#dib do a spin

[iodotsys]

So uh. We watched The Room in our server the other day and now I can't get it out of my head again. This movie is like a virus.

[aresrambles]

Mission Complete

logan howlett x fem!reader - in which you and the wolverine shack up in a shitty hotel after a mission. nsfw, afab terms, there's only one bed, 18+reader (always), “kid”, pining!logan, pining!reader (3911 words)

a/n: just one night with this man... just one fucking night. also yes, first wolvie post but defo not the last.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Logan pauses in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the double bed crammed into the corner of your shared hotel room. He steps inside, trying to appear nonchalant, but his eyes dart around, searching for an alternative—a sofa, a chair, hell, even a futon. Nothing. He sighs heavily, dropping his bag with a thud, his mind racing through the options. Sharing a bed with you? That’s out of the damn question. He could sleep on the floor, or better yet, maybe there’s another room available. Spending the night with you would be some sick kind of torture; he can’t restrain himself that long.

If you notice his hesitation, you don’t show it. You slip past him with a casual brush of the shoulder, making a beeline for the bathroom. “Dibs on the shower!” you call out, rummaging through your backpack for what he figures must be a change of clothes. Logan grunts in response.

“This mission wasn’t even that bad,” you continue, your voice muffled as you dig deeper into your bag. “We’re leaving early tomorrow, so you should probably shower tonight too. Don’t need you slowing us down in the morning, old man.”

Logan doesn’t dignify your jab with a response. Instead, he turns on his heel and heads back out, letting the door click shut behind him. He’s got a better chance of dealing with the front desk than with sharing that bed. He fishes out a cigar, biting down on it as he stalks down the stairs, striking a match as he goes. The no-smoking signs? They might as well be invisible to him. If they didn’t notice him before, they’d sure as hell notice the smoke.

When he reaches the lobby, it’s empty. Logan rings the bell—once, twice.

“Hello?”

Silence. He rings the bell again, harder this time.

“Hello? Anybody here? I was just—oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His eyes land on a neat little sign perched on the desk: ‘Front desk will be available again from 7:30 a.m. tomorrow.’

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, he thinks, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke in frustration. What if there’s an emergency? What are people supposed to do, wait until morning?

Logan growls under his breath, stubbing out the cigar on the polished wood of the counter, leaving a smoldering mark as a parting gift. He storms back up the stairs, mentally preparing himself for a night on the hard floor. It could be worse, he muses, but only just.

Logan swings open the door to a piercing shriek, slamming it shut almost as quickly as he’d opened it, his hand still gripping the doorknob with a trembling force. Okay, it could definitely be worse, he thinks, his mind spinning.

Inside, you scramble to cover yourself, your heart racing as you realize what just happened. “Seriously? Do you not knock?” you shout, your voice laced with a mix of panic and humiliation. Your face burns as you try to process the situation, the mortification almost too much to bear. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” you mutter under your breath, hurriedly yanking on the oversized t-shirt you had planned to sleep in, your hands fumbling in haste.

“Why didn’t you change in the bathroom?” Logan shoots back, voice gruff, trying to mask his own flustered state. He grinds out his cigar underfoot, his mind replaying the moment he just witnessed, over and over. His ears burn hot, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the image of you—shirt halfway over your head, bare and vulnerable, your skin still glistening from the shower. Fuck. He looks down, his jeans now uncomfortably tight, the ache in his groin a harsh reminder of why sharing a bed with you is a terrible idea. He can barely keep himself together when you’re fully dressed, let alone in a state like that.

You take a moment to steady your breathing, trying to push the embarrassment down. “You can… you can come in now,” you stammer, your back turned to the door as you pretend to be engrossed in your phone, anything to avoid facing him.

Logan doesn’t reply. He pushes the door open and slips inside, his movements quick and stiff as he heads straight for the bathroom, needing to put some distance between you both. The door closes behind him, and you let out a groan, burying your face in your hands. This moment was going to haunt you for a very long time.

So, you had a little crush on Logan. No big deal—just a harmless, schoolgirl crush. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But you couldn’t deny that you and Logan made a damn good team. So good, in fact, that the Professor had been pairing you two up for missions more often than not lately. And that silly, schoolgirl crush? It had started to grow into something much harder to ignore.

Your stomach churns as you roll over onto the bed, face buried in the pillows. It’s hard to admit, but part of you got a little turned on by what just happened. The searing embarrassment of having your body on display like that for the man who’d starred in so many of your late-night fantasies… It was almost too much to handle. You sigh deeply, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks again.

But then reality sets in. Logan didn’t feel the same way—how could he? The way he bolted for the bathroom was proof enough. Why would someone like him ever be interested in you? You’ve heard the stories about Logan’s past flames, women who were nothing short of extraordinary. And here you are, just another teammate, a brief moment of awkwardness quickly forgotten.

You try to push the thoughts away, deciding it’s best to just turn in for the night. There’ll be plenty of time to torture yourself with these thoughts later. For now, sleep is the only escape from the swirling mess in your head.

It was true—Logan couldn’t get away fast enough, but not for the reasons you thought. As he stood under the scorching spray of the shower, letting the steaming water cascade over his body, his eyes remained fixed on the tiles beneath his feet. His regenerative abilities could heal wounds and stitch him back together, but they never quite banished the constant ache that clung to his bones, a dull throb that even the hot water could only barely soothe. But the ache in his abdomen? That was something else entirely.

Logan couldn’t shake the image burned into his mind, the sight of you, bare and beautiful, just moments ago. He gritted his teeth, his thoughts straying where they shouldn’t. How would those perfect tits look under the water with him, droplets sliding down your skin while he took you against the shower wall? Would you mewl softly, or would you gasp, nails digging into his back? Would you cling to him, or would your legs give out, collapsing into his arms?

He let out a rough grunt, twisting the shower knob to ice-cold in an attempt to snap himself out of it. The icy blast hit him hard, but he welcomed it, hoping it might douse the fire in his veins. He could touch himself—hell, the thought crossed his mind more than once—but not with you just outside, not when you were so close. It felt wrong, too damn wrong.

The cold water eventually worked its magic, easing the unbearable tension that had built up inside him, but it took nearly an hour to do so. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Logan stepped out of the shower, drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. As he looked at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror, he knew one thing for certain: this was going to be a long, restless night.

Logan steps out of the bathroom to find you huddled on the floor, passed out in a tangled mess of blankets. He rolls his eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he carefully scoops you up and lays you down on the bed.

“I don’t need th’ bed,” you mumble, your voice so soft he almost misses it. He huffs through his nose, a fond smile creeping onto his face. “Where else you gonna sleep?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. You blink sleepily, trying to focus as the darkness settles around you, the only sound the gentle rustling of sheets as he adjusts you on the bed.

“Sorry about earlier,” he adds, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

You don’t reply, too embarrassed to form words. Instead, you turn your face away, hoping he won’t notice the flush of heat creeping up your cheeks. But in the stillness of the night, it feels like every little movement, every breath, is amplified.

“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor,” you finally confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “There’s space for both of us.” The words hang in the air, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of how close Logan is to you. You can almost feel the warmth of his breath against your face, the proximity making your heart race. But then, just as suddenly, he shifts away, the moment passing like a whisper in the dark.

It’s silent for some time, like he’s thinking. You almost speak up again but he beats you to it, just as you part your lips.

“Scoot up, kid,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind.

You do as he says, moving over to make room, your pulse still thrumming in your ears. Logan settles in beside you, and the bed dips slightly under his weight. The space between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

Despite his shower, the faint smell of cigars still lingers in the air. It’s oddly comforting, grounding you in the surreal reality of the moment. You take a deep breath, trying to steady the wild thoughts racing through your mind. “Good night Logan,” you murmur, hoping that sleep will come quickly and spare you from the ache of wanting what you can’t have—craving the feel of his strong arms around you, the way his hands might tighten against your throat, and the sound of his voice purring dark promises in your ear.

“G’night,” he replies, his voice a low rumble as he turns away, leaving you back to back.

Logan is in Hell.

He can feel your warmth through the thin gap between you, every soft breath you take a reminder of just how close you are. His mouth had agreed before his mind could stop him, and now he’s paying the price. Lying next to you, with your soft body and those innocent eyes that see right through him, is torture. He wonders if there’s still time to slink back into that pile of blankets on the floor.

His muscles tense as he tries to push down the desire clawing at him, the instinct to reach out and pull you close nearly overwhelming. The scent of your skin, the way you whispered his name—everything about you is a test of his control. Logan knows he’s walking a fine line, and the longer he stays here, the harder it gets to keep himself in check.

His fists clench under the covers, every muscle in his body taut with tension. Logan can hear your soft, rhythmic breathing, the quiet rustle of sheets as you shift slightly beside him. The scent of your skin lingering in the air is really what’s holding him hostage. He tries to focus on anything else, but all he can think about is how close you are—how easy it would be to reach out and just touch you.

You lie there, eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. The silence of the room is thick, almost suffocating, but you know you’re not the only one awake. You can feel it- an awareness that runs deeper than simple intuition. All those missions together, all those nights spent side by side—you’ve learned to read him in ways that go beyond words.

Without needing to glance back, you know Logan Howlett is still awake. It’s as if his presence hums in the air between you, a silent energy that’s becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. There’s a tension there, a subtle shift in the way he breathes, the way he holds himself so still, as if he’s trying not to disturb the fragile peace of the night. But you can sense it: something’s bothering him.

You wonder if it’s the same turmoil that’s been gnawing at you, the same restless desire that has kept you on edge ever since you laid down beside him. The thought of Logan feeling the same way sends a shiver through you. It’s a strange kind of comfort, knowing that you might not be alone in this.

But then again, the Wolverine is a man of secrets, you know him well, better than most, but not as well as you’d like. Not in the ways that matter most right now. And yet, lying there in the dark, with only your thoughts and the steady rhythm of his breathing to keep you company, you can’t help but wonder if the walls he’s built around himself are cracking, just as yours are.

You can’t take it anymore. Tentatively, you let your hand drift to the space between you, your fingers brushing against his side. Logan stiffens at the contact, a sharp intake of breath the only sound in the darkness. Emboldened by his reaction, you let your hand slide further, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. You’re on fire, body moving on its own accord. This wasn’t you, it couldn’t be.

“Darlin’, you don’t know what you’re startin’,” Logan growls, his voice thick with warning and something else that you couldn’t quite identify yet.

But you do know. You know exactly what you want, and you’re tired of pretending otherwise. You turn onto your side, pressing your body against his back, your breath hot against his neck.

“I don’t know. Maybe I do,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly with anticipation.

Logan turns to you with a gentleness that catches you off guard, his hand sliding to your waist with a tenderness that feels almost reverent. He pulls you close, but it’s not with the raw urgency you expected. Instead, it’s slow, deliberate, as though he’s holding himself back by a thread. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, searching for something, perhaps a final permission.

It’s you that closes the gap. The pressure of his lips against yours is gentle, but the undercurrent of need is undeniable, simmering just beneath the surface. You can feel the restraint in every brush of his lips, every measured caress, and it only makes you clench tighter.

Logan’s hands begin to roam, exploring your body with a hunger that has clearly been held back for far too long. He takes his time, fingers tracing every curve, every dip, as if memorizing the feel of you beneath his touch. His lips leave yours to trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, “This is all I could think about out there, in the woods… how you’d feel, how you’d taste.”

His words send a rush of heat through you, a deep flush spreading across your skin. His hands slide up your thighs, teasing the edge of your shirt before slipping underneath, the warmth of his touch igniting every nerve. His fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, his lips moving down your collarbone, and you realize with a start that you’re trembling beneath him.

You find yourself arching into his touch, a soft whimper escaping your lips. Logan’s mouth curls into a smile against your skin, sensing your desperation. “‘s that what you want, darlin’?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that vibrates against your skin, making you shiver. “You want me to take you apart, piece by piece?”

You nod, breathless, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you silently plead for him to stop teasing. “Please, Logan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “Please…”

He chuckles softly against your skin, a dark, throaty sound that sends another wave of heat through you. Logan pulls back, his gaze heavy with desire as he sits up. You watch, breathless, as he reaches for the hem of his vest, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The sight of his bare chest visible only by the flecks of moonlight, muscles rippling beneath his skin, takes your breath away (though this wouldn’t be the first time). You reach out, your fingers brushing against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

Logan watches you with dark, hungry eyes as he reaches for the waistband of his pants, removing them with deliberate slowness. He seems to take pleasure in the way your breath catches, in the way your gaze follows every movement as he slides them down, revealing the full, impressive length of his dick. Logan is big. It’s not just long, but it’s fucking big. Veiny, girthy and leaking precum at the tip, you can’t help but instinctively bite your lip.

The sight of him, hard and ready, makes your pussy ache for him in a way that’s almost painful. “Logan… please,” you whisper again, your voice barely more than a breath as you look up at him through your lashes.

His gaze darkens, a satisfied smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he finally gives in, his hands moving with purpose as he strips you of your t-shirt. The moment your body is fully exposed to him, Logan pauses, his eyes raking over you with a possessive hunger that makes your heart skip a beat. He takes you in, every inch of you, committing the contours of your body to memory.

When he finally positions himself between your legs, you’re trembling with anticipation, your body aching for him. But Logan doesn’t rush. He takes his time, guiding himself to your entrance, the head of his cock brushing against your wetness before he pulls your panties to the side. He watches your face, his gaze dark and intense, as he teases you, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back. Bastard.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough but laced with tenderness, his lips brushing against your ear. “Because once I start, I can assure you; there’s no going back.”

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel him inside you. “I need you inside me.” you whisper, your voice heavy with desire.

Logan growls low in his throat, and finally, mercifully, he pushes inside you, filling you with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch and fullness making your head spin as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. He pauses, letting you adjust, his lips brushing yours in a soft, almost reverent kiss.

Then he begins to move, each thrust deep and powerful, driving you both closer to the edge with every stroke. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he moves inside you, his gaze locked on yours as if he’s taking in every expression, every moan, every gasp.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine. You do, your eyes meeting his in a drunken haze. You moan, your body trembling beneath him, the sensation of him inside you overwhelming. Every thrust, every movement, is perfectly timed, his body attuned to yours in a way that almost didn’t feel real.

“Logan,” you breathe, your voice trembling with need. “It’s so… much.”

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice full of rough affection. “But you can take it,” He spits.

The praise, the way he’s looking at you, it all builds the tension inside you to a fever pitch. His gaze never wavers, holding yours as he moves deeper, harder. You can’t help the soft whimpers that escape your lips, your body tightening around him with each powerful stroke. Logan’s grip on your hips tightens, and he groans, his eyes darkening further as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Don’t hold back,” he growls, his voice full of animalistic need. “Let me see you, I want it all.”

“Logan… I—” The words catch in your throat as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, your body arching beneath him.

He growls your name, a primal sound full of need, as he moves faster, harder, both you and Logan knew you were close.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his gaze locked on yours.

And you do. With a cry, you shatter around him, the pleasure crashing over you like a wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. Logan follows you over the edge, his own release tearing through him as he groans your name.

When it’s over, Logan collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. The room is quiet now, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. You nestle against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The tension that had built up between you over the past few days finally snapped, and here you both are, tangled in the aftermath.

You shift beside him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat. He turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a hint of unease, maybe even regret. “You sure this was okay?” His voice is rough, laced with concern, and that old nickname hangs in the air like a habit he can’t break. “Kid.”

You meet his gaze, holding it, making sure he sees you clearly. “Logan,” you say, your voice steady, “I’m not a kid anymore. You need to stop treating me like one.”

He exhales, a long, controlled breath, as if he’s trying to push down everything he’s feeling. “I just don’t want to hurt you,” he admits, the words heavy.

A small, wry smile tugs at your lips as you prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. “You’re not taking advantage of me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Your tone is straightforward, cutting through his doubts. “I wanted this as much as you did. I think, maybe even more…” You trail off.

He looks away, eyes flicking back to the ceiling, his hand finding its way to your back, fingers brushing your skin in a gesture that feels almost hesitant. “I’ve done things... seen things. Sometimes I’m not sure what’s right anymore.”

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to make sure he feels it, really feels it. When you pull back, you hold his gaze, your voice low but firm. “I know what I’m getting into.”

He’s quiet, his hand tightening on your back just a little, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. He doesn’t say anything else, just pulls you closer, holding you like you’re the one solid thing in a world that’s always shifting beneath his feet.

[coffee-and-tea-time]

HEAR ME OUT: A LIMINAL SPACE BUT YANDERE

…we seem to have drifted from our original plans with this account-

I call dibs on the dilf then

No, back off, he's mine🤺

Word count: 1.6k (the very first long post) (subtle brag)

TW: hinted yandere behavior but soft since it's the introduction, monster/non-human, written in you/yours, don't expect it to make much sense it's a liminal space that we created with things that came along the way and a bit of the backrooms wiki, human! reader is confused but interested (willing? Mostly confused)

“ugh… What time is it?”

You go grab your phone, annoyed that your stomach managed to wake you up. Maybe you really do need to eat something before trying to go back to sleep, though it's too comfy being in the warmth of the blankets…  still, a loud grumble from your belly ruined your plans, with no other option left, you sight and reluctantly got out of bed with your phone in hand, however, as you were making your way to go to the kitchen, you heard the distinctive ping of your phone's notifications which made you turn around to see… you have your phone in hand, why is there a replica of your phone on your bed?

