on you. (Esp if youre a bigger girl. He doesnt want you to think he cant fuck you just as hard )

-if youre out in public, in meetings, etc, and logan wants you to know hes feeling mighty attracted to you, his hand will find its way somewhere on yoh (hand, waist, knee) and he'll just rub that spot over and over. Its discreet, but you learn it.

-youre in bed, and he comes home from work/mission/being out and about, he doesnt hesitate, just immediately shedding his clothes as he makes his way to the bed and plants himself firmly between your thighs before he even utters hello. Eating you out is his stress relief.

-having hardcore rough sex, before collapsing on either side of each other, sweating, covered in each others cum, and you both look at each other, and start to smile and laugh. (Yall are so nasty)

-logan getting so giddy when you want to suck his dick like he gets SO excited. Hell def have the dom moments where yknow hes like "cmon baby get working" but then you have those nice moments where hes just a man happy to get a blow

-you convince him to swap underwear. You wear his boxers and he your panties. Hes unsure at first bc it seems embarrassing but then he gets super turned on at wearing your essence around. Sure hes a little uncomfortable bc he cant exactly FIT...but youre happy so.

-(he bends over and you spot the red thong on him and you pull his shirt down before scott notices)

-getting on his knees and pressing kisses to your belly.

-waking up in the morning, having sleepy sex. He sleepily thrusts into you,muttering how good you feel. Eventually you both cum and fall asleep with him still inside.

-he loves fucking you with one of his tshirts on. Loves how it covers your body, just barely hiding the way his dick is burying itself into you over and over

-logan deciding to be super romantic for you one night. He lights candles, rose petals, your favorite wine(or sparkling juice if you dont like alcohol)

-its soft and sensual, his hands touching you, how he thrusts into you. Its almost too much.

-interconnecting hands while fucking, you kiss his knuckles, the space where his claws come out, and he has to regain his composure over it, because youre just so soft and sweet to him. He realizes just how you arent scared of him, how you really accept and love him

"You really do love me... dont ya bub?" He asks, a soft genuine, almost childlike fascination as he looks down at you, and you smile and nod at him, and he moans, before going to work to conpletely wreck you while making plans in the back of his head on how hes gonna keep you happy the rest of your lives...

Thats all for now! Im sure ill come up with more though...😏😏😏

Thank you for reading lovelies!!

[bookwormjust]

Shadows of Reassurance: Learning to Love Yourself Through Azriel's Eyes

You stand in front of Azriel, shifting awkwardly as you explain how you’ve been feeling.

“I just feel... big,” you admit quietly, looking anywhere but at him. “I have all these curves, and I’m so much smaller than Feyre, Nesta, or even Elain, but somehow I feel... heavy. Like I don’t look right.”

Azriel’s amber eyes soften, his shadows brushing against your skin like a comforting embrace. He steps closer and holds out his hands.

“Come here,” he says gently, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument. You hesitantly place your hands in his, and he immediately engulfs them with his much larger ones. He lifts them slightly, turning them over so your palms face upward, his thumbs brushing along your knuckles.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. “Your hands are so small compared to mine. So delicate, yet you’ve carried so much. These hands hold my heart, Y/N. And you think you’re ‘big’?” Your breath catches as he pulls you closer. “Now, stand here,” he says, nudging your feet next to his.

He stares down at the size difference, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look at this. Your feet are tiny. Do you see how I have to be careful not to step on you when we’re walking together?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an unmistakable tenderness behind it.

He places his hands on your waist, his thumbs brushing over the soft curve of your hips. “Here,” he says, leaning down so his face is level with yours. “This is life, Y/N. This softness, these curves—they aren’t something to hide. They mean you’re healthy, strong. They mean you’re human, even if you’re High Fae now. Without this, how would you survive?” You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his hands now lightly resting on your thighs. “And don’t get me started on these,” he says with a small smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Your thighs fit perfectly against mine. Do you know how much I love holding you? How it feels to have you curl into my lap, your warmth pressing against me? It’s perfect.”

When you glance down at his lean, muscular frame, you can’t help but blurt, “But you don’t have any fat. Not like me.” Azriel laughs softly, the sound low and soothing. “That’s because I’m male, love. My body doesn’t prepare itself the way yours does. You’re nurturing, even without realizing it. Every curve, every bit of softness—it’s your body’s way of caring for the life it could one day carry. It’s already loving and preparing for a future that doesn’t even exist yet.” Your heart stutters, and tears well in your eyes as his words sink in.

“You really think that?” Azriel cups your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears before they can fall. “I know that,” he says firmly. “Your body isn’t just beautiful, Y/N. It’s perfect. It’s built to love, to nurture, to carry. One day, if we decide to have a family, it’ll be the first home our children ever know. And until then, it’s the home of my heart.” He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as his wings wrap around you protectively.

“You’re not big, Y/N,” he whispers against your hair. “You’re mine. And I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” In his embrace, you feel safe, cherished, and seen in a way you’ve never felt before. And for the first time in a long time, you begin to see yourself the way Azriel sees you—strong, beautiful, and utterly loved.

[thanosspills]

LIVING WITH "TEAM THANOS"

after the third game, the X's win and you reunite with the friends you made in the games.

Now that the games have ended, all of the players are spread out in the dorms waiting to depart. You sit with your new-found friend group on the stairs as you guys have a group discussion about your futures.

Now bonded with no where else to go, everyone agrees to put their money together and rent out a comfortable place to live.

Characters: Se-mi/player 380, Thanos/player 230, Nam-gyu/player 124, Min-su/player 125, Gyeong-su/player 256

This is what it's like to live with each of them! Slight headcannons

Pretty light hearted and silly, nothing too serious.

Fem!reader x Choi Su-bong (kinda)

Reader is dating Thanos because I couldn't resist sorry <3

Warnings: Slightly suggestive/NSFW things mentioned, drug usage, drinking

YOU + THANOS

You and Thanos got really close in the games and have been inseparable since. The two of you share the larger bedroom and are PDA all over the house. Making out in the kitchen, on the couch when everyones hanging out, he'll slap/grope your ass at random, grab your hips when you're facing away from him, etc etc.

Everytime the PDA starts, Nam-gyu just rolls his eyes and tries to ignore it. During movie night when you and Thanos take your attention away from what you're watching to suck face, Se-mi throws a pillow at you two and scoffs, "Get a room nymphos." Min-su will awkwardly look the other way, and Gyeong-su is just always oblivious, continuing to laugh at the movie, never noticing in general.

ALSOO during movie night Thanos always hogs the communal couch blanket. Even from you.

Don't get me started on how loud the two of you are in bed. Thanos gives no fucks, he'll be as vocal and rough as he wants and he'll bring it out of you. Since Thanos loves to be chatty during sex, you'll occasionally get Nam-gyu yelling at you two to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" from downstairs. Of course, you and Thanos always just laugh it off and keep going. The next morning you guys get ganged up on and teased by the other four, Gyeong-su mocking Thanos's dirty talk,

"You guys need to be quiet, I'm tired of hearing Thanos moan 'senõrita' at 2 in the morning."

Thanos uses your guys's room as the house's studio, inviting the others in to rap/produce with him. Min-su and Se-mi never participate, they just sit on the bed, snack with you, and watch.

You always have to clean up after Thanos. He'll kick his shoes off in the most random places, leave clothes on the floor, food at his desk, etc.

Thanos will freestyle about whatever everyones doing in the present moment, like at game night, Nam-su is drawing two So he ain't got no Uno I bet that dude regrets picking yellow I'm rooting for my lil boy Min-su Wild card his ass, bro!

Thanos always announces his presence as soon as he gets home. He'll shout, "GUYSSSSS!" right when he walks in the door.

Thanos doesn't consider boundaries at all. He'll randomly barge into everyones room without knocking and ask if they wanna go somewhere with him even if it's late as fuck.

You two are probably the most difficult to deal with in terms of bringing pure chaos to the household, but you guys also bring the most fun.

MIN-SU

Min-su is usually the first person awake, but when he sleeps in he gets aggressively woken up by the boys. He's also the little rag-doll of the group, always getting playfully pushed around. Se-mi will yell at the boys to fuck off but they mean well, it's just the special treatment Min-su gets.

He's seen as the little brother by everyone but he's honestly the most put-together.

He's tried to bring in stray cats multiple times, Nam-gyu immediately says hell no, something him and Se-mi rarely agree on.

Really enjoys hanging out with each person in their rooms one on one but hardly invites himself in, he usually waits to be told he's welcome to hang.

Needs sound to fall asleep so he actually doesn't mind the chaotic late nights in the house. It's good background noise and oddly makes him feel safe.

He helped you and Se-mi decorate a bit, mainly just contributed plants that he's attached to and takes good care of.

Always picks a romantic k-drama on movie night and falls asleep first.

Secretly loves how much he gets under Nam-gyu's skin during game nights, Min-su ends up winning more then anyone else.

He doesn't touch the drugs Thanos and Nam-gyu do but he will drink with the group. He's still composed when he's drunk but he laughs at everything and cracks everyone else up in the process.

When everyones up late and hungry he'll volunteer to go get snacks from the gas station for everyone.

NAM-GYU

Comes home at like 3 am after promoting clubs, if you and Thanos are awake your guy's room is the first place he goes. He'll sit in Thanos's gaming chair and talk to you two about the crazy shit that happened with the junkies at work. Nam-gyu is still a user, after the games him and Thanos have calmed down a bit on the drugs but will occasionally pop pills for fun, you occasionally join.

Goes with Min-su on his late night gas station runs for the house so he can, "make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Doesn't really cook or clean because he's usually out, but when he comes back home he contributes with beer and will randomly throw a new, freshly packaged fruity vape at Thanos, surprising him with it.

Nam-gyu always fucks with Min-su during game nights, he's super competitive. Min-su's nonchalant attitude about winning really gets under his skin. He takes every board game very seriously and hardly wins, but when he does win you're not hearing the end of it.

Asks everyone to go to the club so he can see you guys while he's working. He sneaks you guys free drinks on a tab and hangs out as soon as he's off.

He asked Se-mi to pierce his ears for him and freaked out and complained the whole time. It took 45 minutes for her to do both ears.

Occasionally brings girls home but he's very secretive about it, no one sees them come in or leave.

SE-MI

Se-mi does most of the chores because she doesn't trust anyone else to do them right, defiently the big sister of the household.

Only asks you and Min-su to go run errands with her, she doesn't wanna put up with the others, "Hurry, let's go before the idiots notice we're leaving."

She always tells Min-su to stay away from the drugs. If Thanos and Nam-gyu are on them and are acting a little too crazy she'll go and hangout with Min-su in his room or take him out of the house to go for a walk or get food.

She'll hangout with you in the bathroom and play music while you get ready to go to work.

She cooks for everyone and really enjoys it but acts like she doesn't.

She'll get Thanos and Gyeong-su happy meals when she stops at McDonald's for everyone.

Likes to argue, she'll debate Nam-gyu on his shitty takes on the movie you guys are all watching.

Her room always has music playing softly, like Min-su she needs noise to feel comfortable.

She's the organizer behind most of the little group hangouts.

If she finds a bug/spider in the house she'll pick it up with a napkin and chase Nam-gyu and Thanos around with it, Thanos squeals in terror and Nam-gyu shouts, "SE-MI BACK THE FUCK UP IT'S NOT FUNNY!" Gyeong-su giggles like a little kid while he follows Se-mi as she chases them around.

GYEONG-SU

Gyeong-su likes to play obnoxious rap music on the TV at max volume so everyone can hear it.

He raps around the house trying to replicate Thanos but he's honestly just not good and no one has the heart to tell him.

Tries to brag to everyone at work saying, "Yeah, the rapper Thanos is my roommate." but none of his coworkers care.

Gyeong-su is super lightweight, he always ends up the drunkest whether you guys are just drinking at home or clubbing. He hurts himself a lot when he's inebriated but it's nothing too serious, just tripping and running into walls. He'll come home and fall asleep on the couch or the floor and everyone else just leaves him there until he wakes up the next morning.

Super loud on his video games at night, he invites everyone to his room to watch him play and hangout. He lowkey secretly dreams of being a famous streamer.

Asks Se-mi to make food for him at like 2 in the morning.

Gyeong-su typically doesn't like going out alone so he begs each member of the group to go with him to do something, even if it's simple like walking to the store or picking up a prescription. If someone says no, he's knocking on the next persons bedroom door. He always asks for you and Thanos's advice on what to wear before he meets up with a girl or goes out.

YAYY that's it! I hope you guys liked it, I love team Thanos with my whole heart and I wanted to write something cute for them :) Let me know what you think!

[andy-15-07]

You and me

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 1047 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The soft hum of the city outside their apartment window was the only sound accompanying them in the dimly lit room. Reed sat on the worn, comfortable couch, his arm draped lazily over the backrest, fingers occasionally brushing against Y/N’s shoulder. The glow from the streetlights spilled through the blinds, casting faint patterns on the walls. It was one of those rare nights—no missions, no emergencies, just the two of them tucked away from the world.