You get closer, thinking it's surely something else and your eyes deceived you because of the dim lighting, when you grab that second ‘phone’ you got even more confused, is a perfect replica of your own, you even compared them both side to side wondering if you finally went insane but you didn’t get enough time to question your sanity as you start to feel extremely dizzy, like everything around you is spinning around so damn fast you can't even tell if you were the one moving or see properly at all, you close your eyes in hopes that it will prevent you from getting nauseous.

"Why is feeling so fucking chilly?"

You said in a shiver as you feel yourself fall, this time you know you are really moving, why? Because your face hits the snowy ground… Snowy ground? 

You move yourself a little too fast for a person that just kissed the ground with so much force, all you can see around you is softly falling snow through what looks like a residential street. 

The night sky a little too black, there were no lights that you could clearly see from just a swift look around, no stars, and… no clouds, the sky was pitch black, yet the houses were illuminated with a slight glow from moonlight even as the moon was nowhere in sight. 

The place was eerie to say the least, the overwhelming quietness of it all almost a warning of danger. There were no sounds of people, no distant murmurs of far away conversation, no barks from pets, no chirping of shivering birds.

This place is nothing like any place you've ever been in but it still gives you a nostalgic feeling. 

What can you do to return to your home? 

You start walking, maybe you should knock on a house with the lights on? It can be dangerous but there aren't a lot of options, one thing is sure, when you return home, you're gonna go to the hospital for a check-up, mental or physical? You aren't sure yet.

You thoughts were stopped when you catch a silhouette not so far away, seems the darkness makes it hard to see properly, but it's seems like the shadow of a little girl making a snowman, the sight relieves you somewhat and you decide to approach, asking the little girl is far more secure that knocking on randoms doors.

"Excuse me, little miss! It seems like I got lost, is there an adult with you that can tell me which street this is?"

You said out loud, it seems like the little one hears you when she tilts her head a little and moves her arms around cutely, the girl seems eager for you to come closer although you can't really tell if she is looking at you or not, it's odd, even as you get closer, you still see a shadow more than a child.

And then, you feel a soft and cold touch on top of your head, the faint snowing plus the silence makes you feel like you could hear as the soft snowflakes fell around you, like your sense of hearing heightened from the sheer lack of any other sounds. 

That being said, you couldn't help but jump when the loud sound of the door opening abruptly met your ears and even more when you hear like somebody is running behind you, you quickly look back but all you can see is snow and darkness. 

You return your gaze to the child, and got even more taken aback to find a shadow shaped like a abnormally tall man with horns sticking out of the dark smoke that seems to shape his 'hair' in front of you, and in the blink of an eye, you were picked up by 'him', he ran faster that you ever thought was possible, before you can even breathe, you already were inside of a house still in the man's arms, his hands under your armpits cupping you up like a soggy cat.

You try not to panic, as you let your eyes inspect the place, only one thing is sure: if it is dangerous, it is better not to test his patience, horror movies taught you better than that.

You feel something really cold hugging your leg, you gaze slowly going downwards only to find what you think is the little girl you saw earlier… seems like your eyes didn’t trick you before, it is in fact, a silhouette, a pitch black outline of a child.

What in the world is going on?

Well, at least they seem to understand you, the little one let go of your leg and gestured, trying to explaining you everything with charades, you would find it very lovable and adorable in any other occasion; your focus on the kid quickly interrupted by the man's hold of you shifting, his hands coiling around you and pressing you to his chest in what felt like a hug, your feet don't even touch the ground, you can feel thought your pajamas the cold emanating from his.. body? Well, unlike his gastly looking hair, the rest of his body did feel more solid, seems like even shadows can have a sleeper build… 

Wait, what?

Before you can think of anything else, your stomach growls, right, you were about to fetch yourself some food before you ended up here, though, their reaction to the grumble of your stomach amused you, how the tiny blank eyes of the little girl widened, them both freezing in a second of shock before the man ran again with you in his arms.

You can sense the toddler running after you two as the man runs into what seems like a rather luxurious kitchen, your bare feet finally meet the rather warm floor again although you still don't have time to relax as the shadow man tries to hurriedly feed you a spoonful of baking powder.

“I’m sorry but I can’t eat that…”

You anxiously try to explain why you can’t just eat baking powder, hoping he didn’t take it the wrong way and lucky for you, he seems more concerned than anything, his.. mouth? twitches making more of a weary expression, at least you think so as he hurried to open all of the cabinets and even the fridge, letting you look through everything to search for something you could actually eat.

You sense a gentle tug on your pajama's shirt, when you look down, you were met with the little girl shyly offering you a fruit that you can actually eat, so you gladly accept it, you can’t help but find the shadow duo cute as they start cheering between themselves, seemingly celebrating that they found something that you can eat, you kind of want to take a photo but well, you don’t have your phone and probably if you had it, you would be calling for help rather than recording cute moments.

You start to relax on the chair as you eat, the adrenaline slowly wearing off of your body and with that comes the pain, right, you slammed on the ground a few minutes ago, you feel your body between a state of numbness and pain, you can't help but to winche because of that, which make the duo approach you again quickly.

“Sorry, i-is nothing, I just… need some sleep”

You come up with a quick excuse, even though they are weirdly kind and seems harmless, just in case, it's better to avoid mentioning any injury or damage since you still don't 100% trust how they'd react, you trust the outside even less though. Your mind plays back to that running you heard behind you before the shadowy man took you away, the memory still sending shivers down your spine. To escape from them without proper knowledge of how things work here sounds dumb.

As you were lost in thought, the tall man scooped you up once again, this time his cold touch felt gentler than before, you start to wonder if he sees you as a cat of some sort but there is no use in asking since these creatures don't seem like they know how to speak.

He walked you upstairs into what seemed like the master bedroom and gently tucked you into the bed with a soft pat on your head, you start to sense that these shadows love being affectionate, a little touchy feely; Maybe is the contrast of his cold body with your warmer human body, you can’t really blame him, the smoke that he has for hair seems really soft to the touch too…

For better or for worse, he stood up straight again and start checking the lock on the windows, making sure they were well covered, only opening the door to invite the child in, who quickly layed besides you handing you a little book, a bedtime story, with a smile, You find endearing the fact they so eagerly want to hear a story, but a chill runs to your spine when you hear the tall man locking the door and then laying down on the other side of the bed beside you.

The night ends up peacefully although the exhaustion wins over your sense of self preservation, you slowly drifting off to sleep after reading the story to the little girl.

sorry for any misspellings or weird sentence structure ❣

images from pinterest

[theemissuniverse]

KUNG LAO INTROS X ANTIHERO!READER MK 11

SUMMARY : MK 11 intros with Shang Tsung’s daughter. Flirting with Kung Lao

A/N : I’ve had this in my drafts for 3 weeks and I need to post it bc my drafts are clogging up so this is ass

WARNINGS : slightly suggestive

MASTERLIST

(Y/N) VS (Y/N)

#1 (Y/N) : Are you also fond of the man with the hat?

#2 (Y/N) : Who? Erron Black?

#1 (Y/N) : Definitely not who I was talking about

#2 (Y/N) : Kung Lao is worthy of us

#1 (Y/N) : That has yet to be proven

#2 (Y/N) : Then you are not worthy of him

#1 (Y/N) : Do I really date Kung Lao in the other timeline?

#2 (Y/N) : Date? You’re married to him

#1 (Y/N) : Oh boy…

KUNG LAO VS KUNG LAO

#2 KUNG LAO : You like (Y/N)?

#1 KUNG LAO : You don’t?

#2 KUNG LAO : She’s scary

#2 KUNG LAO : In my timeline, Liu Kang ends up with (Y/N)

#1 KUNG LAO : That won’t happen this time

#2 KUNG LAO : So you say..

#1 KUNG LAO : I already called dibs!

#2 KUNG LAO : You’re not the man of her dreams

#1 KUNG LAO : You know we’re the same person right?

KUNG LAO VS (Y/N)

KUNG LAO : Double date with Liu Kang and Kitana?

(Y/N) : You could not handle a woman like me

KUNG LAO : I think it is you that cannot handle a man like me

KUNG LAO : So, you’re really Shang Tsung’s daughter?

(Y/N) : Unfortunately, yes

KUNG LAO : Let me put you out of your misery

KUNG LAO : Why can’t you admit you like me?

(Y/N) : A sorcerer has no feelings

KUNG LAO : Who are you? Noob Saibot?

KUNG LAO : What are you doing here, (Y/N)?

(Y/N) : I came to suck the soul out of you

KUNG LAO : I always knew you wanted to do it

(Y/N) : Your body would make for an excellent experiment

KUNG LAO : So, you like my body?

(Y/N) : Ugh. Never mind, you

KUNG LAO : Liu Kang says that you’re interested in me

(Y/N) : I will burn him to the ground

KUNG LAO : Don’t be mad just because your secrets out

KUNG LAO : You’re with the good guys, remember?

(Y/N) : I choose my own destiny

KUNG LAO : This is not the mistake you want to make

(Y/N) : I prefer you to Liu Kang

KUNG LAO : An incredible choice

(Y/N) : I hate excessively humble people

KUNG LAO : You always look so stressed out

(Y/N) : I am ruler of the Netherrealm. I am

KUNG LAO : Let’s relive some stress than

KUNG LAO : So what was all that talk about not being able to handle you?

(Y/N) : Ugh. Just because you are good does not mean I like you

KUNG LAO : So why did we go for ten rounds then?

KUNG LAO : Why on Earth are you entertaining Johnny’s advances?

(Y/N) : Because I know that makes you mad

KUNG LAO : Oh, you’re good

KUNG LAO : You know we get married in another timeline?

(Y/N) : What about it?

KUNG LAO : How bout we speed up the process and I put a ring on that finger now?

LIU KANG VS (Y/N)

(Y/N) : You told Kung Lao that I was interested in him?

LIU KANG : Did I lie?

(Y/N) : I do not want him to know that

LIU KANG : I also see the good in you as Kung Lao sees

(Y/N) : I am not good, Liu Kang

LIU KANG : Your actions prove otherwise

LIU KANG VS KUNG LAO

LIU KANG : I did not know your type would be, (Y/N)

KUNG LAO : You’re telling me

LIU KANG : I guess there’s a first for everything

KUNG LAO : (Y/N), does not believe I like her

LIU KANG : She’s the daughter of Shang Tsung. She’s skeptical of everything

KUNG LAO : Yeah, true

LIU KANG : I am not childish like you

KUNG LAO : Good. So you won’t sing the song?

LIU KANG : *sings* (Y/N) and Kung Lao sitting in the tree

JOHNNY CAGE VS (Y/N)

JOHNNY CAGE : Let’s say you and me take a little spin

(Y/N) : You are not my type, Cage

JOHNNY CAGE : So, I gotta own a bladed hat for you to give me a chance?

JOHNNY CAGE VS KUNG LAO

JOHNNY CAGE : Fifty bucks says that I can get (Y/N)

KUNG LAO : You really want to go broke?

JOHNNY CAGE : I - you - Oh you know what -

KUNG LAO : Stop flirting with (Y/N), Johnny

JOHNNY CAGE : Aw, jealous?

KUNG LAO : No. It’s just annoying

NOOB SAIBOT VS (Y/N)

NOOB SAIBOT : The darkness yearns for your touch

(Y/N) : I am not interested

NOOB SAIBOT : Kung Lao is not worthy of you

NOOB SAIBOT VS KUNG LAO

NOOB SAIBOT : You are not worthy of (Y/N)

KUNG LAO : And you are?

NOOB SAIBOT : Precisely

[queen-of-fanfics]

I Told You To Stay

Pairing: Peter Pan x Reader

Prompt: Peter told you to stay.

A/N: Ayoooo lol I'm alive. Anywho Y'ALL I GRADUATED COLLEGE and the first thing I accomplished after was writing this fanfic. How have y'all been? Now I have some free time and a desk job so I have time to write more. I literally got the idea for this scenario from a dream I had. So... This one gets a little heated but nothing explicit.

I Told You To Stay Part 2

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter teases you as he grabs your arm to spin you around.

You were the second Lost Girl to have ever made it to the island. The first will always be Wendy. Wendy continues to be the mother figure around the island while you were free to run off hunting and exploring with the Lost Boys. You could never shake the feeling that either Wendy hated you or envied you. She would be stuck cooking and caring for the boy while you were almost like a sister. You two never got along too well, the feeling of competition was always there.

The second that you came to the island and met everyone, it was no surprise that Peter was the one that caught your eye. 

However, you were always hesitant to let any hope blossom in you since you thought that Peter and Wendy were together. And if they weren’t, she would have first dibs on him anyway. But that fact never stopped your crush and admiration of him from growing. Day in and day out, you were running through the forests with him and protecting the Lost Boys together. 

Tonight was a quiet and warm night and everyone had had their dinners and was heading to bed. Wendy had made dinner and stayed back at the camp to clean up. You were heading towards your cabin before Peter grabbed your arm.

“You aren’t going to bed already, are you?” Peter asked with his usual smirk.

“Why, huh? You got something in mind worth my while?”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose.” He hides his smile from you as he leads you into the forest. That leads to where you are now. Running through the trees and climbing up the cliff as Peter is bounding off in front of you.

Coming to a stop behind Peter, you drop your hands to your knees and your head drops to start gasping for air. “Are we there yet? I feel like my lungs are going to explode!”

All of a sudden you’re squealing in delight because Peter ran over to you and scooped you into the air, carrying you bridal style. He takes off flying and your arms shoot out and wrapped around his neck. 

“What are you doing?!” 

“Taking you up to see the stars!” He yelled over the whistling wind as you continued laughing until tears formed in your eyes. 

Daring to peek over his shoulders, you gasp at the beautiful aerial view of the island before he dives and does a giant loop in the air. Hugging him close, you shove your face into his neck and breathe in his scent. Though the night was cool, you felt warm against him. Wanting this moment to last forever but you know it can’t, you decide that you will hold this memory so you can always relive this happiness that you feel. 

Feeling dizzy either from the adrenaline or from him, you rest your head against him and press a soft kiss on his neck. 

Suddenly, Peter tosses you lightly into the air and you are airborne before he catches you but now your position has changed. Now you are sitting, straddling his hips, as his hands come to your behind to carry your weight. Your arms wrap around his neck again but now you are face-to-face with him. 

As a blush covers your face, you whisper, “Well hi there.” 

He gives you a small smile as he looks at your thorough hooded eyes, “Much better don’t you think? Now I can see you.” 

You sit there, chest to chest with breaths mingling, completely suspended in the air over a cliff. “What are we doing, Y/N?” His whisper caresses your skin and he leans in just a little bit closer.

“What do you mean?” You can’t help but do the same, almost like a string pulling you to him.

“You know exactly what I mean. Have you casted a spell on me? Making me dream of you every night and thinking of you every minute the sun is up? Have you made yourself my personal magnet to me so I can never not be near you? Are you bewitching me?” He continues to whisper as one of his hands drags up your body and grips the back of your neck, pulling you in closer until your noses are barely touching. 

Your breaths are coming out shaking but your fingers find their way to his hand and you tighten your hold, desperately keeping him close. 

“What if it’s you that is playing with my head?”

Your lips are brushing against each other but not quite touching. Your brain fogs with desire but it’s all pulled away from you as Peter abruptly pulls away and starts flying back to land.

“Wha-” You’re dizzy from the sudden change but you aren’t able to be stable on your feet before Peter is hurriedly pulling you through the trees. Silently giggling and running through the forest, your heart is beating out of your chest. 

Coming to a clearing, you see a small and simple log cabin sitting by itself. There are a few steps leading up to a porch that surrounds the little cabin. 

“Where are we, Peter?”

“This is my place.” He finally slows down to a stop.

He comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you as he shoves his face into the crook of your neck. The movement pulls a giggle out of your throat but you don’t take your eyes off the cute cottage.

“I thought you had a tent back at the campsite with everyone else, hm? Are you keeping secrets from us now?” You tease.

“I always have secrets, don’t you know. But this is my own quiet place. I come here when I need to think. Or when I’m scheming.” He tickles your sides and gives your neck a quick kiss before he straightens. “Come on, let’s go inside.” He takes your hand and walks you into the cabin. 

The inside of the cabin matches its look on the outside. Comfortable. Simple. Nothing extravagant. The main room is open. One side seems to act as a dining room with a large table with a few chairs beside it. The other side of the room has a matching large table but this table is covered in maps, scrolls, trinkets, and many other items you did not recognize. You see a door towards the back of the cabin which you could tell leads to a bedroom.  

“Here, let me get you some water before you pass out on me.” 

But before Peter could take a step or before you could even respond, a voice calls out from the back room.

“Peter darling? Did you just get home?”

The blood drains from your face and your eyes grow to saucers as you see Wendy walk out of the back room. Your ears started ringing and it feels as though everything is happening so fast yet so slowly. 

Peter marches over to Wendy and angrily argues with her though you couldn’t hear anything over the muffling in your ears. “What are you doing here? Who said you could be here?”

“What are you talking about, baby? Don’t be like that.” 

Wendy tries to run her hands up Peter’s front side but her hands do not get far before he grabs her hands and throws them off of him. 

Your eyes shoot back and forth between Peter and Wendy and you could hear yourself mumbling, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t-” You hadn’t realized that you were backing up until you felt the front door hit your back. 

Before you knew it, Peter was in front of you. All you could do was stare up at him with your heart ready to leap out of your chest. You were confused and hurt and scared and you wanted to be mad. But looking up at him. With his face soft and full of worry. All you could do was trust. Trust in what, you weren’t sure. But a wave of calmness fell over you as you looked at him and his hands came up to softly grip your shoulders. 

Peter was gently moving you through the cabin and you could hear Wendy protesting but you couldn’t clear your head enough to hear what she was saying. Peter leads you to the back room which is his bedroom. He sits you on his bed and whispers to you, “Stay here.” 

“Peter, I can go. I should’ve known you two were together. I shouldn’t be here, I can go.” But before you could make a move for the door, Peter grips your face gently but firmly, “I said ‘stay here’. I will figure this out. I’m not with her. She isn’t welcome here. You. Stay. Here.” 

Peter slammed the door behind him as he left and all you could do was sit on the bed as you were told. Looking around the room, there wasn’t much there to keep you entertained. There was a nightstand by the bed with a few nicknacks on it. A desk with papers covered in writing you couldn’t read. No pictures. No posters. Nothing. Twiddling your thumbs, you tried to not overthink. You sat as patiently as you could but as the minutes ticked by and their angry whispering didn't stop, your anxiety started to kick up.

What if he is lying? Why would she just randomly be here? She’s comfortable enough coming in and out of his place like that. He could just be telling me what I want to hear. Of course, they’re together. Even a blind person could see that they were together. When did I become so dumb?! I need to get out of here. 

Your breathing starts to become more rapid as your mind starts spiraling. Looking around the room, there was only one door, and that led back to the main room where Peter and Wendy are. The only other thing in the room was a window that sat above the desk. That was your ticket out. You thank the stars that you weren’t on an upstairs floor or anything or else this escape plan was going to be harder than you thought.

Swinging the window wide enough for your body to fit through, you quietly climbed up onto the table, careful not to disturb anything, and started to push out. You managed to make your way out but you accidentally made a loud thump as your body hit the back deck. Before you could stop and think about what to do, you jumped to your feet and took off running into the forest. 

You ran until your lungs burned and ran some more. All around you were trees, trees, and more trees. Everything looked the same yet you didn’t recognize where you were. “Shit I should have been paying attention on the way here. Where the fuck am I?”

Coming to a stop, you drop your hands to your knees to try and catch your breath. After a few deep breaths, you stand up tall and prepare to take off again, at a more reasonable pace this time that you’re far enough away.

But before you could head off, something flies into you and you go slamming back into a tree. A warm, hard body pushes up against you and holds you flush against the tree with no room to escape. It’s still too dark in the night and the trees are blocking the moonlight so you can’t see what has you pinned. You start wiggling around and try to use your hands to push yourself free but a hand wraps around your wrists and pins them above your head. Something comes close to your ear and you could feel the anger radiating from this figure.

“I thought I told you to stay.”

I Told You To Stay Pt. 2

[icarusredwings]

I love how you write call girl Wade and having her as gender fluid, honestly I live for a gender ambiguous take on him, it scratches the brain PERFECTLY

And Logan would be obsessed

Just constantly having Wade in his lap, not letting her get more than an arms reach away unless absolutely necessary for their little scams

Girl why you always in my inbox as anonymous.

Were friends. How am I supposed to tag you in cool posts if I dont know who you are.

I do like genderfluid wade and ive been messing around with them for a bit. Wade is literally the "I think im gender fluid but theres a gunfight going on 24/7 so idc about that rn"

So if logan were to genuinely ask, gently bring it up, Hed probably joke at first like wym haha im not a girl and logan would just blink and be like "Just be who you want to be" and suddenly- He's at a dress shop, sitting outside the dressing room awkwardly making eyecontact with the employees who walk by to see him holding 18 different dresses.

"Sir you cant smoke in here"

"You want me to put it out on your forehead?"

When wade comes out theyre in this really pretty kind of pinup dress. "What do you think!?"

Logan sighs, puts it out on his boot and smiles fondly. "Well arnt you gonna spin around?"

So he does and then giggles. "It has pockets!"

So he looks up to the clerk like "What other colours you have of that?"

Wanda has all sorts of dresses now but her signature for gamble nights is a short sparkly one almost similar to sabrina carpenters and a garter with prada heels.

Even pearls. Real pearls to match what ever colour suit logan is wearing. A small "dibs" on her at all times.

By definition Call girl means a sex worker who works by appointment only rather then standing the streets or working for a "any time" brothel.

Sometimes tables get suspicious.

"Whos the girl?"

"Ahh nutin. Just a call girl."

"You pay'er to walk around witcha or smth?"

"Something like that. I play better if I have someone pretty to look at instead of ya ugly mugs."

Pretty much, anyone who makes an appointment dies. Mainly because thats her profession. To butter up her targets, take'em home and then takem out in body bags. Since call girls are "higher class" then regular prostitutes they often have protection with cartel or mafia, especially in this particular setting.

So yeah, sometimes Logan has to grit his teeth and play pimp. "Sell" Wanda off to a sorry sap but it makes him so happy to know she just comes back home and fucks him silly to soothe his jealousy. Its a rush lifestyle. Always on the go, always having the adrenaline of winning or the endorphins of flirting, leading them on, the relief that rushes down wandas back when she finally gets to kill them.

Its a great little scheme they have going on here but sometimes theres more trouble then they bargin for or sometimes one of the players will call wanda ugly and it sets Logan off and sends wade into a hysterical session of tears and refusing to let anyone see them for awhile without any make up on. It pisses patch off a lot actually because he works hard to make sure she feels pretty at all times, even telling her how pretty she is while holding her hair back and their head in the toilet. Cancer is not any kinder to them in this au but at the end of the day if Wanda can make everyone in this room want a piece of his ass while said ass is sitting on Patches lap? Theyre happy.

[gravehags]

heaven in hiding

Pairing: Swiss x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Tags: virgin reader, ghouls being freaky, ghouls being able to smell virginity, hand jobs, dry humping, swiss being needy

Words: 1,487

Summary: It's not your fault you're a virgin, but it's certainly causing problems for Swiss.