Y/N shifted slightly, resting her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re quiet tonight,” she murmured, her voice soft, like a gentle nudge.

Reed’s fingers paused for a moment before resuming their absent-minded tracing. “Just thinking,” he replied, his tone reflective but warm.

“About what?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him, her eyes catching the faint glimmer of light.

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the window. “About everything,” he admitted. “The team, the future... us.”

Y/N smiled gently, her hand finding his and intertwining their fingers. “That sounds like a lot for one night.”

Reed chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “It always is.” He turned to face her fully, his dark eyes softening as they met hers. “You know, being Reed Richards—Mr. Fantastic—it’s not just about stretching across cities or diving into other dimensions. It’s about holding everything together. The team, the mission, the world sometimes... but with you, it’s different.”

“Different how?” Y/N whispered, her heart fluttering at the earnestness in his voice.

“With you,” he said, squeezing her hand gently, “I don’t have to hold everything together. I can just... be.”

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning and unspoken promises. Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest, a mixture of love and the weight of knowing what his life entailed. She reached up, her fingers brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “You don’t have to be anything more than Reed with me.”

He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if savoring the simplicity of her words. When he opened them again, there was a spark of determination there, a decision made in the quiet of the night.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice steady now, “about what comes next. Not just for the team, but for us.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Reed shifted, reaching into his pocket. For a moment, Y/N’s breath caught, her mind racing with possibilities. But instead of what she expected, he pulled out a small, worn notebook—the one he always carried for jotting down ideas and calculations. He flipped it open to a page marked with a small, pressed flower she’d given him months ago.

“I’ve spent so much time calculating risks and probabilities,” he said, his thumb brushing over the delicate petals. “But when it comes to you, there’s no equation, no formula. Just certainty.”

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, the emotion swelling in her chest almost overwhelming. “Reed...”

He set the notebook aside, taking both of her hands in his now. “I don’t know what the future holds. The world could fall apart tomorrow, or we could be pulled into another dimension. But the one thing I know—the one constant in all of this—is you.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, the outside world fading into nothing as his words wrapped around her heart. Y/N could barely find her voice, but when she did, it was filled with unwavering conviction. “I’m not going anywhere, Reed.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind that reached his eyes and made the lines around them crinkle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

“Then let’s make this official,” he whispered, his voice a blend of hope and love. “Be with me… not just now, but for whatever comes next.”

Y/N’s heart soared, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Always.”

Their lips met in a kiss that spoke of promises and futures intertwined, a connection that stretched beyond the constraints of time and space. In that moment, it wasn’t about Reed Richards, the brilliant scientist or Mr. Fantastic, the superhero. It was about two people finding their anchor in each other amidst the chaos of the universe.

As their kiss deepened, Reed’s arms wrapped around Y/N, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart against her chest, grounded her in a way nothing else could. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Reed whispered, his thumb gently caressing the back of her hand. “You’re my constant, my grounding force. No matter what happens out there,” he nodded toward the window, “this… you and me… it’s what matters most.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “And you’re mine, Reed. I don’t care about the chaos outside. As long as I have you, I have everything I need.”

Reed’s eyes softened even more, if that was possible. He reached up, cupping her face in his hands. “Then let’s make a promise.”

“A promise?” she echoed, her voice a soft whisper.

“No matter where life takes us, no matter what challenges we face, we’ll always find our way back to each other. Always.”

Y/N felt her heart swell with love and certainty. “Always,” she echoed, sealing their promise with another tender kiss.

They spent the rest of the night wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing whispered dreams and quiet laughter. The city outside continued its relentless pace, but inside their little haven, time seemed to slow, allowing them to savor every precious moment.

As dawn approached, casting a soft golden glow through the blinds, Reed pulled Y/N even closer, his lips brushing against her temple. “Thank you for being my anchor,” he whispered.

“And thank you for letting me in,” Y/N replied, her voice thick with emotion.

They drifted into a peaceful sleep, knowing that whatever the future held, they would face it together, their hearts forever intertwined amidst the vast, unpredictable universe.

[girlkisser13]

being married to choso kamo would include

• choso is incredibly serious about being your husband. he loves the title, loves the weight it carries. "my wife." "my husband." every time he says it, it’s filled with quiet pride.

• he didn’t use to think much about the future— until you. with you, he pictures years together, a quiet home, growing old side by side.

• choso values peace and routine. your home is a space where he feels safe, grounded, and truly at ease.

• your home is simple, cozy, and full of warmth. he’s not one for extravagant things, but he wants your space to feel comfortable.

• he wakes up before you most mornings, sitting by the window with a cup of tea, enjoying the stillness of the world before it wakes up.

• he likes keeping things organized. he doesn’t mind cleaning or cooking— it’s just another way for him to care for you.

• he takes care of small things for you without being asked. fixing things around the house, making sure you always have water before bed, placing a blanket over you if you fall asleep on the couch.

• he enjoys the little moments of domestic life with you. whether it’s folding laundry together, cooking side by side, or simply sitting in silence reading, he finds comfort in sharing these everyday experiences with you.

• he always makes sure you’re warm. he’ll drape a blanket over your shoulders, wrap his arms around you, and pull you closer on cold nights.

• he doesn't like loud, chaotic environments, but if you enjoy them, he'll go with you without complaint— just to make sure you're safe.

• he enjoys silence, but the most comforting kind— the type where words aren't needed, where you both just exist together, completely at ease.

• he loves having you close, even in quiet moments. he doesn’t need constant conversation— just being near you is enough for him.

• he's an excellent listener. if you need to vent about your day, he'll sit with you, nodding, offering quiet reassurances and rubbing slow circles on your back.

• physical touch is his main love language. he’s always reaching for you— holding your hand, resting a hand on your back, pulling you into his lap whenever he can.

• he gives the BEST hugs. 

• when he holds you, it’s firm, grounding, and completely consuming. he’ll bury his face in your neck, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

• he kisses you slowly, deeply, and with purpose. every kiss lingers, filled with a love so strong it doesn’t need words.

• he’s not one for rushed pecks— he makes sure every kiss lingers, that you feel just how much he loves you.

• he loves playing with your hair. if you sit close enough, he’ll absentmindedly run his fingers through it, completely lost in the sensation.

• he's very aware of your emotions. if you're upset or stressed, he'll wordlessly pull you into his lap, letting you rest against his chest as he strokes your hair.

• he doesn't often say "i love you" outright, but he shows it in small ways— pulling you into his arms, making sure you're warm, bringing you your favorite snacks.

• when he does say it, it's quiet, deep, full of meaning. "i love you. more than anything."

• he finds comfort in your presence. when he’s tired, he’ll pull you onto his lap or rest his head against your shoulder, needing nothing more than to be near you.

• if you ever initiate affection, he gets flustered. he’ll blink in surprise, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, but he secretly loves it when you catch him off guard.

• choso has lost too much already— he refuses to lose you.

• he is incredibly protective. if anyone so much as makes you uncomfortable, his entire demeanor changes. his normally calm expression turns cold, his presence becoming a silent but terrifying warning.

• he positions himself between you and danger instinctively. whether it’s crossing the street or facing an actual threat, he will always shield you without hesitation.

• if you ever get hurt, even in the smallest way, he gets incredibly worried. he’ll inspect every scratch, tending to your wounds with a seriousness that makes you laugh. "it’s just a cut, choso." "it could get infected."

• he will never let you face danger alone. if there’s even a hint of a threat, he’s at your side instantly, ready to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

• if you ever cry, he doesn’t ask questions— he just pulls you into his arms, letting you bury yourself against his chest. he’ll hold you as long as you need, murmuring quiet reassurances until you feel safe again.

• he never yells. even if he’s upset, he keeps his voice calm, steady, because he never wants to hurt you.

• if he’s wrong, he’ll admit it. he doesn’t let pride get in the way— his relationship with you is more important than winning an argument.

• if he hurts your feelings, he feels incredibly guilty. he’ll hold your hands in his, looking into your eyes as he quietly apologizes. "i never want to hurt you. i’m sorry."

• we LOVE an emotionally intelligent man.

• after an argument, he always stays close. even if you need space, he won’t go far— just in case you need him.

• if you’re upset with him, he gets quiet and withdrawn— not because he’s angry, but because he’s afraid he hurt you. He just needs you to reach for him, to remind him you’re not going anywhere.

• he takes care of you in every way he can. making sure you eat, making sure you’re warm, holding you close when the world feels too heavy.

• he never stops showing his love. even decades into marriage, he’ll still pull you into his arms, still hold your hand under the table, still look at you like you’re his entire world.

• to him, you are family now. you are the person he would give everything for, the one he will protect, cherish, and stand beside for the rest of his life.

• even if he doesn’t always have the words to say it, you will never doubt how deeply, how wholly, and how eternally he loves you. <33

[inkyquillstories]

Trading Medals Part 1 (A Body Swap Story)

Note: This story with more photos (nsfw) and videos is found on my discord! https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

Mark Calloway had always been the kind of guy people noticed when he walked into a room. At 6'3" and 225 pounds of solid muscle, he carried himself with the effortless confidence of a college athlete at the top of his game. His dark brown hair was kept in a slightly messy yet undeniably charming style, and his deep-set hazel eyes often flickered with amusement or quiet contemplation, depending on the situation. Born on June 10th, Mark was a summer child through and through, thriving in the sun and always finding a way to be outside, whether it was training for football, hitting the gym, or just hanging out with friends. 

His love for sports extended beyond football—he had a knack for basketball and occasionally joined pickup games for fun. However, what most people didn’t know was his more private love for music. His guitar, often lying on his bed or propped against the wall in their dorm, was his escape when the pressure of school, sports, and expectations became overwhelming.

Despite his outward charisma, Mark carried a secret that weighed heavier on him than any of his rigorous weightlifting sessions. He was bisexual, though he had never fully acted on his attraction to men. Growing up in a conservative family, he knew that coming out wasn’t an option—not if he wanted to avoid the inevitable disappointment in his parents' eyes or the risk of losing the support that kept him moving forward in his football career. So, he kept it buried, deflecting with his easygoing personality and frequent dating life with women. Most people just assumed he was a classic ladies' man, a stereotype he let them believe. Beneath the surface, though, there was always an ache—a part of himself that he felt he had to lock away for the sake of his future.

Ethan Graves was the complete opposite of his roommate in almost every way. Standing at 5'7" and weighing around 140 pounds, he was wiry and lean, not out of any conscious effort but simply due to a lack of interest in physical activity. His short, slightly unkempt light brown hair framed a face that still had a lingering boyishness to it, paired with glasses that he often adjusted absentmindedly while focusing on something intently. Born on February 3rd, he was a winter child, preferring the indoors to the heat and chaos of the outside world. While Mark spent his time on the field, Ethan spent his nights hunched over a laptop, preparing Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, coding small projects, or getting lost in the latest fantasy novel.

Back in high school, Ethan had dated a fellow nerd, a girl who shared his love for tabletop games and sci-fi marathons. They had been good together, but when college decisions came around, they knew they were heading in different directions. They ended things amicably, both understanding that a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. Since then, Ethan hadn’t really pursued dating—between his studies in Engineering, his online gaming sessions, and his occasional self-doubt about his looks and social skills, he figured relationships could wait. His world was one of structured logic and imaginative escapism, where he could be the hero in a fantasy realm rather than feeling out of place in real life. Despite his quiet nature, Ethan wasn’t completely isolated. He had friends—mostly online or fellow D&D enthusiasts—and, more importantly, he had Mark. Though they seemed like an odd match as roommates, over time, they had formed an unshakable bond that neither of them had expected.

When Mark and Ethan were first assigned as roommates during their freshman year, Ethan had been apprehensive. Mark reminded him too much of the guys from high school—the ones who mocked his love for Dungeons & Dragons and made gym class a nightmare.

But his worries faded almost instantly when Mark greeted him with an easy smile and a laid-back attitude. Unlike the bullies from his past, Mark wasn’t just friendly—he was genuinely kind. He never mocked Ethan’s interests, never looked down on him for preferring books over sports. Instead, he respected their differences, and over time, Ethan found himself enjoying Mark’s company far more than he expected.

Ethan preferred to stay in their dorm when he wasn’t in class, spending his time studying, streaming shows, or working on his latest D&D campaign. He was meticulous about keeping his space clean, making sure his desk was organized and his bed neatly made every morning. 

Mark, on the other hand, was hardly ever around. If he wasn’t in class or at football practice, he was at parties, on dates, or just out with friends. When he was in their dorm, his presence was hard to miss—his side of the room was perpetually messy, with discarded clothes near his bed and the lingering scent of sweat and cologne. More than once, Ethan had walked in to find Mark passed out on his bed, still in his practice gear, the room filled with the unmistakable musky scent of an exhausted athlete.