a/n: listen the way this man has been acting out on stage recently...he's going through it. someone had to do something about it.

~~~

“It’s because you’re a virgin.”

Your head whips around to face the blonde ghoul sitting on the couch who is currently flipping through an old copy of Vogue that was clearly stolen from your quarters. Your jaw drops and your cheeks heat up painfully while he continues to browse the magazine.

“I—no—who—”

Dewdrop looks up at you from where he’s lounging and gives you a small eye-roll. Cirrus is folded up on the opposite end of the couch fidgeting with her cuticles while Mountain leans against the wall, trying to avoid the conversation entirely. All you had inquired about was why Swiss was acting so goddamn weird around you ever since you and the ghouls had struck up a friendship and started spending time together. Everyone else seemed fine around you so why was he acting so…so bizarre every time you entered a room or walked past him? You had just come into the lounge and he had stormed out past you, practically running from the scene.

“Don’t bother trying to deny it, we can smell it,” Dew says, flipping a page.

“Bullshit!” you squeak before falling into a chair next to the coffee table.

“It’s true, hon,” Cirrus pipes up, looking at you apologetically. “You just smell…different.”

You bite your lip and fuss at the hem of your shirt, clearly embarrassed by being probably the worst sister of sin in the history of the abbey. Finally, you work up the courage to continue the conversation.

“So…is it a gross smell? Like is that why Swiss looks like he’s in pain when he’s around me?”

Dewdrop snorts loudly and tosses the magazine on the table, sending the pages flying.

“Babygirl he’s horny. You’re driving him batshit insane, that’s what’s happening.” Cirrus leans over to lightly smack Dew on the thigh and give him a pointed look, clearly indicating she wanted to ease you into this conversation.

“I…oh. Oh.” Your flush deepens and spreads across your chest, warming you from head to toe. “But you guys aren’t…affected…by me though, right?”

Mountain lets out a deep, vaguely sinister chuckle which Dewdrop snorts at.

“Oh, babe we’re affected alright. Makes us all fucking crazy. It’s just that everyone else handles it better than Swiss, he’s always been so sensitive about these things. We just go back to our rooms and jack off when it gets too much but he’s gotta be fucking dramatic and make a scene.”

You can’t lie, the thought of the ghouls alone in their quarters touching themselves to the thought of you makes your head spin and your cunt ache. Before you can comment on Dew’s bombshell statement, Cirrus interjects with a loud clearing of her throat.

“Hon, why don’t you go talk to him?”

Mountain’s eyebrows shoot up and Dew snickers to himself, causing you to pause a moment.

“Is that a good idea? Or will I make the problem worse?”

“Depends what you’re gonna do for him,” Dew says, a grin curling his lips. “Gonna help him out? I call dibs on being next.”

This time Cirrus doesn’t hold back when she smacks Dewdrop on the arm with the flat of her palm, causing him to yelp and jump in his seat. It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you stand and make for the door.

“Good luck,” Mountain intones ominously as you pass the threshold.

It takes a good ten minutes of you wandering the cloisters to find Swiss. When you see him, back against the wall bent over on himself at the waist your heart sinks. He looks fucking miserable. Were you about to make a bad situation for him worse?

His head is in his hands as you approach him, gripping at his curls. When you get within a yard of him, he unfolds and practically slams the back of his skull into the surface behind him. His body sagging, he turns to look at you, tail flicking behind him in agitation.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Wanted to talk to you.”

He chuffs out a desperate little laugh and folds his arms in a defensive position across his chest.

“About—” he clears his throat when his voice comes out a little too raspy, “about what?”

“They told me about uh. How you guys can smell me. You know.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and you wonder briefly if he’s willing you to disappear, his palms rubbing viciously at the stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t speak for a solid minute and you shuffle in place, wondering if you should just cut your losses and walk away. When you shift a foot to leave, he reaches out towards you to gesture without touching.

“Don’t,” his eyes open and he looks at you longingly. “Please don’t leave. I—fuck.”

You’re by his side in an instant, hand on his bicep. Upon touching him for the first time, he flips your positions with a growl so that now he’s looming over you while you’re backed against the cold limestone wall. He doesn’t touch you, just hovers his hands above your shoulders while he leans in at the juncture of your neck to inhale deeply. He’s close enough now that you can feel the hardness of him pressing insistently, achingly into your belly and you look up at him.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, moving a hand to his cheek to drag the pad of your thumb along his jawline. “Please, Swiss. I want to help you.”

He lets out a noise that is somewhere between a hysteric laugh and a painful cry as you stand on your tiptoes to reach him. The upward tilt of your chin is all the invitation he needs and he slams his mouth onto yours. The breath is knocked from your lungs as he molds his lanky body to yours, gripping at your hair and neck. You barely register the way his tail wraps tightly around your thigh, drawing you even closer to him. His tongue is desperate against your lips, begging for entrance and you oblige him. The noises he makes as he plunders your mouth are desperate, animalistic, and they send shockwaves straight to your cunt. When you finally have to catch your breath, push him off you with a slight shove and he whines low in his throat.

“Can I touch you?” you breathe up at him and he replies with a frantic nod. You place your hand over his heart and very slowly drag downwards, reveling in the hard planes of his body. He’s watching you, pupils blown, and when you finally cup your palm against the curve of his cock he slams his fist on the wall behind you, effectively caging you in.

“Fuck, baby,” he whines, bucking his hips into your touch. “Please.”

You breathlessly follow the line of him through the black denim and when your thumb brushes over the head his tail tightens its grip on your thigh, practically cutting off circulation, as he pushes you even further into the wall. Your exhales are nearly as ragged as his when he slots a long, firm leg in the space between yours, pressing divinely against your cunt.

“Don’t stop,” he croaks as you continue to swipe your fingers over the clothed head of his cock. “Please, please, please.”

Your wrist is at an awkward angle now with how intently he has pushed you against the wall but you do your best, sliding your palm over the denim in long strokes. Your eyes dart around the cloister, briefly worrying about who could stumble upon you but then he presses right there and you let out a breathy moan. Your own hips are rocking against him now with every swipe of your hand, both of you working in tandem. When you feel his cock jump, he lets out a whine and his hips begin meeting you stroke for stroke. You’re close but not close enough when he jolts forward, practically collapsing on you when he comes with a cry. His hand covers yours and urges you to continue moving even as he finishes, his body writhing against you. When you look up at him you see him blink tears out of his eyes and take several deep, shuddering breaths. Abandoning his softening cock and the wet spot at the front of his pants you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, breathing deep. He smells like smoke and something sweet that you realize after a moment is your perfume. And the realization hits you that you’re greedy for him, need your scent on him again and again. You separate but he’s still loosely holding you in his lean arms.

“You didn’t come,” he says flatly. “I’m sorry.”

You smile and when you run your thumb over his stubble, he practically purrs while leaning into your touch.

“You can make it up to me.”

[awkward-walking-potato]

Hi, I saw you were taking requests for Deadpool and I thought it be super funny if he met a reader who could keep up with him (weird inappropriate comments/ humor/ pop culture references) minus the 4th wall breaks ofc.

If this isn't up your alley feel free to ignore this, ty 🖤

Killing Me Softly

I hope you enjoy ☺️

The warehouse was dark, damp, and perfect for an old-school showdown. Deadpool swaggered in, humming the theme from Mission: Impossible, pistols twirling in his hands like a kid who found his mom's nunchucks and figured out that laundry day was a myth. He scanned the shadows for his target, the very high-profile CEO of a very high-profile company that no one cared about. His orders were clear: terminate with extreme prejudice. Or, at the very least, with a strong dislike.

But instead of the balding businessman cowering behind a crate, he found something else. Or rather, someone else.

“Hey there, Red,” a voice purred from behind a stack of crates. A woman stepped out, dressed in sleek black leather, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Her outfit screamed "I'm here to kick ass," but the smirk on her lips whispered "and maybe take names if I feel like it."

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Catwoman’s cooler cousin,” Deadpool quipped, cocking his head to the side. “Let me guess: you’re here to pick up my leftovers? Sorry, but I don’t share my Happy Meals, even if they come with a toy.”

She laughed, a sound that danced between sultry and psychotic. “Sorry, Red, but I’ve got dibs on the target tonight. And if you don’t step aside, I might have to take you out instead.”

Deadpool’s mask crinkled as he grinned beneath it. “Oh, I’m shaking in my combat boots. Really. You sure you can handle this much Deadpool? I’m like Taco Bell at 2 a.m.—a lot to digest and with a real kick on the way out.”

She twirled a knife between her fingers, eyes narrowing. “I’ve handled worse. Besides, aren’t you a little old for the whole ‘merc with a mouth’ shtick? I thought the red was just to hide the gray hairs.”

“Ouch, right in the ego!” Deadpool clutched his chest dramatically, stumbling back a step. “But baby, this mouth is still as fresh as morning breath after a night of garlic bread and Netflix. And this face? Well, it’s why I wear the mask. Wouldn’t want you falling for me too hard before we even have our first death match.”

She raised an eyebrow. “First? Honey, I’m aiming to make it our last. Unless you’re into that whole ‘till death do us part’ thing. You strike me as the clingy type.”

Deadpool shrugged, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Only when it comes to chimichangas and Hugh Jackman’s biceps. But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not the guy who buys flowers after the first fight. I’m the guy who leaves you a ‘sorry I tried to kill you’ card. Hallmark doesn’t make those, but they should.”

She rolled her eyes, finally lunging forward with the grace of a panther. Deadpool sidestepped her attack, spinning around to face her as she whipped a leg toward his head. He ducked, blocking her next punch with his forearm.

“Nice moves. Did you learn those in a ballet class, or are you just naturally graceful?” he teased, grabbing her wrist and twisting it just enough to throw her off balance.

She flipped over his arm, landing on her feet like a cat. “Funny, I was just about to ask if you got your fighting style from an old Jackie Chan movie, or if you’re just winging it.”

“Why choose?” Deadpool replied, spinning on his heel to deliver a roundhouse kick. She blocked it, the impact reverberating up his leg, but she didn’t flinch.

Their dance continued, the sound of their clashes filling the warehouse. Each strike was met with a quip, each dodge with a flirtatious grin. It was like foreplay with more bruises and less wine.

“Hey, how about we call a truce?” Deadpool suggested as he caught her wrist again, their faces inches apart. “You, me, a bottle of tequila, and some nachos? We can watch Die Hard and argue about whether it’s a Christmas movie. Spoiler: it totally is.”

She smirked, twisting out of his grip and pressing a knife to his throat. “Tempting, but I think I’ll take my chances finishing you off first. Though I do have to admit, you’ve got a way with words. Ever consider a career in romance novels?”

Deadpool froze, then slowly raised his hands in surrender. “Well, this took a turn. But, since I’m a gentleman and all, I should warn you—if you’re gonna slice my throat, be prepared for a lot of red. And not the romantic kind. More like ‘OMG, what did we do to the rug’ kind.”

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his cheek. “Noted. But how about we skip the throat slitting and go straight to dessert? I’m more of a ‘death by chocolate’ kind of girl.”

Deadpool blinked. “Are you… are you flirting with me? Because I gotta say, it’s working. But I’m contractually obligated to kill your boss, so…”

“Contractually obligated to kick your ass,” she countered, though the knife hadn’t moved an inch.

“Touché.” He slowly lowered his hands, his fingers brushing against her wrist, almost gently. “Tell you what, you let me finish my job, I’ll give you a head start on your next gig. Maybe even throw in some pointers—how to out-Deadpool the Deadpool. Could be fun.”

She tilted her head, considering it. “And here I thought you weren’t the sharing type.”

“I’m a man of mystery. Keeps things spicy. Besides,” he added, winking under his mask, “I wouldn’t mind having a nemesis who can keep up with my banter. Makes the whole killing-each-other thing way more interesting.”

She chuckled, finally lowering the knife. “Deal. But don’t expect me to go easy on you next time, Red.”

Deadpool stepped back, giving her a mock bow. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling. Until we meet again—same time, different corpse?”

She sheathed her knife and backed away, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. “Looking forward to it. Don’t miss me too much, Deadpool.”

As she disappeared into the shadows, Deadpool couldn’t help but grin to himself. “Oh, I definitely won’t. But I might just send a postcard.”

He turned toward his original target, whistling as he went. “Now, where were we? Ah, right. Extreme prejudice…”

The end. (Or is it?)

[wistfulcynic]

the inn is a metaphor

They are terrible at running an inn. 

In the beginning. 

They don’t know the first goddamn thing about the hospitality industry. Or carpentry, plumbing, invoicing, logistics. Anything, really. They know nothing. 

They learn. 

There’s a lot of trial, even more error. But by the first time the Revenge returns for a visit they have something. A roof that doesn’t leak. Un-rotted floorboards. Nooks and crannies free from feral beasts of any kind. Zero spiders. Twin armchairs in front of the fire and a bed just big enough for the two of them. It’s a start. 

The Revenge comes bearing gifts. Wee John has knitted them some afghans and Frenchie sewed an enormous quilt, which takes pride of place on the bed. They’ve towed in another ship as well, a wreck whose timber they all pitch in to rebuild into an extension and some outbuildings. Roach helps them plant a kitchen garden and a medicinal one. 

Jackie gives them business advice and contacts for her old suppliers. Lucius has a guestbook for them, with marginalia he drew himself. Some of it at least is appropriate for guests to see. The rest…

“Are you planning to have guests who’ll faint at the sight of a cock?” Lucius inquires innocently. “Because I’ll be honest with you, that seems unlikely.” 

The idea of guests of any kind is still a long way off, but they’re getting there. They can envision it now, and not just as a wild fantasy they spin each other at night as they lie entwined with sweat cooling on their skin. They have actual plans, concrete ones, and a decent understanding of how to realise them. 

They get to work. 

Jackie’s contacts prove invaluable. Soon they have a liquor supplier, deals with local butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers, and even a reliable fisherman to give them first dibs on his haul. 

(It’s not Pop-Pop.) 

A few survivors of Zheng’s old crew hire on as housekeeping and kitchen staff. The soup is phenomenal. Ed learns how to make it and how to cook a fish without burning it. They have fresh-smelling towels, expertly folded. They have guest rooms, and soon they have guests. 

It’s an adjustment, having new people in their space. Some of the guests are gawkers, eager for a piece of Blackbeard and the Gentleman Pirate. They reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, namely those particular assholes. But other guests are much more pleasant. Locals looking for a bit of a mini-break, people from nearby islands wanting a getaway, even the occasional European who doesn’t know who they are. 

The guests are mostly happy with their stay. There’s excellent soup and decent fish, fresh linens and great views. The walls could be a bit thicker, perhaps, for everyone’s comfort, but the hosts are always most apologetic in the morning and offer copious marmalade in exchange for good reviews. 

The Revenge returns frequently, each time with some new trinkets and finery for their former co-captains. In exchange, they host bonfires on the beach with music and dancing and wine, until they all fall asleep together in a pile, so like the old days on the ship that Stede watches them in the soft light of the embers with tears in his eyes. 

“All right, love?” Ed asks him. He slips an arm around Stede’s waist. Stede tugs him in until Ed’s head is nestled against his shoulder. He strokes Ed’s hair. Ed sighs and snuggles closer. 

“I’m all right,” Stede says. “A bit nostalgic is all.” 

“You miss it.” 

“I miss the crew. I wish they could visit more often. I suppose I miss the sea, though of course it’s right there in front of us. But I’m happy, Ed. I have no regrets.” 

“Really?” The whisper of doubt in Ed’s voice has Stede pulling back to look down at his dear face. 

“Yes really! Do you doubt it?” 

“Kind of.” Ed shrugs. “It’s easier for me, I think. I was ready to be done with it, Stede. Desperate to do anything else but be Blackbeard. But you—you had just got started. You could be out there now with the crew, pirating away. You could be famous. You could—” 

“Ed Teach, you listen to me.” Stede’s got his Captain Voice on now and the sound of it has Ed’s stomach turning cartwheels, his dick leaping to attention. “I don’t care about any of that. I only wanted to be a pirate for the freedom. To escape my old life. But I have a life now that I would never want to escape. Do you know why?” 

Ed shakes his head. 

“Because I chose it. I chose you. I love you and I would be happy anywhere you were.” He cups Ed’s cheek in his palm and kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips. Ed moans and presses closer but Stede pulls back, just far enough to whisper, “You make Stede happy.” 

They spend that night alone in the inn, no guests, far enough from the beach that when they serve breakfast to the crew the next morning not a single smirk or smart remark is sent their way. 

They wave goodbye to their friends that evening and stand together on their porch to watch the ship sail off into the sunset. Stede turns to Ed with a smile. “New guests checking in tomorrow,” he says. “We should probably fix the creak in the door hinge of Room 1.” 

“I’ll do it,” says Ed, “if you polish the candlesticks. Fuckin’ polish makes my nose itch.” 

“Deal,” says Stede. He turns to head inside. “What’ll we have for dinner?” 

“Got a nice turbot we could roast.” 

“Ooh, fab.” 

The inn’s front door closes behind them. 

It’s still a bit rickety, their inn. It’s old, it creaks, it springs leaks from time to time. It’s hard work, keeping it going. But they are devoted to the task. Whatever it takes, they will see their inn thrive. 

It’s what makes them happy. 

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)---Part 2

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It’s how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you’re not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn’t take kindly to you avoiding him, and he’s never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he’s not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he’s seen the proof that you’ve fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: umm so good news is second part is out as promised. Bad news is....this is not the end. I totally plan on making another part, but I don't know how soon that can be done considering life just began again. Guess we'll see. Enjoy!

Word count: 8193

Part 1

In hindsight, you’re not quite sure when you started falling so hard for the handsome guy from the bar. 

Yes, okay, there was initial attraction. Kyle was one in a million when it came to that. 

Then it was the way he looked at you. Like you saying his name and pouring him more scotch made his world spin. 

Kyle just made it so easy. Too easy. 

So dang easy that you felt guilty Jeanne was attracted to him too. You tried to convince yourself for a long, long time that he looked at her the same way. At every girl the same way. 

But that first night turned into the first week, which then turned into the first month. 

Your poor heart ached each time he slipped through the glass doors, grinned at you in relief. 

“Thank fuck you’re ’ere, love. Nobody in this bar knows how to pour a scotch better than you.”

And after that first touch, his warm fingers grappling after yours around the glass, you couldn’t fight it that easily anymore. Sure, you preferred people sober, but each time Kyle imbibed, he wanted a brush of your fingertips, and you did to. 

Everything about him screamed hard yet warm. He was big—special-forces big, apparently. And he had these little scars on his cheeks that you dreamt of at night. 

Where did they come from? Where else was he scarred? Why did a guy like him ever choose war over modeling?

Confounding. 

Even more confounding was that he liked teasing you, and only you. It was a little trampling over your feelings at first, all that fresh hope and nervousness each time he showered you with attention. But then it was steamrolling, too much all at once that you couldn’t think of him without your entire body slipping into a nervous tremble. 

Worst part was that you didn’t even know why he liked you so much. You were just as shitty a bartender as you were a failed medicine-or-anything student. You had nothing too offer him, not your too-big body nor your underwhelming lifestyle. 

But Jeanne… Jeanne was perfect for him. Loved all the stuff he did, hiking and swimming and everything you couldn’t do for five minutes without sweating up a storm. 

And just when it’s been a month and you think you’re so far in the hole for this hot tease of a customer who can’t seem to leave you alone—hot British tease, by the way, because how dare you forget him calling you “darling” with that accent—that you can’t even sleep at night without tossing and turning…

He’s gone. 

Kyle just disappears.

The same Kyle who leaves a perfect, Kyle’s-butt shaped butt-print on the dusty corner seat he loved so much. 

The same Kyle who, on the first night you met, was so damn snockered after seven scotches that he wouldn’t stop professing his love for you. (Not that he seemed to remember that the next day, or any day following, but you still hold the memory near and dear to your heart like the masochist you are.)

The same Kyle who stopped smelling like cigarettes after a while. Who once leaned over the bar just to push a little strand of hair behind your ear, rough fingertips pausing at your temple and brushing the skin in a small circle. “Just makin’ sure you’re safe ’nd sound” was the short mumble from his lips. 

Gone. 

Gave you his phone number before he left, and then hasn’t shown up to the bar for the last two weeks. 

He could’ve—well, he could’ve told you he was leaving. Warned you. Instead of this cold-turkey bullshit, you could have actually prepared. 

God. You wished you’d had time to prepare for this guy you’ve basically just met leaving you?

He’s made a mess of you.

Kyle, though… he’s Kyle. 

And two weeks without him has left you with a Kyle-hangover. You’re all achey and sad and bored—fucking bored. What happened to you being able to occupy yourself with thoughts twenty-four seven and treating men like a distant daydream?

Ironically enough, you miss not missing men just as much as you miss that man. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you clock off after what has become some of the most miserable shifts of your life, and go home, curl up on your couch, and think about Kyle. 

You think about that moment where he’d demanded you for your phone, long fingers curling in a “give it here” gesture, so stern you barely recognized him. You huddle deeper into the leather cushions, feeling in your pocket for your phone. 

Timezones are tricky. Couple that with the fact that you have no idea where he even wound up, and you’re blindly searching through your phone for his contact with both eyes pinched closed, as though you’d be incriminated for the act if you saw yourself do it.

A ringing hums through the air, and you peek just to make sure you’re not being a fool for the second time tonight. Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick slides along your screen, bouncing back and forth so you can catch the entirety of what he’d typed. 

You can hear him saying it, like it’s tainted with his soft, playful tone. 

It’s the same voice telling you to leave a message now, and you’re so stunted by the familiarity of the sound that you don’t speak for another few seconds, having to reassure yourself that, no, that wasn’t actually him. 

A voicemail. You could leave that. 

Like all social interactions, you prefer them with a bit of distance and disconnect anyway, whether that be through phone or several glasses of alcohol. 

“Umm” is all you say for a while, staring down at the ticking seconds in your lap. 

Then “Hey” and “it’s me.”

After another pause, you realize he probably doesn’t know who “me” is, really, so you tag on your name. 

And another “umm.”

“I’m calling because…”

You don’t know. Honest to God. 

You don’t know why you’re sitting here on your couch, back straight as a pin, anxiously tearing your fingers through your hair and watching your phone screen with eyes so wide someone’d think it’s going to eat you. 

“You know, I—I don’t really know why I’m calling. I mean, you asked me to, and now that I’m sitting here, doing it, it kinda feels like a mind game or something. You could still pick up, you know. Put me out of my misery.” 

You pause. 

Wait a few seconds. 

“...But I guess you won’t be doing that. That’s great. Um.” You poke your tongue into your cheek, practically seizing up at this point. “I hope your mission’s going well. You know, stopping the… the bad guys and all that. And I hope that you’re—” safe. You don’t know if anything’s happened to him. It’s been two weeks, maybe that’s why he hasn’t called. 

You think you’re gonna be sick. 

“You know, it’d be really shitty if you gave me your phone number just to up and die on some top secret mission to save the world. I think that’d be pretty rude of you.”

Quiet, again. Still. You’re not even sure why you’d thought maybe you could hear his response. 

But he’s the superhero guy, the special soldier on a secret mission that involves killing bad, bad men and even worse organizations. 

So maybe it’s a little selfish of you to miss him. 

“Be safe. I mean, I’m sure you already know to do that, but, you know. Try harder at it, I guess. For me.”

You end the call and fight the urge to throw your phone as far away as possible, and go about your night like Kyle doesn’t even exist. 

This distance thing’ll be… easy. Maybe. 

~~~~~~

You call him the next morning. Can’t help it. 

Hearing his voice, even if it’s from the damn voicemail thingy, is soothing. Like a balm over your twinging chest. 

Leave him a message at the beep. Oh, you plan to. 

“It’s been,” you glance at your phone, “six hours since I last called you. I can’t sleep, so that’s gonna be your problem too. I had this dream where I was riding a unicorn—and I know you think this is gonna be cute or something, but just give me a second—and so we’re just galloping along in the forest, all magical like, and then suddenly I’m surrounded by these guys in SWAT gear and those helmet-binocular deals that you guys wear.”

You’re picking at your blanket, morning gunk still grimey over your teeth, wondering why your first thought of the new day—five a.m., by the way, and you have work until one a.m. tonight—was to call Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick.

“It was a bloodbath. My poor unicorn had to stab military men, so I’m blaming you for giving me a horrific dream like that, Mr. Military Man. Awful rude of you to drag me into the horrors of war like that. And no, you will not be forgiven until you call me back. Goodbye.”

You can’t go back to sleep. Not after that. You’ve scarred yourself sending something so mindlessly ridiculous to a man who has legitimate work to do—might even have one of the most valid jobs on the planet, and you were whining to him about your weeny nightmare. 

So you spend the rest of your day meaninglessly-choring your way to the beginning of your bartending shift. 

Jeanne hasn’t asked where Kyle’s been. She’s got a new target, a rich businessman who mainly operates in the field of pool floaties. Luckily for him, it’s almost July, which means business is lively, and so too is her interest in him. 

It’s around that time that you realize Kyle was valid in denying her at every turn, but your guilt is still slow to fade. 

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket.  

Kyle.

You whip your finger across the screen, almost dropping the phone in your haste, and read the text. 

Reread it a couple more times, because you kind of don’t understand it.

It’s not heartfelt by any means. Not Earth-shattering. And you ponder over it for the rest of your shift, glancing at it every few minutes instead of responding, because it’s so short and succinct that you get the sense it’s all he could manage during his mission. 

All it says is “More.”

~~~~~~

Calling Kyle becomes a comfort. During breaks, after bad days, sometimes early in the morning when you were too exhausted the night before. 

You feel like a fool after some time. He never once sends another text or calls back, and this time you really think he’s gone. 

But there’s a hole your apartment’s silence can’t quite fill anymore, a quiet where Kyle’s lively chatter used to be at the bar. 

So you fill it like he’s still there with you. 

The third voicemail that you leave him begins with “You never told me your favorite drink.” You spend a half hour rambling about the different drinks you could have made him, how you’re getting better at it in his absence—you’ll even make him another Mai Tai to prove it, if he promised to come back—and how scotch is horrible. You’ve tried it for the first time, and you don’t believe for a second that it’s his preference, even if he’s a hardened soldier trying to wash the pain away. 

You don’t buy it. He’s an umbrella-drink kind of guy. 

The fourth is about how you’re rethinking things. So many things, while he’s gone. You’re rethinking what you want from life, considering going back and giving school the old college try one more time. You’d had these big dreams before you’d been cowed into submission by doubts and debt. Doctor of… well, something. Anything, really. You’d just always thought doctor looked good in front of your last name. 

It looks good in front of Garrick, too. Doctor Garrick, that actually sounds pretty cool, and—oh shit, you don’t mean it like that. Not like you’d be his… 

Anyway. 

The fifth through twenty-seventh voicemails follow the same pattern. Random thoughts you’ve come up with throughout the day combined with ponderings cranky customers have drawn out of you. 

None of it, you’re certain, is interesting to Kyle at all. 

Not when he’s on a mission, taking down the evil guys and saving lives. Risking his own in the process. 

But you can’t bring yourself to stop, too caught up in the text he sent you and how blatant he’d been about his interest before he left. 

No funny business. Just you. 

That’s what he’d wanted. 

And he’d wanted “more,” too. 

Good thing you’re willing to give it to him, highly concentrated and in a large number of doses. 

You’re a giver, after all. Maybe he hasn’t noticed it yet, but if he needs these calls from you, obnoxious little chats about the mundane side of life, you’ll do that for him. Because Kyle is a good guy, and you want that chance, however slim it may be, to prove that he passed on his number for good reason. 

So you keep calling, let the voicemails stack up and up as weeks go on, continue working behind the scenes of his life, hoping it’s not all in vain. 

~~~~~~

Gaz lets the phone drop back down to his side on the barracks bunk, smiling like an idiot at the ceiling. 

He’d been a tad nervous that you’d stop after a while, sometimes considered breaking Price’s no phone rule—he never would, of course; AQ can track the IPs of outgoing signals, and the last chance he’d had to send you a message was just before moving hideouts. 

But they’ve been in too deep the past few weeks to let his wants trump the importance of the mission. 

Plus, you’d obviously understood what “More” had meant. You certainly hadn’t given him less, at any point. There was only one three-day hiatus that made him strangle the shoulder straps of his chest gear so hard the fabric cinched and remained wrought. 