Despite their differences, they made their arrangement work. Ethan knew that when Mark brought friends over, it was time for him to retreat to the library. When Mark needed the room for a date, Ethan would take the hint and find somewhere else to be. Mark, in turn, always made sure to make it up to him, usually with snacks or small gestures of appreciation. Their odd dynamic confused those around them—Mark’s football buddies didn’t get why he spent so much time with a nerd, and Ethan’s gaming friends couldn’t understand why he tolerated a jock’s messy habits. But the truth was, they had become more than just roommates—they were best friends.

Late at night, when the dorm was quiet, they’d sometimes just talk for hours. That was when Ethan learned about Mark’s struggles with his sexuality and his fear of coming out to his family. In turn, Mark listened as Ethan admitted his own insecurities—his struggle with self-image, his difficulty finding a girlfriend, and the lingering doubt that he wasn’t interesting or attractive enough.

They were each other’s confidants in ways no one else could be. Mark even took it upon himself to get Ethan into working out, though Ethan’s sporadic dedication to fitness left much to be desired. Meanwhile, Ethan was always ready to help Mark with his studies, ensuring that he didn’t fall behind in classes he found difficult.

Three years passed, and their friendship only grew stronger. Their respective social circles were always surprised by how close they were, with some friends even overlapping. Mark’s teammates recognized Ethan as someone important to him, while Ethan’s gaming buddies gradually warmed up to Mark’s presence. At the end of the day, they had each other’s backs in ways that mattered most. They were more than just roommates—they were brothers in everything but blood.

Ethan barely looked up from his laptop when the dorm room door slammed open, but the frantic energy that followed made him pause. Mark stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his face a mix of stress and desperation. His usually confident posture was gone, replaced by jittery movements as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Ethan glanced at the time. It was a little past three in the afternoon—Mark should’ve been at practice. “Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Ethan remarked, adjusting his glasses. 

Mark didn’t laugh. Instead, he strode into the room, dropping his gym bag onto his unmade bed with a heavy thud. “I’m screwed,” he blurted, his voice uneven. “I had a test today. A huge one. I totally forgot about it.” Ethan blinked, not entirely surprised. This wasn’t the first time Mark had neglected an exam, but the sheer panic in his voice meant this was different. “Okay,” Ethan said slowly, shutting his laptop. “We’ve been through this before. You cram, I quiz you, you barely pass but still pass. We got this.” Mark groaned, rubbing his temples. “No, man, you don’t get it. I don’t have time to cram. I have to take it in—” he checked his phone “—less than an hour.” Ethan winced. “Oh. Yeah. That’s... bad.”  

Mark sat down heavily on his bed, looking almost physically ill. “If I fail this, I fail the class. If I fail the class, I can’t graduate on time and I can’t play in the championship game. This is my entire future, Ethan.” There was an unmistakable vulnerability in his voice, and for a moment, Ethan genuinely felt bad for him. “Okay, so what do we do?” he asked. Mark looked up at him, eyes flickering with something intense. “You’re gonna take it for me.” 

Ethan nearly laughed, but the serious expression on Mark’s face made him stop. “Mark. That’s impossible. We look nothing alike.” Mark stood abruptly and pointed at Ethan. “That’s why you’re gonna wear my clothes and pretend to be me.” Ethan scoffed. “Dude, I’m half your size. People would notice.” Mark groaned, frustrated. “Not if we swap bodies.” Ethan stared at him. “…What?” 

Without hesitation, Mark reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a medallion. It was an old, circular pendant, made of tarnished silver, with intricate carvings along its surface. Ethan frowned. “What the hell is that?” Mark held it up. “It’s been in my family for generations. My grandpa always said it had magic in it.” Ethan crossed his arms. “Mark, be real. Magic doesn’t exist.” Mark smirked, his usual cocky confidence flickering back. “Oh yeah? Then swap bodies with me. Prove me wrong.” 

Ethan hesitated, looking between Mark and the medallion. He was a man of logic—this was ridiculous. But Mark was so insistent, so utterly convinced, that curiosity started creeping in. “Fine,” he sighed. “What do we do?” Mark grinned, tossing him a shirt. “First, we swap clothes.”

Ethan hesitated as Mark tugged his own shirt over his head, tossing it onto the bed before reaching for Ethan’s. Without thinking, Mark yanked Ethan’s shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, leaving the smaller man momentarily stunned. “Come on, no time to be shy,” Mark said, handing over his own shirt.

Ethan took it with some reluctance. The fabric was damp, still warm from Mark’s body, and the scent hit him immediately—musky, a mix of sweat, deodorant, and whatever aftershave Mark used. It was the kind of scent that clung to Mark’s bed and his gym bag, an undeniably masculine smell. Not bad, but overwhelming to someone who wasn’t used to wearing another guy’s clothes. Ethan grimaced but pulled it over his head anyway. It draped over him like a loose tarp, the sleeves nearly reaching his elbows, the fabric practically swallowing his lean frame.

Mark, meanwhile, pulled Ethan’s shirt over his head, immediately feeling how snug it was. The cotton clung to his broad chest and shoulders, and he had to tug at the collar to make it sit right. The sleeves were tight around his biceps, emphasizing just how much bigger he was. The scent was different—clean, fresh, with a faint trace of laundry detergent and something subtle that was just Ethan. Mark smirked, flexing his arm slightly. “Damn, dude, this is tight,” he muttered.

Ethan looked down at himself in Mark’s oversized shirt, then lifted his arm and flexed it just for curiosity’s sake. His usual frame was almost lost in the baggy fabric, but he still went through the motion. “Yeah, well, this is ridiculous on me,” he replied, shaking his head. Then, on impulse, he lifted the edge of the sleeve and took a whiff. The scent of Mark hit him again, even stronger now that he was fully wearing the shirt. It was strange—he smelled like Mark now.

Mark caught what he was doing and grinned. “You getting a good sniff there, bud?” he teased, lifting his own arm and sniffing the armpit of Ethan’s shirt in return. The scent was subtle, but pleasant. Different from his usual smell, but not bad. He chuckled. “I don’t smell like me anymore.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Then, Mark grabbed a pair of Ethan’s pants and tossed them onto the bed. “Might as well go all in,” he said, unbuttoning his own jeans. Ethan hesitated for a second before doing the same, the moment suddenly feeling strangely intimate.

Then, Mark held up a pair of his boxers, eyes darting between them and Ethan, uncertainly. Ethan exhaled sharply, muttering, “This is so weird,” but he still stripped off his own boxers and slid Mark’s on. The difference was immediate—the waistband fit loosely, the material clinging to his skin in a way that felt unfamiliar yet… oddly satisfying. Mark, meanwhile, slid into Ethan’s underwear, the fabric feeling tighter than he was used to. He shifted, adjusting to the fit, then let out a low chuckle. “Well, now we’re officially swapped.”

They turned slightly away from each other as they swapped boxers and jeans, though Ethan couldn’t help but glance at Mark struggling to pull up his boxers and  jeans down over his more muscular thighs. Ethan meanwhile slid into Mark’s looser pants with ease. The fabric barely hugged his waist, and he had to cinch the belt tight to keep them from slipping. He laughed.

Mark stretched once before grabbing the medallion. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping the metal piece together. The carvings seemed to pulse under their fingers, sending a strange warmth through their hands.

Mark took a deep breath and began the incantation:

“I, Mark Christopher Bennett, wish to swap bodies with Ethan Daniel Graves.”

The medallion pulsed. Ethan hesitated for only a second before responding:

“I, Ethan Daniel Graves, wish to swap bodies with Mark Christopher Bennett.”

A tingle spread through Ethan’s arms. He could feel it creeping along his skin, like static electricity building.

Mark kept going, his voice steady:

“I, Mark Christopher Bennett, accept Ethan Graves’ body as my own.”

Ethan swallowed hard, following suit.

“I, Ethan Daniel Graves, accept Mark Bennett’s body as my own.”

The warmth turned into something hotter, something that crawled through their veins. Their skin tingled, their muscles tightened, and the medallion itself grew almost unbearably warm.

Then, together, they spoke the final line:

Mark: “I am Ethan Graves, and he is Mark Christopher Bennett.”

Ethan: “I am Mark Bennett, and he is Ethan Daniel Graves.”

The medallion flashed brightly, and then everything shifted.

As soon as the final words of the spell left their mouths, the medallion flared with a brilliant, golden light. A strange force gripped their bodies, like an invisible current pulling at them from the inside out. It started subtly—a tingling in their fingers, a strange weightlessness in their limbs—but quickly escalated into something far more intense.

Mark was the first to notice the shift. A peculiar sensation crawled through his toes, as if they were shrinking. He looked down in shock as his feet visibly pulled inward, the size and shape rapidly changing. His broad, calloused feet—hardened from years of training—were dwindling, the veins and rough patches vanishing. The structure of his foot narrowed, the arches lifting slightly as they transformed into Ethan’s smaller, leaner feet. He staggered slightly, gripping the edge of the desk for balance as his legs followed suit. His powerful thighs and muscular calves trembled before steadily deflating, the firm bulk of his quads thinning into a shape far less defined. His legs weren’t just shrinking; they were getting weaker. He could feel it—his strength slipping away, his body losing the athletic power it had spent years building.

“Shit… my legs…” Mark muttered, watching them pull inward. His height was vanishing, too. He could feel himself sinking, the world tilting as his perspective shifted. The floor was closer than it had ever been before, the comfortable feeling of towering over Ethan now slipping away. Panic flickered in his chest. I’m getting shorter. I’m actually getting shorter.

Ethan, on the other hand, gasped as the exact opposite overtook him. A deep warmth spread through his legs, a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before. His feet stretched, the fabric of his socks straining as they expanded in size. His toes elongated, his entire foot widening as it reshaped into Mark’s larger, more rugged ones. The floor felt different beneath them—his balance was shifting, adjusting to the broader, sturdier foundation. 

Then came the legs. Ethan felt a rush of power surge through him as his thighs stretched, his femurs lengthening to accommodate the sudden growth. His calves filled out, muscle taking shape where there had been none before. His legs were no longer thin and unimpressive—they were strong, athletic, the kind that could launch a person forward with speed and force. He straightened instinctively, marveling at how natural it felt to stand taller. He wasn’t used to this perspective—the room looked different, the angle foreign but exhilarating.

“Whoa…” Ethan exhaled, running his hands over his thighs. They were firm, packed with muscle that wasn’t there before. He lifted one leg slightly, feeling the sheer strength behind it, the weight distribution completely different from before. This… this is incredible. I feel stronger already.

Mark, however, wasn’t sharing in the enthusiasm. He glanced up at Ethan—no, Mark’s body now—and immediately felt a surge of discomfort. For the first time since they’d met, he had to look up at Ethan. His former roommate, the guy who was always shorter than him, was now taller—standing confidently in a body that Mark had worked so hard to build.

Mark scowled. “Damn it… this is weird.” He shifted his weight, feeling how much lighter his body was. His legs, once filled with explosive power, felt comparatively frail. He tried flexing his calves, but there wasn’t much there to flex. His thighs lacked the tension he was used to, the once-familiar bulk gone. It was disorienting—like his body had been stripped of something vital.

Ethan, meanwhile, grinned, shifting his stance and rolling his shoulders. “This is insane,” he murmured, testing out his new longer legs, even bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The sensation of strength beneath him was intoxicating. He had always envied Mark’s athletic build, and now… now he had it. Or at least, he was starting to.

Mark huffed. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. This is temporary.” He tried adjusting his footing again, struggling to reconcile with how much smaller he felt. His balance wasn’t bad—Ethan had always been relatively stable on his feet—but it was different. His former presence, his towering confidence, had quite literally shrunk.

Ethan couldn’t stop grinning. “Right, right… temporary.” But as he stretched out his new, longer legs, testing the newfound control he had over them, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to be.

Mark barely had time to react before he felt an odd pulling sensation deep within him. It was like something was shifting, retracting, and reshaping from within. A strange tingling spread from his lower abdomen, creeping downward, as if his entire center of gravity was being rewritten. His breath hitched as a cool sensation pulsed through his groin, making him instinctively shudder. He felt like his balls retracted nearer towards his abdomen while the girth and length of his member got slimmer and shorter. He immediately grasped his groin feeling a smaller package.

Ethan, meanwhile, gasped as warmth spread through his lower body, a rush of unfamiliar weight settling between his legs. It wasn’t just size—everything about the proportions, the way it rested, the way it felt connected to his body—was completely different. He felt heavier, more substantial, and a nervous thrill ran through him as he shifted his stance, adjusting to the unfamiliar presence. A small smirk tugged at his lips. This was real. It was really happening. He felt his balls get bigger, fuller, heavier, and lower. While the shaft got longer, thicker, and sensitive. His new soft member is bigger than his older tool even when hard.

Ethan yanked off his newly oversized shirt, eager to take in the full extent of his transformation. As the fabric slipped over his head, he was met with a sight that made his breath hitch—his abs, once lean and barely defined, were now replaced by a set of toned, muscular ridges. His stomach was flat, his obliques sharp, and his chest, now completely smooth, broadened in a way that made him feel powerful. He ran his hands over the newly sculpted contours of his body, relishing the firmness, the raw strength packed into every inch. A grin stretched across his face as he flexed, feeling his core tighten with an effortless strength he had never possessed before.

Mark, meanwhile, was much slower to remove his own shirt. As he pulled it over his head, he was met with an unfamiliar softness where his solid six-pack used to be. His once taut and chiseled abs had faded, replaced by a more average, softer stomach. It wasn’t flabby, but it lacked the definition he had worked years to maintain. Worse, there was now a light dusting of hair spreading across his chest and belly, something he had never had before. His fingers instinctively brushed over it, feeling the texture of hair that wasn’t his, and he frowned. Looking up, he saw Ethan—his own body—standing taller than him, grinning with clear satisfaction. It made his stomach twist. He had never felt small before, but now, standing in Ethan’s body, he was distinctly aware of how much less imposing he was.

Ethan, still reveling in his new form, lifted his arms and flexed, watching with satisfaction as the biceps and triceps bulged under his skin. His arms were massive compared to what he was used to—thicker, stronger, and undeniably powerful. 

He gave his right arm a playful squeeze, feeling the solid muscle beneath his palm, and laughed. "Damn, Mark, you’ve been holding out on me," he teased, admiring how his veins faintly surfaced along his forearm as he moved. He turned his arms, feeling the weight of them, the sheer strength that came with every motion. It was exhilarating.

Mark, in contrast, felt the unsettling sensation of his arms shrinking. His once thick, muscular biceps slimmed down, losing mass and strength. His shoulders narrowed, and his forearms thinned, making him feel… weak. He flexed instinctively, but instead of the satisfying tension of coiled strength, he felt only a modest resistance. His arms weren’t scrawny, but they weren’t his either. And the worst part? He could see Ethan, still in his body, basking in the newfound strength. "This is so weird," Mark muttered, feeling out of place in his own skin—or rather, Ethan’s.

Then he caught a glimpse of his underarms and frowned. The hair was lighter, finer than what he was used to—his own armpits had always been dark and thick. Ethan, meanwhile, lifted his arms and let out a low chuckle. His armpits were now covered in Mark’s usual black, coarse hair, and with it came a distinct, musky scent. He leaned in slightly, taking a quick, curious sniff, and smirked. "Damn, I smell like you now," he remarked, flexing his arms again for good measure. "And you? Bet you smell like me."

Mark, reluctantly, raised an arm and sniffed. Sure enough, the scent was completely different—cleaner, milder, less sweaty than what he was used to. He exhaled sharply, a mix of discomfort and disbelief washing over him. Everything about this was so wrong. Ethan, on the other hand, was clearly loving every second of it, and that only made Mark’s frustration grow.

Ethan grinned at him. "Man, this is awesome," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I feel amazing."

Mark was still coming to terms with his smaller, leaner body when he suddenly felt an odd tightening around his throat. He instinctively placed a hand on his neck, feeling the way it slimmed down, losing some of the natural bulk and thickness he had always taken for granted. His Adam’s apple wasn’t as pronounced, and his entire neck felt… weaker. It wasn’t a dramatic change, but it was enough to make him uneasy. Meanwhile, Ethan let out a surprised grunt, rolling his shoulders as he rubbed his own thickening neck. He could feel the new mass settling in, his Adam’s apple growing more prominent, his throat stronger.

And then they spoke.

“Dude, what the hell?” Mark blurted, his voice coming out higher, softer—exactly like Ethan’s. His eyes widened in shock as he clapped a hand over his mouth. That wasn’t his voice. It was Ethan’s.

Ethan, on the other hand, let out a low chuckle. Except it wasn’t his chuckle—it was Mark’s deep, confident, almost velvety voice. He smirked. “Holy crap,” he said, testing out the voice again. His words were smooth, rich, carrying the same natural charm and weight Mark always had. “This is so weird.” He reached up to his throat again, feeling the difference. His voice felt powerful, commanding—something he had never experienced before.

Mark shook his head, disturbed by how foreign his own voice sounded to his ears. “Okay, this is seriously messing with my head,” he muttered, hearing the unfamiliar tone escape his lips again.

But the changes weren’t done yet.

Mark suddenly felt a strange tingling across his face, a sensation of shifting bones and muscles. His jawline subtly reshaped, becoming less sharp, more rounded. His facial features softened in a way that felt foreign to him. The skin on his cheeks and chin prickled, and when he reached up to touch his face, he felt sparse facial hair sprouting—something he wasn’t used to. His normally smooth, well-groomed jaw now had the same scattered, fine scruff Ethan always had. But what truly threw him off was the sensation on his scalp. His thick black hair lightened before his eyes, the color shifting to Ethan’s usual light brown. Not only that, but it grew longer, shaggier, falling slightly messier over his forehead.

Ethan, meanwhile, was feeling the exact opposite. His jawline sharpened, becoming more chiseled, more defined. His once ordinary features morphed into something undeniably striking—more angular, more attractive. He could feel the slight stubble growing in, thicker than what he was used to, covering his chin and upper lip with a rougher texture. He turned his head slightly, feeling the natural confidence that came with such a strong, masculine face. But the biggest change was his hair—his usual light brown locks darkened to an inky black, shortening slightly into Mark’s usual well-maintained, styled cut.

Both of them locked eyes, and their expressions mirrored each other’s shock.

They had completely swapped.

From head to toe, there was nothing left of their original selves. Mark, once tall and powerful, now stood shorter and leaner, wearing Ethan’s face, voice, and body. And Ethan, once small and unassuming, now stood in Mark’s athletic, towering form, exuding the presence and charisma that had always belonged to his friend.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other, absorbing the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.

Ethan was the first to break the silence. He grinned, flashing Mark’s signature smirk. “Damn,” he said, running a hand through his thick black hair. “I look good.”

Mark groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.” His voice—Ethan’s voice—made it even weirder.

Ethan flexed his arms one more time, admiring the sheer size and power behind his new body. “Alright,” he said, flashing Mark a confident grin. “Time to ace that exam.”

Mark, arms crossed over his smaller chest, let out a sigh. “You better, dude.”

Ethan grabbed Mark’s discarded shirt from the bed, the fabric still warm and slightly damp from Mark’s body. He pulled it over his head, feeling the familiar sensation of soft cotton—but now on a body that wasn’t his own.

Mark tossed Ethan’s phone to him, and Ethan caught it effortlessly. His new reflexes were sharper, his grip stronger—it was surreal. They exchanged their belongings, including their wallets, IDs, and keys, ensuring every detail was covered. Ethan slung Mark’s backpack over his shoulder, the weight feeling significantly lighter thanks to his new strength. Taking one last look in the mirror, he smirked at the reflection of Mark’s face grinning back at him. With a deep breath, he turned and left the dorm, heading straight for the college building.

Walking across campus was a bizarre experience. Students he didn’t even recognize greeted him with nods and fist bumps, some calling out, “Yo, Mark!” He responded as naturally as possible, slipping into Mark’s easygoing persona. His larger strides carried him effortlessly to the exam hall, and when he entered, the professor barely gave him a second glance.

Sitting at Mark’s desk, Ethan picked up his pen and started the test. The questions were straightforward—nothing too difficult for him. But he knew he couldn’t make it perfect. So, he deliberately made a few errors, adding just enough mistakes to make it believable. He worked at a steady pace, finishing with confidence but ensuring the score would be in a safe passing range. As he handed in the exam, he felt a surge of satisfaction. He had done it.

Meanwhile, back in the dorm, Mark sat on Ethan’s bed, arms crossed, feeling restless. He had thought about playing video games, but the idea didn’t excite him the way it normally would in his own body. He flipped through the TV channels, landing on a football game. Normally, he would have been fully engaged, analyzing plays, cheering for his team—but now, it just felt… uninteresting. It was like watching from a distance, as if it no longer mattered to him.

He sighed and let his eyes wander around the room. His gaze landed on Ethan’s bookshelf, packed with books he had never paid much attention to. Out of curiosity, he reached for one, flipping it open. The first page caught his interest, and before he knew it, he was a few chapters in.

Mark had never been much of a reader beyond what was necessary for school, but something about the way the story unfolded intrigued him. The world-building, the characters, the tension—it was all strangely captivating. He leaned back against the wall, fully absorbed, losing track of time as he devoured page after page.

For the first time, Mark realized he might have been missing out on something.

Ethan pushed open the door to their dorm, his larger frame moving effortlessly as he stepped inside. He had grown more comfortable in Mark’s body over the course of the day, the way his powerful legs carried him with ease, the way his deep voice naturally rolled out when he spoke. The weight of Mark’s broad shoulders no longer felt foreign—it felt natural, like he had been this way all his life. He was still getting used to the constant attention from people on campus, but he had played along, nodding and responding to greetings with the same confidence Mark always carried.

As he entered, his eyes landed on Mark—his real body—sitting on Ethan’s bed, hunched over a book. Ethan raised an eyebrow. Mark was so focused that he didn’t even notice Ethan at first. The sight was amusing, almost surreal. The guy who usually spent his time running drills and lifting weights was now flipping through pages like he was lost in another world.

Mark glanced up, realizing he had been caught. His face—Ethan’s face—flushed slightly. “Uh… I just got curious,” he muttered, closing the book a little too quickly.

Ethan grinned. “Dude, you don’t have to explain. It’s a good book, right?”

Mark hesitated, then let out a chuckle. “Yeah… I guess it is.”

Ethan tossed his backpack onto Mark’s bed—his bed for now—and leaned against the desk. “Anyway, mission accomplished. I took your exam, made a few mistakes so it wasn’t too obvious, but you’re definitely passing.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Dude! Thank you! You saved my ass.” He sat up straighter, shaking his head in relief. “Seriously, I owe you big time.”

Ethan shrugged. “No problem. It was kinda fun, actually.”

Mark thought for a moment, then smirked. “Y’know… it’s Friday. How about we stay swapped for the weekend?”

Ethan blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, leaning back. “Think about it. You get to enjoy being me for a couple more days—no exams, no engineering stress. Just football, working out, hanging with friends. And I get to chill, read some more, maybe play some video games.” He smirked. “Call it your reward.”

Ethan’s lips curled into a grin. “Alright. I’m in.”

With that, they fully embraced the swap. They agreed to sleep in each other’s beds, sealing the illusion further. And for the rest of the weekend, they would call each other by their swapped names—Mark would respond as Ethan, and Ethan would respond as Mark.

The end (for now; Part 2 coming soon)

[taintandviolent]

visions of infidelity ; Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You’re newly married, and find it difficult to picture your husband in moments of pleasure. Every time you try, the man in your dreams interrupts. One night, he takes control, and forces both your thoughts and hands.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.1K | female reader, mild(ish) smut, masturbation, infidelity/cheating (technically?), vampire coercion, scent kink, decay mention, monsters, vampires, shadow play, possession kink, orgasm denial, edging.

a/n: ❥ originally from an anon's request for a fic about Ellen trying to picture Thomas and having Orlok interrupt, but I made it more general for readers who wanted to picture themselves instead! hope that was okay! also I am v rusty so I'm sorry if this isn't up to snuff!! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Marriage was supposed to be a splendored, happy thing. And it was. For the few weeks that you’d been married, it had been something of a celebration; congratulations and jovialities came your way from everyone who knew you. Your husband was in a constant state of euphoria, it seemed, and though he worked frequently, the time spent together was soft and tender like flowers in a summer breeze. Romantic. Everything was beautiful. 

Except for the desperate nagging of your dreams. Nightmares, perhaps, as they were unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Horrible, scream-inducing visions that plagued your mind… and yet… you found yourself drawn to them, anticipating them in a most unclean way.

Something else that plagued you; though you knew it to be wrong, you never thought of your husband in moments of aroused solitude, never pictured the softness of his jawline or the darling color of his eyes. Try as you may, it was never him. When he was on top of you, your eyes were always closed, picturing someone else – the man in your dreams. You felt his presence like a ghost, his grasp tight around your neck, preventing you from screaming, though only ever allowing you to moan. 

With your husband gone on a business trip for two nights, you were left alone. Alone to drown in your own arousal, your own desperate, clawing need for a man whom you’d never met. Once night falls, he comes. He comes to you, preying upon your mind, upon the ravenous hunger between your legs. 

Your lids snap open, your delicate chest heaving horribly with labored breaths. Your dreams were sensual, impure, and left you now with a throbbing problem between your legs. 