And then you’d called, all apologetic and sniffly because you’d gotten some kind of bug despite it being the middle of summer—which was so fucked, in your opinion. 

They’re flying back tomorrow. Through pure luck alone, it was a shorter mission than most, a two-month intel grab that ended with only enemies KIA, but Gaz knew what was coming. 

Short missions like this meant something big was on the horizon. 

Which meant that he had to make a decision soon to lock you down or let you go. 

Not getting to hear your voice during a mission like he did now? It sounds fucking devastating. But asking you to stick around for his flighty lifestyle, spend months mucking about on your own, worrying about him and his lack of contact—it was a lot. Ultimately it’d be your choice, and Gaz is terrified that he can’t predict what you’d choose; it feels like defusing a bomb with sweaty fingers, or running out of mags in the middle of the field. 

Things were out of his hands the second he put his phone number into yours and begged you to stick around. 

He’ll have to get on his knees this time.

He’s already asked a fellow soldier, one of the American Marines who’d been recruited for a building sweep, for a ride to the hotel. By his count, he’ll be there around eight in the morning, just early enough to catch you and only you. 

Gaz isn’t quite sure what he plans on doing. Something horribly twee, if past experience is anything to go by. Can’t quite get a conscious hold of himself when he sees you. 

And it’d be bloody fuckin’ embarrassing, the way his nerves buzz just under his skin, if he was this excited for anyone but you. 

But it’s eleven pm where he’s at and you just left a message bellyaching about his radio silence again. You’ve found a way to make scotch even worse and you’re going to torture him with it next time you see his face—you promise. Unless and only unless he messages you in the next five minutes with his favorite drink so you can practice. 

It’s terrible and a bit rude, the way you can toy with his feelings through kindness. His little puppet master twisting his heartstrings so tight he can never truly unravel, all with the tenderness of a damn saint. 

Gaz stares at your name in his phone. He works out the hours, then the minutes and eventually seconds until he gets to see you, and can finally stop fawning over the photo he’d found from your public high school’s online yearbook. He’s pretty sure you don’t have that zit anymore, at least, but it’s been too damn long and he’s due a verifiable fact-check. 

His return can’t be too big. You’re not a pomp-and-circumstance kind of gal, too uncertain of your own worth to ever happily accept flowers and fanfare, even if it was just the two of you. 

He’ll work you up to things like that. Over months. Years, hopefully. A lifetime, if the universe ever acknowledges the debt it owes him for the shit he puts up with. 

But for now, he plans for small. Modest and tame. 

Something to soothe that little prey heart that itches to run each time he flirts too loud and smiles too widely (because for some reason you can’t believe you draw it out of him, which, admittedly, preserves his pride a bit). 

Suddenly, he’s got just the thing. 

~~~~~~

Eight-fucking-thirty a.m. 

Who on God’s green Earth opens a bar at eight-thirty a.m.?

Surely not the hotel director, who you’ve only seen once and with pinot staining his white mustache, of all things. 

Couldn’t be one of the many, many bar managers who, thank God for them, only work at night. They couldn’t imagine working a bar in the morning, only serving those depressing early birds and the real addicts, haha. 

Real. Fucking. Funny. 

You’re not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. 

But when Jeanne says these are the hours that nobody else wants, during which almost no customers show up, and implies that you’ll pretty much be paid to sit on your ass and do nothing, well… by God, you will be there at eight-thirty sharp, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. 

Except the only thing that’s bright is the goddamned sun outside the windows—too bright—and your bushy tail is more of a bushy mane, as you woke up about thirty minutes ago, almost late to serve fucking no one, and didn’t bother to tame it with any manner of spray or hairbrush. 

To be frank, you’re a disaster. You look like you were caught in the Tasmanian Devil’s warpath, and you have the attitude to match. 

You thunk your bag down on one of the few empty shelves in the bar’s storage room and groan, wiping a hand over your face. The only thing that could make you feel better right now would be…

God, you just love to torture yourself, don’t you?

It’s been two months. Kyle’s not going to answer. He hasn’t responded to your texts. You don’t even know if he’s alive. 

But you miss him like he is. You miss him like you know he’s on the cusp of returning any second now, and you’re standing at the door, waiting to tear it open and pull him in so close you can smell that cheeky cologne he barely deserves to wear. 

Woodsy musk and cinnamon. Shameful that you remember it so distinctly. That you’d once wandered into the men’s shampoo aisle in a Walmart to try and figure out the word for the dark, elusive scent that clung to him like a second skin. 

It wasn’t there, which means he’s fancier than your budget can comprehend. 

Or that’s just him, and he exuded it so robustly when he’d been here that you can smell it now, drawing you out of the backroom with your phone in hand, thumb hovering over his name. 

Music is playing, which is confusing because you haven’t touched the radio yet. It’s the slow croon of your guilty pleasure song, the one you love ‘ironically.’ The song you’d confided in only one other soul about. 

“Careless Whisper” plays with a slow cadence in the furthest reaches of the bar.

It comes from the same place where two brown eyes are sliding over you at a debilitating pace. 

“Fuck me” falls from those lips, that wicked British accent, as he takes in your hips for a while, then your chest, where your heart pounds so damn hard you think he can see it. Then he watches the little jump in your throat as you swallow, and he wets over his lips before glancing up to yours. Stays there, for a long, long time. 

Then he meets your eyes, and the stutter in his breath is so damn loud.

Kyle. 

Your soldier. 

The man you’ve been calling for months, with no response. 

His face is littered with an array of new wounds, like little scrapes on the apples of his cheeks you get the most bizarre urge to run your tongue over. A split in the smooth skin of his forehead, a paling scar seated in his unshaven jaw. 

His hair’s a little more clean-cut. Perks of heading out for a mission, maybe. 

And his long lashes shadow over the yearning look he’s got locked on you, sharpening and honing it like they’re fibrous whetstone. 

You’re a bit breathless as you round the bar, even more so when Kyle jolts toward you. Out of his devilishly tight black tee peeks a strip of white wrapped around his bicep, and one of his thighs is thicker than the other, suffering the same treatment under his jeans. But he makes his way closer—too slowly—and tries to stave off a wince when he gets too excited, takes a step a bit too fast. 

“Been waitin’ out here for hours, love,” he murmurs, voice breathy but rough. He holds out a hand, curls his longer fingers over yours so tight they can barely tremble. “You still got that scotch ready f’me?”

Your mind floats over the joke completely, instead filling you with worries and urges you can’t fulfill all at once. 

Because, God, it’s Kyle. Your Kyle. And he’s looking at you like that’s all he’s wanted to be. 

And he’s injured. 

He tries shrugging off your hand the second you reach for his face, fingertips hovering over the stiffness under his right eye as he mutters a “Love, don’t worry about it. ’S’better than it looks.”

“Kyle,” you whisper. His other hand falls to your hip, constricting iron-stiff around the soft flesh. 

“M’not broken, darling. Promise.”

And, because you’ve always wanted to, you cup his cheek, a puff of air bouncing off your lips when he leans into it. Turns towards the pliable skin of your palm, like he’s going to run his lips over it, but pauses when he feels you tense up. 

Something in his eyes darkens, makes you feel almost ashamed at the nervous reaction, but it’s just so much. You’ve missed him. You’re not accustomed to this, and it’s starting to dawn on you that this moment, however right and perfect and perfect perfect perfect it feels is still so fast. 

Two months. You haven’t seen him for two months. 

And now that he’s back, it feels like the two of you have been greeting each other like this forever. 

How can he make you fall so fast and still have you feeling like you’re pacing yourself?

This can’t be right, it can’t be—

“Dance with me. C’mon, before that horrible brain of yours blows a fuse about all this.”

“Careless Whisper” and that dashing smile of his, and all of his touch and proximity gets your mind all fuzzy. A good fuzzy. A quieting fuzzy. 

He’s getting too good at this is a thought that tries to stick, but recedes back into the murkiness when Kyle starts to sway. 

He urges your hips and feet to follow his lead. It’s far too easy to give in and let him have control, especially as he pulls you in a little closer, rearranges your hands and bodies until the noticeable space becomes the noticeable lack thereof. 

You’re tucked into his broad chest, warm and sturdy against you. 

He’d placed your hand right over his heart with a meaningful look in his eyes, waited until you felt the frantic thumpthumpthumpthump that leaves your face hot. 

Kyle was always confident around you. He always seemed to know what he was doing, because he was always obvious about what he’d wanted. 

But you didn’t know that you, of all people, could have this effect on him. 

That flutter of pulsations under your fingertips.

His head ducking low until his face is nestled into your collarbone.

The arm that swings around behind you until the crook of his elbow is caught in the dip of your waist and his broad palm is flattened against your opposite hip. 

It’s a little hard to face this moment, being how you are. It feels beautiful. Too beautiful for someone like you. You’re chest is so full, heart so quick, head so wondrously empty. 

You can’t think past the back-and-forth scrape of Kyle’s fingers underneath your shirt’s hem. 

But you feel like apologizing for something. Maybe you’d say sorry for how you feel in his arms, too big surely, despite the way he’s wrangled around you and holding so tight it’d take a solid minute for him to let go. Maybe you should apologize for the stupid song that’s playing, the one that everybody hates, you guess, even though you love it. Maybe you’re sorry about—

Wait. 

“You listened to all those messages?”

Kyle doesn’t make a sound. At first, at least. 

Then…

“They were the only things that kept me hangin’ on, love.” Where his lips brush these words into your skin, the nerves underneath throb. 

A sorry feels cruel on your tongue after that. 

Kyle hums into the silence, singing along a bit when the song repeats for a third time, then a forth, and your hair sticks to his face as he draws away. 

He looks like a fool, but a lovesick one more than anything. It’s dumb and stupid and ridiculous that he has to brush your hair off his face, and even more dumb that he looks like he’s enjoying it so damn much his face is split in two, top and bottom with only pearly whites in between. 

 A fool for doing all this for you, for wanting you so bad when he could replicate this with anyone, someone much prettier, and have them forever. 

“I don’t even wanna know what that dreadful mind of yours is concocting right now, darling. Don’t wanna hear a lick of it, because I know it’d make me so mad, too mad for a moment like this.”

“I don’t want to hear it either,” you whisper, letting your gaze fall to where your hand lay, to where Kyle’s heart gives off an indignant thud. 

The knuckle of his index finger knocks against your chin. “Let me silence it then, yeah?” His head tilts in an innocent way, almost distracting from how quick his heartbeats are now, agitated into a frenzy.

You nod, only partly because you’re a little worried he’ll go into cardiac arrest if you don’t. Mostly because you’ve heard about half of what he’s said by now, the rest of your brain designated to determining what he’s drawing into the curve of your hip. The hard press of his fingers is ruinous to your mental stability. 

That—right there—has to be a G. That’s the first symbol you’ve managed to decode so far. 

Kyle’s lips are so close when you tilt your head up again, and the intensity of his attention has increased tenfold. You wonder if you’d ever considered this to be the end result of all your phone calls, those nonsensical anecdotes every other twelve hours that you’d felt so guilty about sending. It felt like you’d been wasting his precious time. 

But his fervid grip on your body has you thinking the complete opposite way—that instead, you’ve been feeding this needy man before you far too much, a gratuitous enough amount that you’ve tracked him back to your house like a wild wolf you’re not really sure how to treat in the confines of your own home. 

You meant it when you said the distance made it easy. 

A is the second letter.

You wonder distantly if its shape is now bruised into the fleshy tissue of your side. 

And you wonder if he’s ever going to kiss you, leaning in so close like that.

~~~~~~

Gaz has to draw the line soon. He’s gotta find it first, but he’s so damn scared he’s gotten too close without even realizing it. 

The skin at that little sloping line between your neck and collarbone is all hot and smooth. He almost sunk his teeth into it, wanted to bite you a little and hear that little rabbit squeak of yours before you tore away, flustered. 

He can barely fight off the urge of giving the same treatment to that trembling lower lip, the fatty one you’ve ran your tongue over deliciously quick, like you thought he wouldn’t notice. 

Would it be so bad if you let him worry at it with his own teeth? Let your lips get all puffy and red from his touch, and only his?

But he’s pushing the boundaries too much all over again, and you’re back to shaking. It’s a good tremble, one he can feel through the muscles of his forearm, the one that’s flush with your spine. You’re all excited, and it’s because of him. 

All good things. 

But he knows you, knows the martyr that you are. Knows that if he feeds you now, you’ll think that’s the only meal you need and deserve, and you’ll tear away from his hold all over again, because you haven’t been giving enough. You’ve received too much already; he can see it in your eyes. 

Gaz walked in here a little too generous after all those phone calls. He thought you’d expect a reward for your diligence, and instead you’re acting like it was a burden. Undue torture for him to draw away like that, in his humble opinion. 

But fine. He won’t kiss you. Not yet. 

He pulls back a bit, unraveling his arm around your waist and settling for spelling Garrick into your other hip with a bruising pressure. It’s high time the other side of your body received the same treatment, anyway. 

If he’s tasked with quieting your mind, he’ll have to do it the less fun way. 

“So,” he mumbles, a bit ticked at how the words disturb the air, “come here often?”

A surprised laugh tears out of your throat, and you tip your head back until the delectable line of your jaw is all he can see. 

Foul play. 

Patience. Fuckin’—God, patience. He almost forgot.

Almost slipped that fucking leash. 

“You’re horrible,” you admonish with a grin, fingers curling up at his left pectoral. 

“You love it,” he whispers back. If there’s any shred of him that’s lost faith in how you feel for him, it’s the same hand that forces his last name into your hip. It wanders, for a second, up your back, behind your ribs, until he can feel that off-kilter thrumming that matches his own. 

Feels that stutter at his words.

“Love, huh?”

He tries not to freeze up. If you felt that from him, you’d have a little spike of doubt pierce right into that ever-working brain of yours. 

Gaz is so pissed he let that word slip, even casually, and scans over your face, trying to read how it landed. You were casual about it, too, but he knows that’s a touchy subject to push on. He’s toppling into bad territory. If you pulled away from him now…

“Cheesy shit like that is all I hear at my job.” Garrick Garrick Garrick. He’s pressing the letters into your spine now. “Honest. Dad jokes every morning. I’m the last one you have to worry about. It’s like going on a mission with a comedy club, that crew.”

Your smile eases up a bit, and you relax into the moment again. 

“You barely talk about your job.” You look away, seemingly finding the wooden-paneled walls far more interesting. “I didn’t know that topic was on the table.”

“The good parts are. That’s all I’ll ever want you to hear about.”

“I didn’t know you were so protective.”

Gaz is nipping at the bits to respond to that exactly the way he knows how. Of fucking course I am. It’s you. But he can’t rephrase it in any way that would soothe and not scare you off. 

So he lets your comment hang in the silence as you sway.

~~~~~~

When Kyle leaves the bar, at first it feels an awful lot like when he left that very first time. A bit disappointing that the hot, crazy drunk guy won’t be entertaining you for the rest of the night. Won’t be screaming I love you sooooo much, miss bartender gal until you clock off. 

The feeling makes you wistful.

Then—

Oh fuck—

It starts to feel like when he left for his mission. When you didn’t know if he’d ever come back, and you just missed him so damn much you couldn’t think straight, wanted to hear his voice one more time and not just saying “Leave a message at the beep.”

When you drove yourself crazy thinking about the little touches. When you dreamed about him far too much than was normal. When, more than anything, you wanted him to give in to all those little urges he seemed to hold back from you, that little grimace winding his lips when you swept to close or said something even remotely suggestive. 

And you know you don’t deserve it. You’re not fit to be the girl of his affections, the one he comes home to each time he returns from a mission and greets with a kiss. 

But it doesn’t stop you from imagining that you could be. 

You’d try to repay him for his love each time he comes home by greeting him with his favorite meal and drink. You’d massage the corded muscles of his arms and back, lead him with a shy smile into the bath set for two, and he’d have that same hungry look as you stripped to join him, splashing water everywhere in effort to tug you over to his end of the tub. 

You’d sit on his couch each day, scratching his scalp as you read a book, listening to the soft snores as he napped. You’d dance with him in the kitchen like you did today, slow sways to a song he liked this time, and then you’d play your favorite again, just to listen to those soft hums of his crooning along…

Oh God. 

You want Kyle. So damn bad.

You want his body. You want his hands all over you, eyes raking over your face, legs twisting against yours. 

You want every little thought running through his mind. You want his attention. You want his laughs, his cries, his silence when he’s protecting you from his memories. 

You want him shamelessly. Constantly. Perpetually. 

You want him so bad that you could give two shits whether you deserved him or not. 

You’d do everything in your power to earn it. Pour in your love and heart and soul into building something with him. 

And best of all, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. 

You don’t regret the way you call him that night, pleading for him to come over. It’s three a.m., and his voice is groggy and exhausted over the phone, accent thick as he grumbles, “Love, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Oh, you’re cryin’, darling, tell me where you are. I’ll be there sooner than possible.”

You relapse so hard that night. The second you saw his face all over again, you knew you couldn’t go without him. A Kyle-addict, and you didn’t even notice until it was too late. 

He’s shouting, yelling at your door like a mad drunk, but you didn’t give him any scotch that morning. None of that whiskey sour either, the one he revealed was his favorite, but knew Americans wouldn’t get right. 

You tear open the door. His clothes are in disarray, buttons all wonky. His eyes are wild and wandering over you. His hands are curled tight around your doorway, blood sapping away from his knuckles because he’s holding himself back so hard. 

You don’t care. He shouldn’t bother anymore. 

You make the first jolt toward him, and his face melts into awe.

Kyle’s lips, they taste like….

Fuck, you whine a little into his mouth. 

Like fucking rain. Like a dream. Like clouds and floating untethered.

But also corporeal, grounding. Like plain chapstick and a bit of toothpaste. They taste like fingers winding so deep into your hair and hips pushing at yours until you stumble into your living room. They taste like Kyle blindly kicking the door shut, like him pulling back with a gasp and being aglow with ardent moonlight, like him reading every little emotion on your face and shaking his head, mumbling a “fucking finally.” He tilts your head up a bit higher, swivels your face to the side so your moans bounce off the walls as he drags his tongue along your jawline, down the warm column of your throat. And then you lurch, eyes flying open as he bites into the crux of your neck and shoulder. 

“Kyle!” Your nails dig into his back, drag down and dig in again at the same tempo as his bite-pull-back-bite-again. And he does the same to the rest of your body, every little inch that gradually presents itself when the clothes come off. His lips and teeth wander without bias, but each time you try to speak he drags himself back up to your ear and shushes, soothes your concerns with mindless mutterings along the lines of “Just lemme—gimme a bit to—fuck, love” and “Need a bit of patience, darling. I’m tryin’ to play here.”

He controls every second of it. All of it. 

Like he wouldn’t stand for a single mistake. Like he needs you to know it’s worth it. 

The sun showers over him when he’s trembling, sweating, hovering over you, hands intertwined with yours, peppering your face with kisses despite his rapid chest rising and falling, when he finally collapses against you, around and inside and generally being everything he can to you in this moment. He’s bigger than the bed, bigger than the apartment, bigger than that bar and your world. 

Kyle’s smile, still charming and exhausted, is the last thing you see as he coos you to sleep. 