Your lithe fingers drift between your legs to your soft mound, which is throbbing, waiting for pleasure. The second that your fingers hit your center, you let out a plaintive moan, writhing your hips against the sheets. You close your eyes, furrowing your brow sternly, and picture your husband’s face. The gentle curve of his jaw, the grey blue of his eyes, the way his dark hair would swoop down into his forehead during moments of exertion or stress… 

The fire does not start. You whimper, and shift in your position, trying to pleasure yourself further… harder. And that’s when you hear, when you feel his voice vibrate through your core. 

“You cannot… deny… you own desires….” 

The arousal floods your senses, washing away all thoughts of your new husband, of the union that you shared. The only union is the one of you and the shadows which strangle your heart in an unyielding grasp. You blink, trying to force the image of him away, shooing it away like a stray animal at your door.

Your fingers breach your slick entrance and you force your voice to call out your husband’s name, desperately. There’s a guilt roiling in your chest, knowing that the wetness which you play with is not because of your beloved, and shall never be. Your eyelids drift shut, expecting to see nothing. Instead, you see him, naked and on top of you, his elongated fingers wrapping around your shoulders, your throat, your ribs. He tastes you both with his mouth and his digits as they sweep over every part of skin available to him and somehow, the skin which is not available – though you are clothed, you feel his touch everywhere, even beneath the soft cotton of your nightgown. 

You cannot escape the visuals of infidelity, and you thrash your head on your pillow, fighting them with all your might. Your body writhes as your fingers penetrate, pumping in and out of you with a fervor. You pause, withdrawing them and begin teasing slow, wide circles on your clit. The sensation makes your hips buck as you picture the ghastly image of the Count, the fire in your belly growing hungrier with each passing second. 

The dizzying sensation climbs higher and higher as you think of how he’d feel, his body weight atop of you, his low, full-bodied accent growling into your ear, the feeling of his lips on your skin as he tasted you, drank you in.

“You….. will do as I command….” 

In a foreign tongue, a single word was uttered that caused you to stop. You obey him, like a dog obeys a master. Muscles straining against a phantom grip, your hand shakes as you’re compelled to pull it away from your aching cunt, a white hot fire starting between your legs. You had the power to extinguish it, but you couldn’t. It was a cruel, abhorrent thing to be played with, tortured like an obedient animal, just to see what you’d do. Your ample breasts heave with each breath, labored. Seconds pass, and you look up at your bare ceiling, waiting on bated breath. 

“Again…” he says finally, the sound vibrating in your mind. 

Your hand flies back to your cunt, the pad of your middle finger finding your clit and hurriedly encircling it. Your hips shudder with the feeling, and you slip a digit back inside, feeling as your silken walls clench around it, hungry for more, hungry for an ache that you can’t satisfy. 

“Please…. Please… let me…” 

“Stop.” 

Again, your hand flies from your cunt like it’s been yanked away. You look at your palm, fingers twitching mercilessly in the air, feeling a grasp that isn’t there. A shadow sinks down along your forearm, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Stop…. Stop…. stop!” Your begging falls to the emptiness of your own bedroom, but the agony continues. You clench your legs together, trying to force some friction on your throbbing cunt. The feeling is hardly pleasurable, and you whimper, casting your gaze to your window, where the curtains flutter with the incoming wind. 

“Please… god,” 

There is no God, not here. Nothingness greets you. Until… you hear his voice again, this time, as though it’s on top of you. You quickly shut your eyes, squeezing them tight. 

“You will come for me. Only me.”

His horrifying visage is above you, watching you with an intense, widened gaze. His nostrils flare at the scent of your heated arousal and the sweat which peppers your body. His ancient, deteriorating, cold flesh presses against yours, so tightly that you’re sure if you opened your eyes, the visual wouldn’t change. 

He forces your hand to return your attention to your core, which aches with denial. You reach further down, slipping back inside, and bring your other hand to your swollen clit, making tight circles on it. The dual stimulation has you lifting your hips up off the bed, into the air, and your mouth opens, a whine akin to that of a banshee falls out. 

You pleasure and pleasure until the coil within you snaps, and the white, hot euphoric haze washes over your body, and as it does, so does the guilt of infidelity, the knowledge that you have been disloyal to your beloved husband, whom you really do love. 

Above you, he growls, satisfied. As coldly as the breeze that rushes in the window, he is gone. The visions are gone and you are left with nothing but your own guilt. 

“Forgive me, my love…”

[lovingu43vr]

A GLIMPSE OF US

Jasper Hale x Reader

warnings: Bella, usual twilight warnings

Summary: Bella causes a stir when voicing her opinion on two vampires.

It was a quiet day in Forks. An even quieter one in the Cullen house. Rosalie and Emmett out shopping,Alice and Issy Painting, Esme and Carlisle quietly organising the book shelf. Then there was Jasper and Y/n lounging in the love seat in the garden, passively watching creatures scurry past.

“Do you remember when we met?” Y/n softly spoke as she looked up at her mate whose face broke into a wild smile. “I certainly do Darlin, 1940 I was staying with Peter and Charlotte after hearing about new ways. I was reading a news paper trying to control my thirst. Then along came the most angelic being i’d ever seen Y/n Marisol Cullen.” y/n laughed before her husband carried on. “You walked over to me, Said you could help with my situation. I felt this intense feeling of wholeness when you touched my arm. That’s when i knew.” Y/n began “I felt like i’d finally found the missing piece” Jasper held his wife tightly. “And long story short your stuck with me for all eternity Darlin” Y/n Relaxed into Jaspers chest. Relishing in the peace and quiet.

Suddenly Jasper tensed up causing Y/n to lift her body off his and follow hi u s gaze. That’s when the smell of Bella hit her. Rolling her eyes she sighed. “Here she is little miss Florida” Jasper half heartedly chuckled. He Began to open his mouth before a hand being slapped over it. Y/n motioning to shush.

“Are you sure they are actually in love?”

“Bella”

“I mean Jasper looks like he’s in so much pain”

“Jasper always looks like that”

“And Y/n she just looks so perfect and like everything she does is a calculated move”

“Bella”

“No Edward she’s always looking to check if someone’s watching”

“Bella can you hear yourself”

“I don’t think they love eachother Edward i really don’t”

“Bella drop it”

“No Edward, They don’t even seem to like being in eachothers presence. I never see them together”

“You never see them alone either”

Bella clearly forgetting about the heightened hearing the Vampires possessed. Began Slamming into her future In-laws.

Jaspers heart dropped. All he’d ever wanted was for people to know how much he loves his wife. Bella saying those things hurt the empath a lot. He quickly sped off with out saying a word.

“Jasper” Y/n shouted. “Jaz”

Y/n sighed deciding to give him his space before entering the house. She walked in seeing Alice and Issy. “I’m guessing you heard” Issy spoke first her English accent purring. “It’s not true” Alice reassured the vampire. “Alice i’m not stupid. I know but Jaspers took it hard he’s sped off somewhere” Y/n began to walk over to the two Vampires. “I told you Bella’s a jealous girl” Issy nudged her wife. “stop” Alice whispered.

“There you are” Edward smiled walking in with Bella. “I wanted to show Bella some of your paintings” he told the married couple. “Hey Alice,Issy,Y/n” Y/n didn’t respond instead she walked further into the room sitting on the sofa to ‘read’ a magazine.

“Why’d did you say those things?” Y/n closed her magazine. Bella froze. “I mean are you that unsatisfied by Yourself and Edward’s relationship that you start making troubling little fantasy’s about mine?” Y/n stared at the human.

“You wanna know what i found so funny about your little observations?” “hmm?” “You said i’m always looking over to check if someone’s watching, i am your right. But forgive me if this is left field but have you totally lost your mind and forgotten the fact we are literal blood sucking vampires? Oh and the fact that we could be exposed any second?” Edward began to intervene.

“Y/n come on you know she didn’t mean it”

“Really because she sounded pretty set”

“you have no idea what love is Bella, your 17 years old. You have no idea what lays await for you and love in the future” Y/n walked away.

“Jaspers left” Alice told Edward. “What?why?” Edward turned to his sister perplexed. “Edward, Jaspers trying really hard” Issy spoke. “He tries so hard everyday, He worships the ground Y/n walks on and what Bella said was abit of a kick in the teeth don’t you think?” Issy gave the human girl a small glare.

“Now i’ve got to go find my husband, Please refrain from upsetting anyone else Isabella” Y/n sped up the mountains searching for Jasper. She found him. Sitting on a Rock. Watching the horses a field away run around.

“Hey Jaz” Y/n said sitting next to him on the rock. “hi” he quietly spoke. “Wanna talk about it?” Jasper thought about refusing to but he couldn’t. “I don’t want you to think i don’t love you” Jasper sighed. “I love you so much it’s almost painful. You consume my mind, Your in everything i do. When i’m talking to other students at school i’m waiting for you to join because you would love the topic. When u go to the store and i see something i have to get it because it reminds me of you. I spent 80 years suffering until i met you and i can’t even show it” Y/n had never seen her husband so upset by a few words. “Jazzy” she played with bits of his hair “ i know you love me you idiot” Y/n let out a laugh. “So does everyone else, Just because Bella said some stupid things once again doesn’t mean anything” Jasper cracked a small smile. “She does have a habit of that huh?” Y/n grinned grabbing his hand. “Home?” Jasper nodded as they both sped off.

“Jasper im-“ Bella was cut off by Jasper stepping back. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t speak to me” Jasper said before moving up the stairs. “Someone’s rubbing off on him” Emmett chuckled. “He needed it” Y/n nudged the boy. “He’s defiantly whipped i’ll tell you that” Y/n rolled her eyes. “And your not?” Emmett held his hands up. “Hey how can i not be” Rosalie grinned. “Another reason to hate Bella Yay” Edward sent the three vampires a glare. “Don’t glare at me Edweirdo, Your the reason she even met us”

Esme and Carlisle listened to the whole altercation ‘Do you remember when they actually got along. Y/n and Edward?” Carlisle asks his beautiful wife. “No i don’t, i remember when Y/n and i quote ‘tolerated that street urchin” Carlisle sighed. “We were so young then” Esme laughed “it was this morning”.

[cuntyji]

cw: reader wears bras, mostly crack lolsies hello

there were many things on your wishlist—peace, quiet, and a husband who didn’t do the absolute most at all times—but gojo flinging your bra cups across the room like they were vibranium shields? not one of them. yet here you were, standing in the doorway, getting absolutely domed in the face by your own undergarment.

SMACK!

the impact was so precise, so deadly accurate, that for a moment, you thought you had been personally assassinated by victoria’s secret herself.

from across the room, your menace of a husband let out a victorious whoop.

"BULLSEYE!"

you peeled the offending cup off your face, blinking in absolute bewilderment. "what. the. fuck."

gojo, grinning ear to ear, had the audacity to salute you.

"babe, you’re looking at the future captain america of halloween 2025."

your brain stuttered. stopped. fully crashed.

“what.”

he gestured to the pile of bras behind him—your bras, all neatly stacked on the couch like some kind of military arsenal. then, with the utmost confidence, he picked up another one, stretched it between his fingers, and FLUNG it.

you barely dodged as it whizzed past your head, landing on the doorknob with surgical precision.

"see that?" gojo beamed, clapping his hands together. "i am steve rogers. it's in the technique, babe. the flick of the wrist, the aerodynamics, the—”

"THE MENTAL ILLNESS?" you shrieked. "WHY ARE YOU THROWING MY BRAS?"

"it's not just throwing, babe, it's calculated combat."

you stared at him, horrified. "combat against WHO?"

he shrugged. "yuuji walked past earlier and called it impressive, so."

your eye twitched. "you mean to tell me—" deep breath, deep breath—"that you've been bra-flinging in front of yuuji like a goddamn olympic sport?"

"yes," he said, nodding, as if that was the most rational thing in the world.

you wanted to pass away. running a tired, exasperated hand down your face, you sighed. "satoru."

"yes, my love?"

"put my bras down."

"no."

the next thing gojo knew, a very real shield (a.k.a. your heaviest frying pan) was hurtling straight for his head.

[cruelxfantasies]

steddie. tw: slight mention of abuse, hints/mentions of bdsm, goes between Steve and Eddie third person pov.

at 32, Steve follows in his father’s shadow. he sold his soul 12 years ago to the 9-5. when they open a new office in chicago, steve is the one who is sent to oversee that the plans come to fruition. chicago is his new home for the foreseeable future.

steve doesn’t want to do this, he has to — it’s his father’s decision so letters are sent out to the tenants of the building, stating they have 1 month to get their belongings together. they’re being evicted. steve’s company was coming in, bringing it all crashing down to put up some new condos.

so this is what his life has led to. tearing people away from the only home they ever knew. from what he read, some of the tenants had been there for 30, 40 years. the rent was stabilized. what the fuck was he doing? pushing back against his dad would accomplish nothing except gaining steve a bruised rib. his most recent one is fading to a yellow, stemming from a small error steve made during a prior deal that caused issues down the line.

the weeks come and go. the tenants move out and steve goes to view the building in person as the last of them gather their possessions - an older woman, probably in her late 70’s, stops with a suitcase in her grip and eyes him up and down. from how he’s dressing, Steve’s aware that she knows who he is.

“parasite,” she spits at him. this word stays with Steve. her voice is on replay for weeks in his head. she’s right — he lives in luxury and he profits, thanks to the work of the poor and taking advantage of them. his drinking worsens. Steve knows he can’t go on like this. he needs retribution.

he finds it in Eddie.

Steve pays Eddie for a service. at least, it starts out that way. each time he feels the heat from the whip, steve breaths a little easier. when the cuffs dig into his wrist, he hopes it leaves indentations — a reminder of what he deserves. looking at Eddie, he sees the beauty that’s voided his life since he was 20. does Eddie see the ugliness that’s glaring in Steve?

Eddie knows why Steve is here, why Steve sought him out. it was discussed before they met. Eddie is aware of some of the actions Steve pulls in order to help the company advance.

he thinks he sees growth in Steve as the months pass, as Steve continues to accept the punishment and discipline Eddie doles out. his suspicion is confirmed after a particularly rough and intimate session. Eddie is cleaning up when Steve says, “Eddie,” and pauses, hesitant. it’s not often he calls him by his first name and he wonders if it feels odd on Steve’s tongue. “I think maybe I’m ready to tell my father that I’m leaving.”

Eddie wants to scream how proud he is of Steve, press into his lips with a bruising kiss. it was this thought occurring that helps Eddie realize this was their last meeting. he won’t be able to see clearly, won’t be able to do his job properly. this is a business transaction and Steve is a client.

when he tells Steve, the heartbroken look on his face almost causes Eddie to change his mind. almost.

Steve wonders if he’ll see Eddie again, but chicago is a big city. he knows that it’s unlikely. he stays true to the words he spoke to Eddie — he leaves his father high and dry, no two week notice. already wasting away those years at the beck and call of the company, Steve can’t stand to give any more of his time to something that destroys.

he does some good instead. he volunteers at local shelters, ladling soup into bowls for those less fortunate than him. he sorts through donated clothing, separating them into the proper piles to be hung up on racks.

Steve sees the older woman from the building on a sunday afternoon as he stands at the counter, putting together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the lunch sacks they’ll give out soon. she stares at him from a distance, steve pausing mid spread. it’s several seconds before she gives him a curt nod. that’s okay with him.

Eddie sees Steve at the movies on a thursday evening. he’s two behind him in line, overhears what he’s buying to and claims a ticket for the same showing. watches Steve choose a seat in the sixth row and claims the spot next to him. the exchanged look between them reads of apology, forgiveness, longing, hope. Eddie lays his arm out on the seat rest, palm of his hand facing up — an invitation. Steve takes it.

They’ll talk later.

[juletheghoul]

Hey there! Not sure if you're still taking submissions to expand your creativity, but I'd love to see what you come up with for everyone's favorite murder daddy, Dave. You have some great Dave stories, just curious if you still vibe with him. I love the look on his face when he gets caught in a lie, how he just lets the act drop.

Ouuu I DEFINITELY still vibe with Dave, I’ve been kicking around this idea of Dave and the surrogate him and Carol hire. Thank you for this ask!

Please enjoy the (possibly first part if I am inspired enough to continue🫣)

Dave (Murder Daddy) York x F!Reader 

Pairing: David York x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: **TRIGGER WARNING** NSFW 18+ INFIDELITY! (reader is a surrogate, David is married) language, Smut, PIV sex (wrap it up), dirty talk, Dave has a pregnancy kink 👀- let me know if I missed any!

(please note this is not beta'd and barely proofread)

Masterlist

-

He’s not exactly sure how to feel about the situation. Carol, his wife, is set on it though, and everything just feels easier to accept than to fight. There’s no real reason to deny her request, not unless you count the glaring fact that Dave York didn’t technically love his wife. 

He respected her, he appreciated what she brought to his life, he valued her as the perfect cover, but he never loved her. Not really. He’d made the commitment though, he’d said the words, he’d done all of the things that were expected of him as a man and husband and he’d committed. He’d even stayed faithful, he was in it for the long haul despite his lukewarm sentiments for her in the emotional department. 

When she broached the subject of children, part of him–the part that hated being tied to someone he felt nothing romantic for–rebelled. It set off warning bells and alarms about the finality of the whole thing. If they went through with this it would signify the complete intertwining of their lives. Even if in the future, for whatever reason they separated, a child would be the bonding element. The zip tie around his ankles. 

These fears, and a million more flooded his brain within seconds of her bringing up the subject, spiking his blood pressure and widening his eyes before he reigned it all in. He’d gotten his shit together though, and shifted the deer in headlights expression to a benign smile. He’d agreed with her, ignoring the cold sweat trickling down his spine. She’d gone to bed happy that night, excited to embark on the journey while he stayed up, terrified and apprehensive in the dark cavern of their room. 

He’d expected their sex-life to have a dramatic increase, he’d expected her to keep track of her cycle, to schedule their trysts according to her fertile periods and ovulation windows but she’d shocked him by suggesting a surrogate a few days after the initial talk. He’d always known her career was a priority for her, it was one of the main reasons he’d committed to her in the first place. The one characteristic they shared for real, their devotion and commitment to their respective jobs but he’d been a little taken aback at her not wanting to carry the child herself. 

“It’ll be so much easier for me, I won’t have to give birth, I won’t have to quit my job and with childcare I’ll barely be away from the office at all.” She’d said it with a toothy smile, so proud of herself for having thought of it, it had rubbed him the wrong way. Not for any of the archaic, sexist reasons you’d imagine, but he expected them both to take time off once the baby was born. He was all for her hiring someone to help should she want it but with the way she spoke, it sort of seemed like she expected their lives to continue without interruption after the baby was born. 

Despite his reluctance, despite his concerns and his general disagreement with her in how their lives would change with children, he said nothing. 

“Whatever you think is best, honey.” He’d smiled his agreeable smile and she’d accepted it happily. 

-

You almost didn’t answer the phone call, the name of the agency flashing meant another potential pregnancy and while the money was great, the emotional toll was a little more than you’d expected. You answered anyway, cursing yourself but smiling through the conversation all the same. 

With nails chewed down to the bone, and the raw edge of your t-shirt pulled until light blue strings hung like tinsel at your hip, you agreed to meet with the new couple and see how it went. 

-

The Yorks meet up with you at the coffee-shop down the street from your house. 

Carol is a lovely woman, a little manic maybe but there hasn’t been one potential mother you’ve met up with that hasn’t been. There is grace in you by the mile for her. 

Her husband, David, is another story, and it isn’t a new one–different flavour maybe. The men usually puttered around, awkward and detached while their wives took the lead. It wasn’t always a malicious, uninterested thing, you just found that sometimes it took them a little longer to connect to the idea. Once that baby was born though, they were usually just as emotional, just as invested in the whole thing. 

David isn’t so much detached, as clinical. His questions are concise, practical and intelligent. He supports his wife, even if he seems a little cold. His looks are…something to be impartial to on your part. Tall, broad, clean-cut and handsome–completely your type. Completely gorgeous in that, ‘you could be sort of dangerous’, ‘tell me what to do’ sort of way. 

You do your best to ignore the initial attraction, ignore the heavy way his eyes seem to bore into you and focus on the objective. This couple wants a baby, and you’re open for business. 

The agency called a few days after the initial meeting, congratulating you on being chosen, and a whole host of appointments lined up for check-ups, blood work and for insemination. There’s a request from the wife, Carol, though, for a private phone call before everything is to begin and you accept. 

When she calls you a few days after that, you’re taken aback by what she wants to discuss. 

“Okay, so I know this is a lot to spring on you but I was wondering if you’d be open to donating your own eggs, I know it’s usually just the surrogacy–my fertilized egg implanted and done, but I wanted to know if you’d be up for it. I would pay of course, the agency has given us the fee for the surrogacy and then I would add the fee for egg donation. You don’t have to agree right this second, and if you find you aren’t comfortable with that then I understand. Let me know once you’ve thought it through.” You can hear the smile in her voice, when she hangs up, you’re shocked. The idea of the extra money is appealing, that can't be denied but something about it gives you pause. 

You sit with it for a few days, weighing the pros and cons. The money is the biggest pro. It would be enough to finally buy the little house you’ve been dreaming of, enough for a down payment and to have a few months worth of mortgage payments. On the other hand though, there would be a child out there that is partly yours, a little girl or boy with your hands or eyes or your quirks living with another family. It’s all a little dramatic, but you always thought your children would be yours, with the love of your life. 

Your future ends up winning, and after a brief call to confirm that yes, you would be willing to donate your egg for the surrogacy, the process begins. 

-

The regiment of vitamins is insane, the shots and the fertility clinic visits are just as overwhelming as they’ve always been, despite there being no monetary aspect to worry about. You go through with it though, sometimes Carol is there with you, but mostly you go it alone. When the time comes to harvest the eggs, they end up with five. David makes his own contribution and all are fertilized. 

Carol smiles as the doctor explains the process, that there are two boys and three girls and something inside you wilts a little. She is happy, and the whole thing snowballs, what keeps you going is the thought that by this time next year you’ll be happy and living in your own home. 

They implant the first embryo, the sex of which is left to the doctor's discretion. Carol doesn’t want to know until it’s born and part of you thinks that might be for the best. It would help keep the emotional aspect of the whole thing separate. Might help to keep you objective through this whole ordeal, remember that it’s just like the other times.

This is Carol and David’s baby, not yours. 

-

The morning sickness hits a couple of weeks after the procedure and you know it took. You can feel it in your bones. You wait though, do things the right way and test at home, call for a follow up at the clinic to test thoroughly there and when the time comes they tell you what you already know. 

Carol and David send a massive gift basket to your apartment, so big you can barely lug it over to the sofa. It’s full of prenatal vitamins, treats to satisfy every craving. There’s a giftcard to a maternity store, one for a fancy local cafe, and then another one for the expensive grocery store. There’s a pregnancy pillow and soft pajamas, it’s very thoughtful and you genuinely appreciate the thought. 

Communication between you and the couple–well, Carol–is pretty consistent, David joins in on the random facetime call but you’ve accepted that he’s one of those men that only connects with the child once it's born. You push away that constant little thorn in your brain, the one that reminds you that he’s the father, and that the egg is yours.

-

Their house is a lot nicer than you’d imagined, it had to be for the amount they’re paying. 

Carol holds your arm as you walk through, even though there’s really no need. Although at twenty weeks and showing quite a bit, the baby isn’t a hindrance yet. Not in terms of getting around anyway. Hormonally however, that’s an altogether different story.

She prattles on while you eat, chattering happily about studies she’s read and the food and its beneficial properties. She speaks about nutrition and the size of the baby while you smile around your bites. 

David stares.

He barely speaks at all, a complete contrast to his wife and instead studies you as you sit there, in his house. It's a bit unnerving, intimidating and the heaviness of his gaze makes your hands tremble. There's something in his eyes that sets off those hormones you’d been battling, the ones that begged for a partner, for a man to rip your clothes off and give you the business.

Your mind gives your libido a serious talking to, all but dragging your imagination by the ear while smiling at them both. 

When the meal is over, David blessedly excuses himself, clearing the table while Carol ushers you to the sitting room sparing you from your unsavoury thoughts about a married man, about the father of the child you were carrying for them. About her husband.

“Okay tell me what you’re feeling, has the sickness gone away now?” It’s the first question she’s asked all night.

“Yes, thankfully the nausea has relaxed, I’m not throwing up as much. I’m feeling pretty good actually, despite being alone.” You smile, huffing a frustrated laugh. She tilts her head in confusion.

“Despite? Is there something you need help with? I could hire a nurse to come check in on you—“

“No no, it’s nothing like that. It’s more to do with the hormones.” You wave it away, dismissing her worries.

“Is it more supplemental? Should I get more prenatal vitamins for you?” You sigh, maybe you aren’t being clear enough.

“No, nothing like that, I have everything I need, believe me. It’s just, being single, and hormonal sucks. This is probably too much information but I’m just incredibly horny.” You laugh, half embarrassed and half amused by the expression on her face, it’s replaced with an empathetic smile.

“Oh! Oh gosh I’m sorry, yeah I can imagine that must be frustrating.” 

“It is, incredibly so. I am five months pregnant and all I want is to be fucked into my mattress you know? I’m sorry that sounds horrible—“ you cover your mouth but she waves away your concerns.

“Not at all, in the books I’ve read it’s completely normal. I’m sorry you’re going through it alone.” She pats your hand, kind above everything else.

David walks in then, broad shoulders filling out his white shirt so nicely.  There’s a tightness in his frame that gives you pause, an intensity that wasn’t there at dinner and it only highlights the loneliness, highlights the absence of a man like him in your life. There is no David waiting for you at home. 