~~~~~~

Gaz has to bat your hand away from your phone for the seventh time. “Jus’ fuckin’ ignore it,” he hisses into your stomach. “Bloody fuckin’ thing ruinin’ this beautiful mornin’ we’re having.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

Despite your phone—Jeanne calling, apparently, because you’re three hours late to work, and you could’ve at least warned her you were going to be honeymooning off with the newly returned soldier boy (she’ll give you a sick day)—ruining the moment, it was still the best awakening he’s had in his adult life.

Maybe even better than birthday chocolate chip pancakes when he was a kid. 

No. Wait.

Definitely better.

He woke up to a soft caress against his cheek, found himself buried into your chest. Your breasts, as it turns out, are even more beautiful to begin his day with watching than any sunrise. 

He tore his gaze up higher and found you staring down at him, gentle smile on your lips. Your fingertips were tracing over his scars, thumbing at his lips every now and then. 

It’s not right that he hasn’t woken up like this before. Part of it makes him think he hasn’t really been living until right now, when he can’t think past your hot skin and plush thighs nuzzled close to his stomach. 

“Don’t mind this one bit, darling,” he’d said, dropping his head to feather his mouth over your belly button. “Can we stay like this forever?”

It’s genuine, and he can tell you know he means it because your cheeks turn pink. Surely it’s a lot for you in this moment. Your split-second decision last night was just that, and on his taxi ride over he’d worried himself over how you’d react the next morning. 

Your brows furrow, and your lips purse real tight while you think. 

Gaz’s trained himself to fear your thinking, but he holds off on distracting you from it now. Plays fair, even though he could be kissing his way down further and further until he could force a promise out of you; a gaspy, whiney one. 

But that wouldn’t do. He needs that rabbit brain of yours that likes to kick out and scurry away to agree with him for once, that yes, you want him to stay. You always will. 

And before he knows it, you’re cupping both sides of his face, drawing him up onto his forearms, making him crawl up your body until you press one long, hard kiss to his lips before muttering, “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Your thumbs swipe under his eyes, no doubt bothered by the dark circles, but the rumble of his voice as he praises you for giving in must tell you he’s gotten plenty of sleep. He made sure he did all of the work last night, had you follow each and every one of his commands to sit, stay, and let him take care of you, for fuck’s sake, or it’ll kill him.

All his energy, all that stamina was worked to the bone, and he feels like a puddle of goo against your form. He presses another kiss to your lips before trailing his way back down, nestling into your stomach while informing you that you’d make a damn good pillow every morning. 

~~~~~~

You’re certain nothing could ruin this moment. 

Kyle’s already back to snoring softly, little grumbles against the skin between your breasts, hands starfished at your thigh and lower back. He looks ten years younger curled up against you, the wrinkles of his face smoothed out through thorough exhaustion. 

Just seven hours ago he’d smiled at you, somehow more doting than the last, his skin dewed with sweat, and collapsed into your hold. He’d been content to run himself ragged, and now that he’s got you thoroughly trapped underneath his muscled, form, he seems intent on not moving an inch. 

His wounds still unnerve you. The bandages from yesterday could use a change, damp and wrinkled around his bare thigh and biceps. But from your position, your head leveraged on a pillow, you can see pale, ravaged skin from botched stitches and bullet holes. Uneven gouges and linear scrapes, wounds whose origins would surely pain you to listen to—most of all because he’d say it with such nonchalance. 

It’s hard to turn the sweet Kyle from the bar into this war-broken soldier before you, hard to combine them into one person and have it make complete sense. Like water and oil, the pair of them refuse to mix into one. 

You’re running the tip of your middle finger along one particularly horrifying line running diagonally down his nape when he wakes up again. His head lifts, and you let your hand slide with the movement until you’re cupping his cheek and he’s leaning into your hold. A wet kiss cools on the inside of your wrist when Kyle gets close enough. 

His limbs wrangle even tighter with yours. “What time is it now?”

“Two-thirty.”

His pretty brown eyes are locked on your face, a gentle roaming back and forth in rhythm with the slow strokes of his index finger against your knee. 

“Good. A few more hours and I’ll have kept you here all day. A personal record, one I’ll flaunt with honor.”

“We’ll have to get up at some point.”

“Maybe I’ll trap you here all week,” he ignores you, all serious consideration now. “I’ll have to check my rope supply.”

“You know, there are easier, less illegal ways to entice me into staying.”

“Don’t like riskin’ it with you.” He draws himself up and leans in, and you tilt closer to accept his peppering of kisses over your forehead, across your cheeks, down your jawline. “Each time I try to do it the nice way, you manage to slip away from me. Have to start playin’ for keeps now.”

You’re not sure if you love Kyle. 

You know you’re not quite in the same place as he is emotionally. But he certainly knows how to put you on the fast track to get there, and it starts with the way he cradles you closer—always a little bit closer—and nudges his nose just underneath your ear, releasing a sigh like touching you can make all the horrors, worries, fears slip away. Like you’re a magical woman. 

You feel like you’re made of magic, anyway. 

And you don’t regret any of the decisions you’ve made since calling him last night. Hell, since calling him that first time, when he was thousands of miles away, and all he wanted was more. 

~~~~~~

Gaz has a bad urge. A terrible one. Bloody fuckin’ day ruiner of an urge that has him peeling away and hiding out in your bathroom for too long after relieving himself. 

He’s staring at himself in the mirror while he dries off clean hands, investigating that dark mark you’d sucked into the side of his neck before he could untangle from you. 

Bad, bad, bad Gaz. 

It’s too soon. 

You don’t take “too soons” very well. Can’t handle them. 

But, well, biased as he is, Gaz thinks he looks more alive than he has in months. 

And all it was was you, injected into his veins and flowing back to his heart before being properly dispersed throughout the rest of his body, even distribution of needing you every hour of every day until he can’t even curl his toes without thoughts of you. 

No. He really, really shouldn’t.

He won’t.

Gaz steps out of your bathroom and fumbles his way through your apartment, following the sounds of humming and beeping. 

Almost blacks out at what he finds. 

You, bent over and retrieving a frying pan from your cupboards, rising up until your standing tall, wearing his goddamned shirt. The black cotton hugs your thick figure tight, but it’s too long, caps off somewhere near the tops of your thighs, lace panties barely twinkling at him just underneath

Fuckin’ Christ, bloody Jesus, Hell on a—

“Love,” he chokes on the word. “Darling. You’re killin’ me here, bunny.”

Fuck it. 

Seriously—fuck it. 

He’s gonna ask. It’s not too soon. Not for him. Not when it comes to you. 

You laugh a little. “Sorry. I know, I know, it’s too tight. But I was too lazy to find something else, so if you really want it back—”

“No.”

You pause, smile locked on your face. “Okay then. Good. Glad that’s settled. I’ll just keep making breakfast then.”

You’re on your tippy toes now, reaching high to the small pantry above your stove, fingertipping at a box of pancake mix. 

“Could you…?”

“Yeah.” He’s behind you in a matter of blinks, broad chest brushing your back before you can dart out of the way, even grasping your hip with one hand and passing you the box with the other. 

You take it from him with a fumbled thank you, the words stuttering their way out of your mouth as he swipes your hair back and behind your ear. “What’s on the menu, then, love?”

He can practically feel the current of chills slinking down your spine. He follows you, chest still against your back, step for step as you putter around, finding a whisk, a carton of milk, and… a bag of chocolate chips. 

Fuckin’ hell, don’t tell me.

“Pancakes. I’m adding chocolate chips because they’re my favorite, so don’t you dare bitch about—what, what is it?”

You palm at his forehead in confusion when he buries his face into your shoulder and groans. 

Fool. Bloody fuckin’ fool, dumbass bastard ruining everything after one goddamn night. It’s too damn soon. It’ll ruin everything.

“Love, I hafta—”

A cacophony of beeps cut through the air, and your attention slips to the microwave, where a cup sits aglow in the yellow light. 

“Sorry, that’s for my tea—”

He’s really doing this. 

Fuck it. 

Fuck. 

It.