“Would you ladies care for a coffee? Or maybe a tea for you? I’m not sure if coffee is okay–”

“I would love a coffee.” You smile, in your previous pregnancy coffee had been a no-go but luckily, this time it was something you still enjoyed. 

“How do you want it?” The question is simple, and appropriate in context, but your body can’t tell the difference, and the desire to say ‘hard’ is on the tip of your tongue. You blame the baby, and the tornado of hormones flooding your system, as well as your panties. 

“Um. Just–uh–” You flounder for a moment, mouth watering at the thought of him asking you the same question in bed, “Um.” 

“Just bring the tray with the cream and sugar, honey.” Carol smiles, oblivious to the torment. 

“Can I use the restroom?” You rise quickly, body warming, nipples hardening at the barrage of images flicking through your mind. 

“Sure, it’s just through here.” He points you in the right direction and once you close that door behind you, you let out the sigh trapped in your throat. You wipe away the arousal, annoyed with the sticky damp seat of your underwear, and splash some cold water on your face before rejoining them. The rest of the evening goes by smoothly, and once you’re home again you vow to put it out of your mind. 

-

Another basket arrives at your door a week later.

With a smile, you open the card, curious as to what Carol has sent this time since it’s wrapped up in brown paper. 

Just between you and I, 

Wish I could help. 

Enjoy, xoxo

David

His writing is neat, block letters so different from Carol's loopy script and for a moment you’re lost as to what he means. The paper rips under your fingers and what you find shocks you into frozen silence. It’s a collection of sex toys, different sizes, things that vibrate and thrust and alongside them are bottles and vials of arousal serums and lubricants. A whole menu selection of self-exploration. Your cunt clenched at the thought of using them, at the thought of him thinking about you using them. 

Your conscience chimes in, knocking down the door your libido had barricaded yourself behind and picked up your phone. WIth a shaky hand, you look through your emails and finally find his number.

“David York speaking.” He answers and his voice sends a thrill through your body, you push it away, focus on the anger that should be there.

“David, It’s-”

“I know who it is,” he sounds amused, and it only fuels the fire inside, whether it's in anger or arousal you cannot be sure, “I’m assuming you received my gift.” 

“Yes. I–I think you should come by and pick it up.” The wobble in your voice betrays you but you push through, “I am guessing by your note that Carol has no idea you’ve done this.”

“No. She doesn’t.” there is no wobble in his voice, and that only annoys you. 

“Then why?” 

“Because I heard what you said about how you’ve been feeling, the hormones, how horny you are and since I cannot fuck you myself, despite how badly I’d like to, I want you to be satisfied.” Your cunt clenches at the thought, at the knowledge that despite the way your body is changing, he still finds you attractive. Your hormones rage, they cloud the sense that screams that this is wrong, that he should not be saying these things to you. 

“It’s, um. David, this is so–inappropriate. I need you to come pick these things up, Carol wouldn’t be happy to know you’re speaking to me this way.” You take a deep breath, gathering your good sense. He’s silent on the other end, the sounds of people milling about in the background coming through and then he hums softly. 

“Understood, I’ll stop by after work.” 

“Thank you.” You hang up, and bask in the rightness of putting him in his place, even though your body screams and rebels at the loss of everything.

When your doorbell rings just before four-thirty, your heart races. He’s smiling when you open the door, the basket waiting on your table. He says nothing when you step aside for him to come in but the mistake becomes obvious when he fills your space. His eyes bore into yours and the smell of him, the crisp lines of his suit, the breadth of him clouds your brain. 

“There’s really none of this you’d like to keep?” He opens the package, pulling a little bullet out of the package, testing it against his palm before turning to you. Your heart races, your nipples harden, your cunt leaks. 

“Um. No–no I shouldn’t–”

“Shouldn’t?” He smiles, “Sort of sounds like you want to.”

“What I want makes no difference, you’re married, and I’m carrying a baby for your wife.”

“My baby. You’re carrying my baby.” He takes a step forward, “and you’re suffering, and to be honest, hearing what you said made me harder than I’ve ever been in my life.” He towers over you, stepping close enough that you have to tilt your head to keep eye contact. 

“It did?” Your conscience screams, begs you to see reason and to back away, to shove the basket at him and shut the door in his face. 

“Oh yes.” His fingertips brush against your shoulder, sliding up to curve around the column of your neck, “You just need someone to give it to you, don’t you baby?” He tightens his hold and a moan slips out, something filthy and his smile is sharp. When he presses his mouth to yours the dam breaks and you clutch at him like your life depends on it. 

He groans when he pulls your clothes off, his mouth engulfing your nipple, the gentle scrape of his teeth turning your cunt to liquid on your couch. With shaking hands you loosen his tie, shoving his shirt off as he rips your leggings down. 

“Turn around, I want you on your knees.” He moves away, leaving your nipples puffy and shiny with this spit. You swallow thickly before getting on your knees on your couch, your heart races at the sounds of him taking his clothes off, all of you a raw nerve when he presses up behind you. 

When he slips inside, the world makes sense.

His cock is perfect, thick enough to make you gasp, that tiny edge of pain amping up the pleasure. Your face dips down, pressing against your forearm on your sofa but he pulls you up, your back hitting his chest, his hips snap roughly, pulling you apart with every thrust. 

“That’s it baby, just take it–” He talks into your ear, one hand holding onto your belly possessively, and the other slipping around and when he touches you your body tightens up. The bullet is on and he presses it against your clit, shoving you into an intense orgasm. 

“That’s so good huh? Fuck you’re squeezing me so fucking tight–” He doesn’t stop his rhythm, his cock kisses your cervix as he fucks you through your peak, the vibrator making your legs shake. Your hands reach back to hold onto his hair, clutching. 

Tears slip out, his hand moves from your belly up to your breast, he pants his exertion into your ear and the pleasure builds again, ramping up until you reach down to pull his hand away, it’s too intense. 

“David–” The voice that comes out of your mouth isn’t yours, it’s some wounded, desperate animal and he laughs, swirling the bullet quicker until you scream, clenching around him hard enough that he groans and spills his own passion deep inside. 

He kisses your shoulder as you float back into your body, thumb strumming at your oversensitive nipple while the other lets the bullet go and cradles the swell of your belly. 

You feel his come when he pulls out, part of you gets horny all over again, part of you feels incredibly ashamed but it's hard to focus on it, especially when he sits back on your couch and pulls you into his lap. Wordlessly you straddle him, pressing yourself close. 

“We shouldn’t have…” You speak mostly to yourself before giving into the urge to kiss him, his tongue licks into your mouth, his hands sweep from your shoulders to your back, down to the swell of your ass, kissing you like he’s done it a million times. 

“No, we shouldn’t have, but we did, and if you give me like twenty minutes we’ll do it again.” He skims his nose against your throat, and you hate that it excites you so much you feel both your arousal and his come drip out of you. 

He stays another hour, fucks you in your bed, and again in your shower before getting dressed and leaving you sore, and more satisfied than you’ve been in years.

The basket stays. 

-

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[ditsycafe]

love in the spotlight || l.hs

pairings : lee heeseung x female!reader

genre : fluff, angst? (just a little sad)

word count : 750

warnings : none?

a/n : do not in any way plagiarise, translate my work to another language or claim my work as your own.

Lee Heeseung had always known that being an idol meant sacrifices. Long hours in the practice room, sleepless nights, the pressure to be perfect--it was all part of the life he had chosen. But he had never imagined that love would be one of those sacrifices.

She had walked into his life like a quiet melody, soothing yet unforgettable. They met before his debut, back when he was still a trainee, struggling through gruelling dance practices and vocal lessons. She had been his escape, the one person who saw him as just Heeseung, not a future idol, not a performer--just a boy with dreams and fears.

They kept in touch after his debut, though it wasn't easy. His schedule was relentless, and the weight of fame grew heavier with each passing day. Yet, she remained a constant in his life, a secret piece of normalcy he clung to.

One evening, after wrapping up a long day of filming for a music show, Heeseung found himself alone in the practice room, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His heart ached with the burden of what he was about to do. He had made up his mind--he couldn't live like this anymore. He couldn't bear the distance between them, the secrecy, the fear that one wrong step would destroy everything.

So he called her.

"Can we meet?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

When she arrived at the quiet cafe where they often met in secret, Heeseung could see the concern in her eyes. He reached for her hands across the table, his fingers trembling slightly.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I don't want to live a life where I have to choose between my dream and you. I'm willing to give it all up--being an idol, the fame, everything--if it means I can be with you."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He expected relief, maybe even happiness. But instead, she shook her head, her grip on his hands tightening.

"No, Heeseung."

His breath hitched. "What?"

She smiled, a sad yet knowing expression on her face. "You love music, you love performing. Its part of you. If you gave it up for me, you'd regret it. And I can't be the reason you turn away from something you've worked so hard for."

"But--"

She squeezed his hands. "I love you, too. And I don't want to lose you either. But we don't have to choose between love and your dream."

Confusion swirled in his chest. "Then what do we do?"

She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I have something to tell you. I've been working towards something, too. Something that will let me stay close to you in a way that doesn't put your career at risk."

Heeseung frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm becoming a makeup artist," she said, her voice steady. "And I've been offered a position at your company."

His heart stopped. "What?"

"I'll be part of the team that works with idols--your team." She bit her lip. "This way, I can be by your side without anyone questioning it. No one will suspect anything, and we won't have to hide. I can be there for you, even if it's just in small ways."

Heeseung felt like the world had shifted beneath him. He had been ready to throw everything away for her, but instead, she had found a way to stay by his side without making him sacrifice his dream.

Tears pricked his eyes as he let out a shaky laugh. "You're incredible, you know that?"

She smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I know."

And just like that, Heeseung realised that love didn't have to mean giving up everything. Sometimes, love meant finding a way to stay together—no matter what.

all rights to this work belongs to me @ditsycafe.

[andy-15-07]

A Thanksgiving to Remember

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1186| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The aroma of roasting turkey, sage, and cinnamon hung heavy in the air, a comforting blanket woven with the promise of Thanksgiving. Y/N, perched precariously on a kitchen stool, stretched to reach the top shelf of the pantry. “Do we have enough dried cranberries?” she called down to Pedro, who was wrestling a particularly stubborn butternut squash on the counter.

“I think so,” Pedro grunted, finally managing to halve the squash with a satisfying thwack. “But maybe grab another bag just in case. You know how my family is about their cranberry sauce.”

Y/N chuckled, grabbing a step stool and peering into the depths of the pantry. “Tell me about it. Remember last year when Aunt Maria almost started a brawl over the last spoonful?”

Pedro grinned, the memory clearly amusing him. “Oh, she’s a force of nature. But her cranberry sauce is legendary, I’ll give her that.”

Y/N found the cranberries and hopped down, placing the bag on the counter. “Right, cranberries secured. What’s next on the culinary agenda?”

“Mashed potatoes,” Pedro declared, brandishing the now-halved squash like a trophy. “And you know my rule – no lumps allowed.”

“Your rules are legendary too,” Y/N teased, bumping his shoulder playfully. “But I have to admit, your mashed potatoes are pretty spectacular.”

“Years of practice,” Pedro said with a wink. “Now, are you peeling or mashing?”

“Peeling,” Y/N replied, grabbing a peeler and a bowl of potatoes. “But you’re on gravy duty. Your mom’s recipe is a closely guarded secret, and I’m not about to mess with tradition.”

“Deal,” Pedro said, already gathering the ingredients for the gravy. “But you’re in charge of the stuffing. I still haven’t forgiven you for that oyster incident a few years back.”

Y/N shuddered dramatically. “Let’s never speak of that again. This year, it’s a purely vegetarian affair. No surprises.”

The kitchen filled with the comfortable rhythm of chopping, stirring, and the gentle hum of conversation. They worked side-by-side, a well-oiled machine honed by years of shared Thanksgivings.

“So,” Y/N said, breaking the comfortable silence, “are you excited for everyone to get here?”

Pedro paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Of course. It’s always chaos, but it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it. Although,” he added with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I’m a little worried about Uncle Carlos and his political opinions. He and your dad are going to clash again, I just know it.”

Y/N sighed. “Tell me about it. I’ve already warned Dad, but you know how he is. He can’t resist a good debate.”

“Which usually ends with everyone shouting and someone storming off to the living room,” Pedro finished. “Ah, family.”

“The best kind of chaos,” Y/N said, smiling. “But seriously, I’m looking forward to it. It’s been a while since we’ve all been together.”

“Me too,” Pedro agreed. “It’s nice to have everyone under one roof, even if it’s just for a few days.”

They continued working, the conversation flowing easily between them. They talked about their families, their work, their plans for the future. They laughed, they teased, they shared quiet moments of comfortable silence.

As the afternoon wore on, the kitchen transformed into a symphony of delicious smells. The turkey was browning beautifully in the oven, the mashed potatoes were creamy and smooth, the stuffing was fragrant with herbs and vegetables, and the gravy was rich and velvety.

“Okay,” Pedro said, wiping his hands on his apron, “I think we’re almost ready. Just need to set the table.”

Y/N nodded, grabbing the tablecloth and heading towards the dining room. Pedro followed close behind, carrying a stack of plates.

They worked together, quickly transforming the dining room into a festive space. The table was set with their best china, gleaming silverware, and colorful napkins. A vase of vibrant fall flowers sat in the center, adding a touch of elegance to the scene.

“Looks beautiful,” Y/N said, admiring their handiwork.

“Indeed,” Pedro agreed. “Now, all we need are the guests.”

Just as he finished speaking, the doorbell rang.

“They’re here!” Y/N exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Pedro grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Let the chaos begin.”

The house quickly filled with the sounds of laughter, greetings, and the clatter of suitcases being dragged through the hallway. The aroma of Thanksgiving dinner mingled with the scent of perfume and cologne, creating a heady mix that was both familiar and comforting.

Family members arrived from near and far, each one bringing their own unique energy to the gathering. Aunt Maria, true to form, immediately took charge of the kitchen, offering unsolicited advice on the gravy. Uncle Carlos, as predicted, cornered Y/N’s dad in the living room, their voices rising in the heat of political debate. The children, fueled by sugar and excitement, raced through the house, their shrieks of laughter echoing through the halls.

Amidst the joyful chaos, Pedro and Y/N moved through the crowd, greeting their guests, offering drinks, and making sure everyone felt welcome. They were the anchors of the family, the glue that held everyone together.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the dining room, everyone gathered around the table. The turkey, golden brown and glistening, took center stage, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and all the other traditional Thanksgiving dishes.

Pedro stood at the head of the table, carving the turkey with practiced ease. Y/N sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“To family,” Pedro said, raising his glass.

“To family,” everyone echoed, their voices filled with warmth and gratitude.

The meal began, a symphony of happy chatter, shared stories, and the clinking of glasses. Even Uncle Carlos and Y/N’s dad seemed to have reached a truce, their political debate temporarily forgotten in the spirit of Thanksgiving.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere grew more relaxed and intimate. The children, their energy finally waning, curled up on the couches, falling asleep amidst the soft murmur of adult conversation.

Pedro and Y/N found a quiet moment to slip away from the crowd, retreating to the porch to enjoy a breath of fresh air.

“It’s perfect,” Y/N said, leaning her head against Pedro’s shoulder.

“It is,” Pedro agreed, wrapping his arms around her. “Just like every year.”

They stood in comfortable silence, watching the stars twinkle in the night sky. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted out from the house, a comforting reminder of the love and connection that bound them all together.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered, turning to face Pedro.

“For what?” he asked, his eyes filled with love.

“For everything,” she replied. “For this, for us, for family.”

Pedro smiled, gently cupping her face in his hands. “I love you,” he said, his voice soft and sincere.

“I love you too,” Y/N replied, her eyes shining with tears of happiness.

They shared a long, tender kiss, a silent promise of their love and commitment to each other. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of family and the magic of Thanksgiving, they knew that they had everything they could ever need. They had each other.

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | INTRODUCTIONS

johnny mactavish x reader

[NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

mild swearing, lots of plot

The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.

You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. A future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.

But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.

Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.

You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans  felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.

The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.

So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months  turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.

You couldn’t leave him.

The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.

You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning. 

You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.

Something’s got to give. 

The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible. 

‘FARMHAND WANTED. 

DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. 

CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’

If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.

You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.

They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.

But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.

You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.

You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.

“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.

You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.

“What’s got’ya  all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you

You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”

Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”

You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”

You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”

He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”

“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”

You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”

About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.

You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.

Then you hear it—boots on the porch.

Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.

You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.

You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”

Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit.  But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.

And then he opens his mouth, and…

Definitely not American. Not even close.

You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”

He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.

You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.

 You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.

He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.

Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands. 

“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.

He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.

He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”

You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.

“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”

“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”

He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”

You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.

His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.

“The hell is this?”

Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.

You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”

Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”

“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”

Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”

You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”

That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.

Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”

The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.

So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.

When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.

Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.

It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.

You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”

He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.

And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet. 

You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.

You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”

He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

You arch a brow. “Like?”

His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”

That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.

“What branch?” you ask.

“UK Special Forces.”

That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”

He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”

You tilt your head. “Iraq?”

His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”

You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.

You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”

Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”

Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”

His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”

You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”

He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”

You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”

His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”

Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”

Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”

Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.

He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you

Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.

Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”

That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.

He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.

You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.

“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”

You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.

You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.

For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.

He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.

It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts. 

You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.

“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.

Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.

Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.

You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.

To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.

You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.

It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.

Johnny’s picking it up in hours.

You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.

By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.

It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.

The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.

It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down. 

You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.

Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.

"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”

Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.

“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.

You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”

He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel,  we’ll get along just fine.”

You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.

Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.

The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.

Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”

You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”

Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”

Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’

“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”

Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”

Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”

“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”

Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”

“Scotland.”

“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”

Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”

That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”

Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”

Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”

And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.

You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.

You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.

You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.

He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.

A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.

You realize he’s doing it on purpose.

You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.

Johnny follows.

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?

You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.

You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’

Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.

Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.

Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.

You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.

Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

It’s awkward—unlike him.

You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.

And you’re not about to let that something slide.

“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”

Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”

You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”

His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.

Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?

The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.

“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”

Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.

“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”

His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin’.”

Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.

He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.

You’re in trouble.

[cowboythethird]

James didn’t realize it was a gay club immediately; he hadn’t been out in muggle nightlife in years, comfortably coupled up as he had been, and wasn’t quite sure what muggle gay fashion looked like. Or muggle fashion at all. He’d had to ask Remus for aid getting dressed (dress robes did not exactly blend in to the clubbing scene) who was uncharacteristically eager to help.

They’d settled on a a tight t-shirt, cropped to James’ middrift, and embossed with the word “Queen” which he recognized as the name of one of the muggle bands Sirius listened to. Over that he wore a light jean jacket, rolled up to his elbows because it was hot, and a tiny pair of jeans shorts that barely covered his ass that Remus insisted were peak muggle fashion. Used to flowing wizard robes, James had tugged at the bursting seams of the shorts uncomfortably, but he had to agree that his muscled legs did look great in them. He’d then imagined Sirius’s reaction to them, and ashamed, thought it maybe best if he didn’t look great tonight. Wear some baggy pants and a dunce hat as punishment.

Anxious to see what Sirius himself was wearing, James sat on the living room couch, tapping his hands absentmindedly against his bare thighs. Sirius’ couch. The one he’d been sleeping on for the past two weeks while Lily moved out of his apartment. Was it wrong that he’d felt a tad relieved when she flooed him yesterday to say she hadn’t yet found a place to live? That he’d almost offered she just keep their apartment and he move in with Sirius?

Yes. James thought decidedly. He needed to move out before he got the urge to ask Sirius to share his bed.

It had been nice. Too nice. Living with Sirius. The quiet domesticity of it all. He’d accidentally made enough coffee for two the first morning, used to brewing it for Lily as well, but Sirius had happily lapped it up and then made them both dinner the next evening, and so they had fallen into the rhythm of living together. As easy as it was back at Hogwarts, and as easy as it seemed it could be forever. James would sweep the floors, Sirius would put on a record—something with a sexy beat and a raging guitar—and start miming the chords with those nimble fingers of his, and James would join in their air-band using the bewitched broom as his microphone. Soon they’d be dancing up on each other in the kitchen, faces flushed, screaming along to Dorea and The Dwarves.

But they were just playing house. And Although Sirius had ardently promised it could be forever, James knew he’d have to leave at some point before he did something so far out of the realm of platonic that he damaged their friendship forever.

So he’d kiss a girl at the club tonight, move back into his own apartment the next week, and pretend to wallow over Lily for a few weeks after that. It would be easy: he’d already been doing that his whole life.

Determination set in his brow, James stood up then, eager to take the first step towards this bleak future—when Sirius came hurdling into the living room, tripping himself up on James’ feet, and landing on the floor one hand gripped on James’ thigh for support.

A flush crept up James’ leg, over his abdomen, under that tiny Queen shirt, up his neck, and all over his face. Sirius was looking up at his with tentative horror, wide eyes lined with black so his grey irises stood out strikingly. He was kneeling at James’ feet, mouth slightly parted, and a large hand wrapped around James’ bare quad.

Sirius stood up quickly, rising over James so he had to look up to meet his friend’s eyes. This was almost worse. James had to do everything in his power to keep his gaze from wandering down to Sirius’ tight jeans or the shirt stretched across his broad chest.

Gods, James needed some firewhisky NOW.

“Smooth, huh?” Sirius chuckled, not meeting James’ gaze. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. The one that had just palmed James’ thigh. He didn’t dare look down, convinced he’d see his friend’s fingerprints inked into his bare leg.

“Yeah,” James said, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Seems you’re as ready to head out as I am.”

Sirius took the invitation to leave eagerly, stomping into his leather boots and passing James his sneakers.

James wished he owned those kiddy velcro shows as his trembling hands struggled to do up the laces.

They apparated to the bar—James side-along with Sirius since he wasn’t familiar with the location. It was in Soho, a neighborhood James didn’t frequent, a bustling place that night, the air filled with loud hoots, blinking lights, and the smell of cigarette smoke. Sirius led him out onto the street and down a block until they reached their venue. The Sundown Club sat on the corner of two streets in the basement of a building called the Astoria. A sign outside advertised a disco club called “Bang!”

“A lot of men here.” James noticed, eyeing the long line of 20-something men crowded around the street. They had barely left the house and his Be Straight plan was already falling apart with no potential women to seduce.

Sirius hurriedly mumbled something in response to not having been to the club in a year and how it could have changed from when he used to come and it was “just bursting with birds.”

James wasn’t a fan of imagining Sirius being swamped by drunk girls, so he changed the subject. “Hey, I’ve got you, so as long as they provide liquor and good music I’m content. What’s a ‘disco’ anyway?”

“Oh boy,” Sirius clapped, lighting up, “you’re gonna love it. Just wait till you see the ingenious way muggles light up the dance floor; they call it a ‘disco ball’.”

They made their way inside the club, passing by throngs of men lounging on the stairs. The men, James noticed, didn’t seem like the muggle ones he’d seen on the telly. Their tank tops bore long v-necks and they lay comfortably on each other, arms around the others necks, hands on their lad’s waist a little too low. Not a single girl was in sight. One man gave James an appraising look.

Sirius’ grip was tense around James’ bicep as he led them to the bar. He waved to the bartender, ordering them a round of shots. The man returned shortly with two glasses of amber liquid and refused the muggle money Sirius offered him.

“On the house,” the bartender boasted, “celebrating you finally finding someone.” He pointed his jaw at Sirius’ hand wrapped around James’ arm. “Cute one too.”

It was then that James noticed the word printed on the man’s tank top. ‘Gay.’ His stomach dropped to the floor. This was a gay bar.

How did Sirius know? He’d been so careful. Did Remus tell him? James couldn’t meet his friend’s eye.

“We’re not,” Sirius said tersely, dropping his arm like a hot coal. “He’s not.”

At the same time James said: “He’s not—“

“Ah.” The bartender said disappointedly. “Well, they’re on me anyway, Sirius.”

Sirius downed his shot faster than James had ever seen someone take one. James toyed with his, running a finger along the rim of the glass.

“He knows your name.” James didn’t know what to make of it.

Sirius had gotten good at faking it. He’d gotten good at the smiles and the flirting and the hinting at women sharing his bed. He mentioned the clubs and changed the pronouns and he got good at it.

He got good at lying to James. He’d never wanted to be good at lying to James.

He’d gotten so good at it that when James and Lily broke up and James needed an outlet to “let loose” that he’d turned to Sirius and asked where he normally went.

And, of course, Sirius had given the name of the only bar he could think of.

One he hadn’t been to in a year, which could be in his best interest now as hopefully none of his old hookups would be there. But still.

He’d very much given the name of a gay bar to newly singly James Potter.

He debated calling in help but Remus wouldn’t understand the urgency. Had never understood why Sirius didn’t go out with it and tell James he was gay. James would understand, Remus was certain. It wouldn’t change anything.

But Remus didn’t know about the countless practice kisses. The times they’d share beds to stave off the cold. Didn’t know that the only reason James couldn’t see Sirius’ feelings was that he’d never thought them possible.

Sirius was a womanizer.

He’d carefully made sure James knew that. Believed that.

Because otherwise, his friend might see. Might see the arms thrown over shoulders, the lingering hugs, the blushes, the smile he couldn’t control at hearing Lily had finally left him.

Things that a straight best friend might get away with. Things that a queer friend wouldn’t.

But then he’d gone and given James the name of London’s number one gay night club.

And he was fucked.