“Move in with me.”

~~~~~~

Part 3

[hischierdevils]

Belong To | J.H.

note: I have been trying to write this forever and I want to thank @rowdyhughesy for listening to me complain and helping me with the ending! Inspired by this song.

summary: your boyfriend is oblivious to the feelings you have for his best friend

warnings: love triangle, almost cheating, angst

wc: 3K

The way you look when you cry make me wanna confess to you

The way you wear that dress like it couldn't mean less to you

And there's no reason keeping secrets, maybe regret is a weakness

But all the jealous gods can burn me down and start again

“Jack, I'm so sorry.” You sniffle as you blot at his pants with a napkin. “I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.” 

He laughs and covers your hand with his own, stilling your actions. “It was an accident y/n.” He refers to the red wine glass you just dumped all over yourself and him in your clumsiness. “Besides, it’s not even my birthday yet.”

“But we’re celebrating tonight.” You wipe at your eyes with your free hand since he still holds your other one in his. 

“I’m more worried about your white dress.” He tells you as he gets to his feet and pulls you up so you’re standing in front of him. “C’mon.” The rest of his Devils’ teammates make a big show of not looking at the two of you as he leads you over to the rooftop bar. 

“It’s fine.” You try to tell him as he asks the bartender for a towel. “It barely got on me.” you hold out the hem of your dress, showing Jack that you only have a small stain on the hem. Since his leg was pressed up against yours, most of the wine ended up on his black jeans. 

He bites his lip to keep himself from saying the thoughts he can’t help but have when he’s around you. Your dress hangs off you perfectly and as he watches you dab at the hem with the towel, he can’t help but let his eyes wander down your long legs. 

What would you say if he told you how he felt? That even when you’re not with him, you’re on his mind constantly. Would you sit down and hear him out? Would you reciprocate his feelings? Or would you walk away and end your friendship? 

He’s known you since high school and he’s had a crush on you for just as long. The two of you became close quickly, staying up late talking on the phone telling each other all of your hopes and fears. You even came to his draft day, although you were holding another guys hand. 

“Hey, babe. Everything okay?” Trevor walks up and puts his arm around you as you dab at your dress. 

You pause and look over at your boyfriend with a small smile on your face. Jack’s gut twists with jealousy as he watches how easily Trevor gets to touch you. How happy you are just to see him. He loves Trevor, but he knows that you should be with him instead. You would be if Trevor hadn’t called dibs the first time they saw you in the cafeteria. 

“I ruined Jack’s pants.” You pout as you look over at Jack, still underneath Trevor’s arm. Jack had completely forgotten about his wine-soaked leg until now. He looks down at his black jeans but you can barely tell there’s a stain. “And his birthday.”

“What were you doing with Jack’s pants?” Trevor jokes before looking at Jack. “Hitting on my girl, Hughesy?” There’s something in his gaze that tells Jack that he knows exactly how he’s feeling. 

You roll your eyes as you hand the towel back to Jack. “I’m sorry, Jack.” 

You’re looking at him so sincerely that he wishes he could wrap you up in his arms and kiss you until you smile at him. Instead, he watches as Trevor plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “He’s fine, babe. No use crying over spilled wine.” 

“It’s milk, Z.” Jack corrects. 

“Whatever.” Trevor chuckles. “Let’s dance.” 

Jack watches you walk away with Trevor and he’s so wrapped up in the way that you move he doesn’t realize that Luke has joined him at first. “Are you ever going to tell her how you feel?” He asks his older brother. 

“What are you talking about?” Jack peels his eyes off of you as Trevor spins you and looks at his brother. 

Luke chuckles and takes a sip of his beer that Jack bought for him earlier. “You’re in love with y/n.” He states matter-of-factly. 

Jack grunts and takes the beer out of Luke’s hand before bringing it to his own lips. “Y/n and Trevor are my best friends.” Luke looks unconvinced so Jack adds, “That’s all.”

“We all love Trevor, bro.” Luke says. “But for the record, I think she’d be happier with you.” He walks away, leaving Jack to look toward the dance floor again. Trevor’s holding your hips loosely as you both sway to the music but he’s talking to another girl that is dancing near you both. 

As if you feel his eyes on you, you turn your head and look at Jack. A smile spreads across your face as you catch Jack already looking at you. You give him a small wave, motioning for him to join you but he shakes his head and walks back over to Mikey and Nate. 

He shouldn’t be having these thoughts about his best friend’s girlfriend but his biggest regret is allowing himself to get close to you even after Trevor called dibs. 

Don't wanna come home late and make a mistake for you

It's easier to let a heart wait than make a heart break for you

I give you pieces of my secrets like religion to believe in

And all the jealous gods can burn me down and start again

Trevor had always stayed at the Hughes lake house during the summer but this is the first time that you’ve stayed with the Hughes family longer than a night. You didn't think it was a good idea, especially after the Devil’s end of the season party that you crashed with Trevor. How could you say that to your boyfriend? ‘Sorry I don’t want to come because I might be in love with your best friend?’ That wouldn’t go well. 

You loved Trevor but you weren’t sure if you were in love with him. Yes, he made you laugh, but you couldn’t talk with him the way you could with Jack. You were hoping that the month that passed after the party would help dull your feelings. That you would see Jack and realize that he was just a good friend to you. That Trevor was all you needed.

When you and Trevor pulled into the Hughes driveway, Jack was there to greet both of you. He was wearing a t-shirt and swim trunks and his tan skin was warm as he pulled you in for a hug. You relaxed into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and let out a sigh of contentment. It felt like coming home. 

You were in trouble. 

You tried avoiding Jack as much as you could after that even though it’s the opposite of what your heart wanted. You had a war of emotions going on inside of you and you couldn’t even go to your best friend about it. Trevor didn’t seem to notice the way you withdrew from the group but someone else did. 

“Are you having fun?” Luke drops into the empty seat next to you one night as you all sit around the fire in the Hughes’ backyard. Even though it's a warm July night there's a cool breeze that keeps causing goosebumps to rise on your arms. 

“Yeah.” You smile at Jack’s younger brother. “Thanks so much for having me.” Everyone had been out on the water all day, drinking and wake surfing. Everyone was a little tipsy and tired but no one wanted to turn in for the night yet. 

“Of course, y/n, You’re practically family.” Luke grins as Trevor, Cole, and Quinn erupt in laughter on the other side of you. “Maybe one day you will be.” 

Trevor’s laughing too hard for you to hear the rest of Luke’s sentence. He laughs with his entire body and you feel a twinge of annoyance as you watch his shoulders shake. He hasn’t done anything wrong but you’ve been resenting your relationship more and more lately. Especially now that it feels like you and Jack aren’t even friends. 

“Hey, Trev?” You turn your attention away from Luke and look at your boyfriend. “Where’s the hoodie you had on earlier?” 

“Huh?” He doesn’t even glance over at you as Quinn continues to talk. “Sure, I'll have another beer.” 

Rolling your eyes, you push yourself off your chair. “I’ll be right back.” Luke’s the only one that acknowledges your departure as you head into the house in search of a hoodie to stay warm. You find the USA hoodie that Trevor was wearing earlier hung over a dining room chair. You pull it on, enjoying its warmth as you make your way to the kitchen to grab your boyfriend another beer. 

Jack’s sitting at the island snacking on some grapes when you walk in and he gives you a nod as you walk by him. “Hey, you okay?” He asks. 

“Yeah.” You respond as you open the fridge to get yourself a hard seltzer and a beer for Trevor. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Jack shrugs as you close the fridge and walk towards him. “You haven’t really talked to me since you got here.” He tries to smile like it hasn’t been bothering him but you know when his smiles are fake. “Just wanted to make sure we’re okay.” 

“I’m sorry.” You bite your lip, hating that you hurt him. “It’s been a bit crazy…” 

“Y/n.” Jack reaches for your hand and you allow him to take it as you lean against the island beside him. “We don’t lie to each other, remember?” 

Maybe it’s the combination of sun and alcohol you had today or maybe you’re just tired of holding everything in, but as you look into Jack’s eyes you feel the truth roll off your tongue. “I have to stay away from you.” 

“What?” Jack’s eyes widen with alarm. “Why? Did Trevor tell you that?”

“No, of course not.” You take a deep breath as tears start to roll down your cheeks. “I think I have feelings for you.”

He’s still sitting in front of you but he tugs on your hand, pulling you closer to him so he can reach up and wipe your tears away with his thumb. “Y/n…”

“No.” You cut him off before he can continue. You need to get your feelings out before you explode. “I know I have feelings for you. I think I always have. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine, too.” Jack’s eyes are watery as he brushes your hair out of your face. “I’m in love with you, y/n.” He whispers the words but they wash over you like he screamed them. 

You allow the feeling of warmth to wash over you for a moment before you step out of Jack’s embrace. “We can’t do this to Trevor.” You say as you wipe your own tears with your sleeve. 

“I know.” Jack sighs as he folds his arms over his chest so he won’t reach for you again. “I feel like an ass. He’s my friend and I’ve been hoping you two break up this entire time.” 

You can feel your heart breaking as you look at Jack. “Even if we break up, you and I can never be together.” You decide. “I can’t do that to Trevor. I care about him too much.” 

Jack nods in understanding and a tear slips down his cheek as he watches you back away from him. “I’m always going to love you.” 

You try and fail to swallow the lump in your throat. You’re going to break your own heart trying to keep Jack’s and Trevor’s intact. “I’m sorry.” 

'Cause you belong to somebody else

And I didn't want to but I couldn't help it

And I know it's wrong to call this sweet hell upon myself

You belong to somebody else

Trevor was so excited to be with the boys that he didn’t even notice how withdrawn you were. He was barely paying attention when you told him you were heading inside, too busy listening to Quinn’s story to acknowledge you. It’s not until Cole asks what’s taking you so long that he realizes you’re still not back. 

“She probably fell asleep.” Trevor laughs as he stands up, the alcohol hitting him hard as he does. “I’ll got find her.” 

He’s laughing quietly to himself as he enters the house over a joke he doesnt even remember. He stops abruptly when he hears the unmistakble sound of you sniffling. As he gets closer to the kitchen he hears you say his name and stops in his tracks. “We can’t do this to Trevor.”

Do what to Trevor? He’s known that Jack’s had a crush on you since the three of you met but he never thought either of you would ever sneak around behind his back. He thought he could trust you. 

“I know.” Trevor inches closer to the doorway so he can listen to Jack. “I feel like an ass. He’s my friend and I’ve been hoping you two break up this entire time.” 

Trevor knows he should be mad, listening to his best friend tell his girlfriend this, but strangely the only thing is hurt by is that the two of you felt like you couldn’t tell him how you were feeling. 

“Even if we break up, you and I can never be together.” He hears you say. “I can’t do that to Trevor. I care about him too much.” 

He knew you were special the day he met you. He knew Jack could see it too, that’s why he called dibs on you all those years ago. The two of you didn’t start dating right away, you started out as friends and he honestly thought that you and Jack were a lot closer than you and him were. He would’ve been fine if you two had started dating but Jack never made a move, and Trevor had to at least try before he was drafted. 

“I’m always going to love you.” Jack’s voice brings Trevor out of his thoughts. He can hear the pain in his best friends voice. There’s even more in yours when you respond with, “I’m sorry.” 

When’s the last time he told you he loved you? Trevor honestly couldn’t remember. Sure, you both said “Love ya” but it wasn’t the same. Your relationship had gotten too comfortable, casual. 

If he thought about it, your relationship was less about wanting to be together and more about not knowing how to be alone. The fact that he wasnt even mad about overhearing this conversation should be enough proof for him that it was over between the two of you. 

Stuck in his thoughts, he forgets to move and you come barreling into him as you try to escape the kitchen. “Trevor?” You panic as he puts his hands on your arms so you don’t fall. “How long have you…how much did you hear?” Your face is red and blotchy from crying but he can tell that you’re now worried about him. 

“Enough.” He answers as Jack walks up and puts himself between the two of you.

“Trevor, don’t be mad at her.” He can’t help but watch as you automatically reach for Jack’s hand, ready to defend him just like he is for you. “You can hit me if you want but don’t blame Y/n.”

“I’m not mad.” Trevor smiles and holds up his hands in surrender. 

“Really?” You and Jack ask together. 

“Really.” Trevor grins. “But I think i’m allowed at least one hit, right? I mean you did just tell my girlfriend you loved her.” 

Jack nods in agreement, accepting his fate as your eyes go wide and you try to get in front of him. “Trevor please don’t!” 

The sight of you standing between him and Jack in the doorway of the Hughes home shouldn’t make him laugh but it does. “I’m not going to, Y/n.” He smiles and ruffles your hair like a kid even though he knows you hate it. “But I am breaking up with you. Can you guys give me at least a month before you start making out in front of me?” 

“This isn’t a joke, Trevor.” You say, slightly exasperated. He never takes anything seriously, including your relationship. “Can we please talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Trevor sighs and takes your hands in his possibly for the last time. “You two love each other and I know it’s not the same way you love me, Y/n. I care about both of you and I don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness. Be together if that’s what you want to do but either way…you and I are over. We have been for a while.”

You start crying again as you look into Trevor’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Trev. I never wanted to hurt you.” Trevor looks over your shoulder at Jack, waiting for a nod of approval before pulling you in for a hug. 

“Hey, you could never hurt me, sweet girl.” He kisses the top of your head as you cry. “We’re still going to be friends. Your heart just belongs to Jack.” 

“I’m sorry, man.” Jack tells Trevor as he lets you go.

“Don’t be sorry.” Trevor shakes his head and claps Jack on the shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “Be good to her.”

He leaves you and Jack standing in the doorway holding onto each other. “So…what now?” Jack prompts after a long silence. 

“I don’t know.” You admit. “I need some time before we…”

“Of course, Y/n.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll always wait for you.”

Tag list: @hughesmedicine @huggy-hischier94 @diary-of-jj @cole-mcward48

[anonymousdisco]

How’d I get Isikiad into Yandere Obey Me Chapter Nine-Unexpected Opertunity Part Two

Derek’s POV:

“This is so boring. Why are we even out here anyways? We can’t afford something like Mojalish.” I scoffed as I kicked a stone across the sidewalk.

“Yeah but it just felt like the thing to do.” Ella said as she slumped against the building. “I know we can’t afford it. I’m not an idiot like you.”

“Now guys just break it up. Even if we’re off school grounds we’ll get in trouble if we fight. RAD students' reputation and all that mumbo jumbo the student council spits out.” Selma rolled his eyes as he spoke.

(Trigger warning bullying and violence but the scum will get their just dues)

I looked at the front of Mojalish and my eyes widened. What in Devildom was the halfwit doing here? She was practically beaming. How dare she act so high and mighty shopping there? And on a school day no less! Sure we’re skipping too but we’re not the student council! “Yo check it over there.” I nodded my head in her direction.

“Ooooh!” Ella exclaimed excitedly. “This just got a lot less boring!”

Selma chuckled, wrapping his arm around Ella’s waist. “I call first dibs on insulting her babe. I’ve got some good ones I’ve been saving up for a rainy day.”

Ella pouted. “Derek, Selma went first last time!”

“Don’t tease my sister like that, Selma. Let her have her fun too.” Ella squealed and when (Y/N) saw us she ran up and grabbed her arm before she could leave.

“Hiya! Funny seeing one of you student council member out and about during school hours. I’m sure Lord Diavolo would love to hear about you neglecting your duties.” Me and Selma stood behind (Y/N) cornering her in laughing when she curled up a bit to seem smaller.

“Some higher demon you are. What are you again? Avatar of what?” Selma sneered as he spoke.

“I-I’m not a-an avatar. I’m j-just a Lady of D-Devildom.” The halfwit mumbled out stuttering as she shook a bit with fear. Seeing a demon that was supposedly a higher rank than us so terrified by us felt like a rush of power.

In the heat of the moment I shoved her hard against the wall making her land in a way that had her grasping her wrist crying in pain as she cried. “What kind of Lady isn’t even strong enough to fight us? Your just some joke that not even your own brothers want around!”

She held her hand shaking even harder now and did something she had never done before during our torment of her in the past. She opened her mouth and screamed, “Lucifer!” I laughed at her. As if he would show up. Everyone knows her brothers don’t do anything for her.

Ella’s eyes widened as she began backing away and trembling looking at something behind us. “H-how?!” She turned and ran. I felt something whoosh past me that was black and it slammed through her shoulder and stuck her against the wall. I looked at it in horror and realized it was a feather. And not just any feather, but a peacock feather.

I felt a hand grip my shoulder breaking it which made me scream. The pain was blinding but I heard Selma screaming as well clearly being hurt.

I blacked out from the pain as my head felt like it was spinning.

Lucifer’s POV:

Five minutes. I told her to wait outside for five minutes while I waited for the adjustments to be made to what we had purchased for her. Five whole minutes she was left alone. It was only five and she ended up hurt! Red filled my vision as I quickly drew one of my feathers stopping one of those scum from running off.

I then turned my attention to the other two subduing them quickly. I broke their bones one by one not caring when they passed out.

“That’s enough, Lucifer. They are no longer conscious enough to feel the pain you are inflicting. They’ll be held under the castle till preparations can be made.” I heard Lord Diavolo's command. I dropped them to the ground and knelt in front of my little sister who was crying and trembling.

“Come here Darling. Big brothers here.” I held my arms out to her and waoted for her acknowledging not wanting to scare her further.

“L-Lucifer!” She sobbed as she reached her not injured arm. “It hurts!” She sobbed as she held onto me tightly once I had her secure in my arms.

I stood up carrying her using my wings to shield her eyes from the gore I inflicted upon the worthless trash on the ground. I crooned to her soothingly as I walked her carefully to my car.

“We’re taking my car. It’s faster.” Lord Diavolo said as he opened the door for me to set her inside. I elected to keep her in my hold so I could make sure she didn’t jostle any injuries she had gotten.

“Understood, My Lord.” I nodded at him gratefully.

“Don’t worry, (Y/N).” Lord Diavolo stroked her hair delicately. “Those lowlifes will be begging for death, but it will be a respite they won’t be given.”

She just curled up against me still trembling as we all got settled in Lord Diavolo’s car. Barbatos pulled the hood up over the convertible while Lord Diavolo sat next to us in the back. Barbatos went to the front in order to drive us.

She must have been exhausted. By the time we reached the castle she was sound asleep. Being so scared and crying like that must have taken a lot out of her. I got out of Lord Diavolo’s car taking care not to wake her. Lord Diavolo gestured silently, guiding me to his quarters deep in the castle where the resident doctor was nearby. 

I put her down on a guest bed in one of the rooms nearby and sat by her side carefully. The head of the castle doctors entered quickly looking pale. “I was told there was an emergency.” He stated with a professional calmness. “Has the heir been harmed?” He was quick to glance over Lord Diavolo for any obvious injuries.

“Keep your voice down. The Lady is sleeping.” Barbatos was quick to scold the doctor. “Now Doctor Smith I’m sure you can be delicate with our Lady, can’t you?” The warning in Barbatos’s tone was clear and I agreed with his sentiments.

“If a single hair on my little sister's head is touched without permission I’ll rip your skull from your spine.” The doctor visibly flinched at my words and nodded quickly.

“Yes Lord Lucifer. I understand. May I approach the patient and check on her injuries?”

“Yes. You may.” I watched him carefully as he approached her and lifted her arms.

“At first glance she had a broken wrist, and bruising on her left side that likely is on her back as well. Did she get attacked by some sort of monster like Cerberus?” The doctor asked me after checking what he could of her injuries without waking her.

“No, some lower demons who don’t know their place hurt her.” I explained seething.

“Well that’s… odd.” The doctor murmured. All three of us glared at him intently.

“Odd how? Explain.” Lord Diavolo demanded.

“Perhaps we should go elsewhere while the nurses come in a wrap her injuries so that we don’t wake her. This discussion is likely to be quite… loud.” The doctor wrote down instructions for the nurses before we all headed to Lord Diavolo’s study to discuss her injuries.

The doctor wrung his hands nervously as we gazed at him from behind Lord Diavolo’s desk, me and Barbatos standing on either side of where Lord Diavolo was seated. “Well?” Barbatos spoke up coldly. “Explain yourself, Doctor Smith.”

“Her injuries are inconsistent with your account. She has a sprained foot, bruising, and even some cuts that look like they happened in self defense rather than an accident.” He explained trembling at our collective anger. “As a demon of her stature and standing she should be much stronger. Not much should be able to injure her. But she shows signs of…” He hesitated gazing at me.

“Signs of what?” Lord Diavolo demanded that he continue.

“Signs of long term neglect and long term abuse. Demons of her age should have enough of their family’s magic and care running through their body at this point to leave a clear declaration of whom they belong to in crest. But she matches that of a newborn who has yet to meet her family in terms of magic protection.” The doctor showed us comparison charts using a magical tool to demonstrate. “As such her growth is stunted and using magic should be painful, deadly even.”

“What…?” I felt dizzy. Had our ignoring her really do this much damage?

“There’s still a possibility of her healing, but it will be slow for her at the moment. It will take a whole week before she’ll be completely recovered.” He sighed. “The bullying must have been more severe than you originally expected.”

“It is. And it will not go unpunished. How do me and my brothers help her be protected? I am unfamiliar with this concept… Angels are raised rather differently.” I was a fool for ever thinking it was the same. I was a fool about all of this.

I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It must still be hard for you after the fall, Lucifer. It was my negligence as the Young Masters butler for not realizing you wouldn’t know. I’ll show you how given that I do such a thing for the Young Master. I can do it for her as well. I do not mind it one bit.”

“Thank you. I would be grateful.” I nodded at him thankfully. I don’t know what I would do without help from my old friends.

“You are dismissed. Attend to any new and old injuries she has.” Lord Diavolo commanded the doctor whom left accordingly.

“Well. This was eventful.” Lord Diavolo grabbed a bottle of Demonous from his shelf behind his desk. He also grabbed a couple glasses after. “Let’s have a drink while we wait. We’ll contact RAD and have your brothers be notified about your family emergency and give them the option to come here.”

I bowed my head gracefully. “Thank you, Lord Diavolo.”

“Anytime for an old friend like you, Lucifer.” Lord Diavolo raised his glass. “To long friendships and thorny paths.”

“Salute.” Me and Barbatos said together as we all toasted.

Lucifer:

Affection: 57% (holy fudge are you sure you want to poke this bear any further?!)

“She's been hurting all this time. And none of us noticed. Any time she casted magic it could have killed her and yet she still bothered herself with RAD schoolwork. Me and my brothers will need to talk about this. An intervention may be necessary for her. One thing is clear, those demons aren’t dying till they beg for it.”

~Relation: Scary Dog Privileges for Life

~Danger Level-Yellow (Getting a little close to red there. Might wanna slow down like I told you to.)

Diavolo:

Affection: 51%

“She’s so brave for enduring for so long. I’ll kill those demons who hurt her. RAD security footage should be able to tell me all I need to know.”

~Relation: That oblivious fog is starting to blow away real quick.

~Danger: Yellow (girl slow the frick sticks down or else you're gonna be wearing a crown so flipping fast.)

Barbatos:

Affection: 52% (uh oh)

“This is an excellent opportunity just as I foresaw. Now I can claim her as family just like her brother will soon through magic. And the young master needs only a little bit more of a nudge before he experiences the sweetness of young love.” 

~Relation- Your Planned Future Father Figure In-law 

[aquaticwolfkuri]

You HATE Me, But I

Hate YOU More!: ch.3

(I deleted the original character.3 cause I hated it, hopefully I don't hate this one and rewrite it lol )

During lunch, Zim watched the new girl closely, and while he was doing that, Dib was watching Zim just as closely, trying to figure out what he might be planning. 

Just then, Zim springs from his table and shoves one of his classmates passing by, causing them to spill their drink all over Plotty’s shirt.

She didn’t scream and she wasn’t even smoking, much to Zim’s displeasure. Had she already discovered the secret to paste? Or perhaps she had some sort of new Irken disguise that protected her from water??

Well, before Zim could think much longer about it, the student he had shoved earlier was actually a jock and they didn’t appreciate being shoved. Zim was promptly beaten before being thrown into the trashcan.

“Plotty, are you alright???” Dib and a few other students go to check on the new girl, but Dib blushes when he realizes that Plotty’s black lacy bra has become visible through her wet white shirt.

“Dib, D-Don’t look!” The girl blushes, shoving past him as she covers up her chest, quickly escaping to the woman’s bathroom with a few of the other girls with her.

Dib spins around and stumbles, tripping over the now fallen over trashcan and toppling over on top of the green boy. Zim freezes, feeling Dib’s hot breath ghosting over his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He quickly begins to panic as his chest tightens and his face burns up. So what does he do? He screams, shoving Dib off of him before kicking him.

“W-What the fuck Zi-” Zim kicks him again.

“Y-You won’t kill me that easily, DIB!” Zim shouts before running out of the cafeteria.

“H-Huh…???” Dib holds his side and winces from the pain, not really sure what the green boy was talking about. He hadn’t done anything to the alien, in fact, Zim was the one who attacked him!

Gaz, who had been watching from afar, raised a brow when she noticed the clear blush that had been dusted over the alien’s green complexion.

She puts her game-slave aside and walks with Dib to the nurse's office where he got the bruises Zim gave him, treated.

 

Outside the Skool, Zim hides behind a tree near the track field, breathing heavily.

“W-What was that….that FEELING!? W-What kind of human trickery was that!? Z-Zim’s chest nearly exploded…!” Zim pulls out a scanning device from his pack to check for any physical or internal damage, but his vitals are perfectly fine, so then what was wrong with him??? 

Touching the back of his neck, Zim blushes and nearly quivers, remembering the feeling.

“W-What in Irk’s name is this….??? What has the Dib-Human done to me!?” Zim rushes back to the base, forgetting about the rest of Skool for the day in order to run a few tests on himself.

After Skool, Dib and Gaz would walk home, but this time, Plotty wouldn’t be joining them, So Dib could finally read his favorite pass-time mysterious mysteries magazine on the way home. Gaz watches him for a moment before looking back at her game but she speaks up.

“You know… If you plan on dating that girl, you should really think about telling her the truth.”

“Gaz, if I told Plotty that all those things the other students said about me were true, she'd just think I’m crazy and stop talking to me!” Dib responds, clearly annoyed. 

“I mean, Despite all the bizarre things in this world, why am I the only one singled out for it? Since I was a child, I’ve always been the crazy big-headed kid, but things are finally starting to feel different now, and a girl ACTUALLY likes him!”

“...But she doesn’t know the REAL you…” Gaz says.

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, isn’t that what people do in High Skool?? They lie about who they are until adulthood?” Dib says, but Gaz seems dissatisfied with this answer… but she doesn’t say anything, instead, she changes the subject.

“Zim wasn’t around for the rest of class…”

“Huh? Yeah, I don’t know. He just started hitting me and ran off. I think he was just being weird or something…” Dib says that, but Zim was clearly serious when he hit him.

"Yeah, he was definitely acting weird..." Gaz says, recalling the blush on Zim's face. "Definitely weird..."

[mercurygray]

What Friends Are For

It's a normal afternoon at the airfield, with administration staff running errands and a baseball game in the outfield, until a replacement plane brings a new pilot...and a new perspective on an old face.

It had been the most normal afternoon in the world before the plane came in.

The day’s mission (a milk run of a diversion route, hardly worth worrying over) wasn’t due back for several hours, and everyone who’d been left off the roster was taking advantage of the July sunshine. There were men napping in deck chairs outside the Aero Club and half of a baseball game in the newly mown infield, a strange sense of peace smoothing over everything - until Anita’s voice was heard coming in over the tannoy that everyone was to clear the field and the runway for a flight in from Framlingham.

A wild scramble started at the Aero Club and the motor pool, a jumbled rush for jeeps and bicycles and anything else that could get you to the tarmac as fast as possible. Framlingham meant replacement planes, and replacement planes meant ferry pilots - and ferry pilots just might be female.

Two to a plane, a pilot and and a co-pilot who could run radios in a pinch. It was a job for flyers who were not quite 1A, not exactly front line and not exactly behind it either, and the Air Forces had decided that before they saddled their walking wounded with the indignity of being singled out for noncombat flights, they’d let the women do it. Look nice in the papers, wouldn’t it - fresh-faced young woman straight from college airfields and the Ninety-Nines clubroom. Girl flyers to ferry planes for bomber boys. It would be allowed that they were just level headed enough to fly the plane from point A to point B, but combat duty would be a bridge too far. Handling one of the heavies in anything stronger than a swift breeze was a job for men, not women. (Until someone needed to motivate the men, in which case - it’s so easy they’ve got girls doing it.)

And besides all that - it might be good for morale, to have a couple of cute faces around.

The baseball players made it in first - Egan and DeMarco and Biddick, shirts off and baseball gloves abandoned at the side of the tarmac while the B-17 touched down, slowing steadily and then turning on to the taxiway, one of the crew chiefs waving it down to an open hardstand to give it another once over. The crowd followed. “I call dibs if one’s a blonde,” Dickie was heard to say to his co-pilot, Curt shoving him playfully and telling him where he could put it.

They waited a ways off while the propellers stopped spinning, the familiar whine of the engine dying down until the silence said it was safe to approach.

A figure in Santiago blue emerged from the hatch near the nose, bag tossed on the tarmac and landing with a soft thump on the ground. (More than one man was thinking about how nice those legs looked, getting down out of the plane.)

“Still fun though, wasn’t it?” the woman was asking, waiting for another person to join her on the ground, fixing her gloves and loosening her jacket.

“God, yes,” the second voice agreed, the smile in her voice hardly trying to hide. “I forgot how much.” A second bag, a second pair of legs - but the face that went with it made every single man there pull up short.

Benny got there first. “Callaway?”

Sure enough, there she was - Cordelia Callaway, last seen on a truck south to Wing Headquarters at Horham, trying to brush the creases out of her trousers and shoving a pair of leather pilot’s gloves into her coat pockets. It was strange to see her away from her tower, and perhaps stranger still to see she was pulling down both her briefcase and a navigator’s board, its pencil hanging by a string.

“She was going my way,” the pilot in blue offered, as if some kind of apology were needed. “We were short-handed and it seemed silly to make an old friend wait for the truck.”

The answer provoked more questions than answers, but no one quite seemed to know quite what to ask - or how. “Are you gonna introduce us, Lieutenant?” Gale asked breezily, joining the party with his cap still on and a book tucked under his arm. “Some of us like to pretend we still have manners.”

Cord, too, was a little off balance. “This is Laura Simpson. She’s a... friend of mind from back home. Laura, this is Major Gale Cleven - Captain Benny DeMarco - Lieutenant Curtis Biddick - Lieutenant Dickie Snyder...and Major John Egan. They’re all pilots here at the 100th.”

“You any relation to the Laura Simpson whose father’s an admiral?” Dickie asked, as Laura went around shaking hands.

“Guilty as charged,” the pilot replied. “Hope you won’t hold it against me.”

“And how do they have you flying for the Army?”

“Nepotism only gets you anywhere if your uncle’s a six star general,” Laura said, grinning at her own joke. “The Navy won’t let me near a plane, much less the carrier to put it on - and believe me, Daddy asked. So it’s all Army, all day for this gal. I don’t mind it much, as long as I’m flying. Besides,” she added, with a wink for effect, “I have it on good authority the boys are cuter on this side of the war.”

That won some points - the smiles got wider and at least one man stood up just a little taller. “Are you going to stick around for dinner, Miss Simpson? The cuter boys always have room for another pretty face,” Dickie offered, obviously trying hard to get the last word in.

“Well, it is the last flight of the day for me,” Laura said, shrugging. “And it just so happens I brought my party clothes, too.”

“I should get going,” Cordelia said quietly, adjusting the grip on her briefcase and hefting the navigator’s board under her arm. “I’ve got film for Bowman and Brennan.”

“I’ll catch you later,” Laura promised. “I’m sure these fine gentlemen will get me over to the women’s quarters in one piece.” She looked around with a winning smile. “Someone going to offer to carry my bag?”

Three hands went up, but Curt’s went straight to the bag itself, which made him the winner, and the whole group set off back to base, Dickie jogging around to retrieve the rest of the baseball gloves.

“Mighty nice of you to jumpseat Callaway back to us, Miss Simpson,” Bucky said with a smile, his long stride loping a little to keep pace with Laura, who wasn’t nearly as tall as him.

“Oh, I didn’t jumpseat anyone,” Laura said strongly, smiling slightly herself. “She drove.”

There were stares, and Bucky actually lost a step. “Callaway’s not a pilot, she’s a flight control officer.”

His stare was just this side of predatory, his dark eyes focused and narrow, but Laura still laughed. “If you think that’s true, there’s a lot about Cordelia Callaway you don’t know, Major.”

“Enlighten us, then,” Curt offered, as generous with his smiles as he’d been with his carrying of her bag.

Laura met his eye with a generosity of her own. “Buy me a drink later and maybe I’ll tell you, Lieutenant.”

Later was after they’d let her fill out paperwork with Jack Kidd about the plane she’d just brought in, and let him make the necessary calls for a seat on a truck headed back to Framlingham so she could be returned to the ferrying roster tomorrow, and after Captain Brennan had made sure there were quarters ready in the women’s block and filled her in on the rest of the base’s amenities. And finally, after all the ts had been crossed and is had been dotted and her bags had been left in the women’s quarters, it was just close enough to happy hour that the whole party found themselves in the officer’s club for a few drinks before dinner.

“So how does an admiral’s daughter end up knowing a WAC from Ohio?” Curt said with single-minded focus, once the drinks had been poured and seats had been found near the fireplace. “Because there ain’t a lot of naval bases in Dayton, the last time I checked.”

“We met on the East Coast air race circuit,” Laura offered plainly, glancing around to blank and confused stares. "You all really don't know who she is, do you?" She laughed and took a sip of her whiskey. "Cord Callaway is the 1939 Cleveland Powder Puff women's pylons champion. She's not just a pilot - she's a racer. And an acrobat, while we’re talking."

"You're shitting me." That was Bucky, sitting back in his chair.

"Not for a moment," Laura assured him. "She's one of the best fliers I know. She did the course at Cleveland and took five seconds off the standing record that year - and she did it in last year’s plane."

"So what the hell's she doing up in a control tower?"

"You'd have to ask her that, Lieutenant Biddick. I only know part of the story."

“So share the part you know,” Bucky advised.

Laura looked around at the waiting faces and settled into her chair. “You all know she grew up at Wright Patterson, right? Her old man’s an engineer there - helps run tests on government contract models. She grew up flying - took lessons from officers at the base when her dad was working late. Practice something long enough and you get good at it, and she got good. The guys who were teaching her were all test pilots - taught her rolls and spins, and she got good at those, too. The Air Force usually sent a couple of guys to Cleveland, and one year she went with. They let her take one of the planes out as a joke, and she smoked three quarters of the field - no one knew who she was or where she’d come from. Next thing you know she’s got a Ninety-Nines membership and an invite to the next meet and one of the guys at Curtis is talking to her about flying their plane - once they find out she’s Wilson Callaway’s daughter. They figure that making it easy enough for a girl to fly will be a selling point.” She smirked. “It’s not just six star generals and admirals, you know.”

Bucky cut in. “Get to the part about the tower.”

If Laura seemed surprised by his insistence she didn’t say anything, just kept on with the story. “Jackie Cochran had reached out to a number of us in...was that the same year? I think it was. Wanting to talk about flying for England - ferrying duties. I didn’t feel like it, but then Nancy Love reached out...maybe a year later, a year and a half, about doing the same thing stateside, after Arnold asked her, and that sounded good to me. I called around to see who else I might be seeing, and I thought for sure Cord would be game, but she - she said she wasn’t doing it, that she was joining the WAC instead to do air traffic.” She paused, took a sip of her drink. “There was ...a guy she’d been mentioning a lot, and apparently there’d been an accident. He was due to join his squadron in a week.” Laura took another sip of whiskey, ice clipping around in her glass. The entire group had gone silent. “Captain James Chapman. Jimmy. When your number’s up, I suppose.” She raised her eyebrows and finished the rest of her whiskey. “And that’s what I know about that. If you want whatever’s left of the story, you’ll have to get it from her.”

It was a somber note to end on, but the mess sergeant was ringing the bell for chow, and man by man they trooped out to the dining hall, Curt and Dickie having apparently claimed the right to have Laura sit at their table. By the time they got to dinner everyone was talking and laughing again.

--

The officer’s club certainly wasn’t crowded after dinner, but Bucky still slid into the seat directly next to Cord and made himself comfortable watching Laura with her current dance partner across the room. For a moment the two sat in silence. “I think Curt’s getting ready to propose to your friend,” Bucky said, casually.

The observation made her glance up in alarm. He was right - Curt looked very serious indeed, his hand gently cradling hers as the two danced. “Someone had better tell him to save it,” she warned. “Laura’s already spoken for. She’s got a boyfriend over in Fighter Command with a right hook that’s just as good as Curt’s.”

Bucky seemed to be considering it for a moment, but he remained in his chair, his eyes fixed on Cord again. “You know, she’s telling some wild stories about your course record in Cleveland, Lieutenant.”

Cord met his eye for a moment in fear, her eyes quickly falling back to her drink. “I wish she wouldn’t,” she said, softly.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Bucky leaned over the table, his glass in both hands. “About being a pilot?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“So then why’d you give up flying?” Bucky wasn’t taking no for an answer here, clearly trying to understand more. “They would have let you, same as her. Was it this guy - this guy Jimmy?”

The name made her freeze for a moment, a deer under the hunter’s eye. “She told that story, too?”

Bucky nodded and leaned back in his chair again. “I have to say, I’m kinda struggling to picture you breaking your heart over a boyfriend, but what do I know?”

“That’s not why I did it.” Her tone was almost harsh. “It wasn’t a broken heart, and he ...wasn’t my boyfriend.” She said all this like that would be the end of the matter, and then made the mistake of glancing at Bucky, who said nothing, spreading his hands and raising his eyebrows like he was inviting her to say more. “It was an accident,” she said, finally. “A terrible, perfectly avoidable accident.” Again he said nothing, the silence guilting her to speak. “Control gave him and the next pilot in the flight pattern the wrong approach angle and windspeed - they collided in midair.”

If Bucky had a smart reply to that, he couldn’t immediately find it, and Cord, for once, looked vindicated. Every pilot worth his salt knew you invited trouble by talking about air accidents, and what she’d just described was one hell of a mistake. “Decided then war didn’t need more pilots,” she added, draining her drink with a bitter look. “It needed more people to get them back on the ground safe.” She scraped her chair backwards and stood up, leaving the empty glass between them. “I’m going to bed. I think Laura knows where she’s staying. Don’t let her get into too much trouble.” And then, just like that, she was gone, and Bucky was left alone at the table, staring at her wake. Plane crashes, pylons champions... Cord Callaway, a pilot!

The music wound down and Laura flung herself into Cord’s vacated seat, flushed and smiling and breathing heavily, a fresh glass in her hand. “You look like a man trying to figure something out, Major.”

“I am,” Bucky decided, sitting up a little and smoothing out his jacket. “I’m trying to figure out how the two of you are friends when you’re goddamn delightful and Callaway is -”

Laura rolled her eyes. “She’s not always like that, you know. She’s got a big job up there, and she takes it very seriously.” She brushed a hair out of her eyes and took a long sip of her drink. “You know, Cord talked a lot about you, on the way over,” she said, watching Bucky for signs of life. He looked up in surprise. “I mean, she talked about everyone, but she talked a lot about you in particular, Major Egan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Well, that’s not surprising. I’m a stone in her shoe. She trying to warn you off me?”

Laura shook her head. “She’s lived around pilots her whole life, Major. Cowboys and showoffs aren’t new.” Another pause, another drink. “No, I think it’s something else. You’re the guy they look up to - the one who’s invincible, who tells them it can be done and then does it. That’s how Jimmy was. And she saw what losing him did to the other guys with him.” She sat up a little in her chair and leaned over the table. “Did she tell you the part of the story about how she met his mother afterwards? She and his father were coming to see him off - missed the telegram. Instead of a vacation they got their son in a box, before he’d ever even got to the war. So she doesn't do it to be an ice queen, Major Egan. She does it because however she feels about you, she respects what you do. And I think - no, I know - that she cares about you. Maybe not that way - but she cares."

She gathered up her glass and moved off, to the table that Dickie and a few of the others were sharing, leaving Bucky to wonder in peace about secrets, and friends who shared stories, and just what kind of guy Jimmy Chapman must have been, to make a girl give up flying for him.

[anonymous123maybe]

Once again with adopts, I’m wanting to take a break from constantly reblogging my adopts posts so I’m holding a little thing. I’m going to do a spin the wheel thing with names like I do with all of my adopts, but this one will be different. There will be multiple winners on this one as it’s more about order. If I spin and I land on your name first, you can pick any one of my adopts from the last naga one, from my Tumblr list or kid Nightmare Freddy or Chica. But only one. Then I’ll spin again (if I get more names) and whoever gets second will get to pick aswell and so on… so if the wheel lands on your name, you get first dibs. If you want to enter just type ‘Me’ in the comments or just message me that you want to be involved. There is no deadline yet.

Here are the links to each of the posts with the oc’s:

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hello! If you are writing for Ettore could you please write a drabble or hc of him with a hypersexual!reader?? I’m infatuated with him aside from that one scene. If you are uncomfortable with this ask, there is no worries at all😊totally understood, thank you!

Hello! I am indeed more than happy to write for Ettore. I hope you don't mind, but this will be a part two to this request.

Warnings: Smut, violence. Word count: ~1200 Part one Series masterlist

It has been two weeks since the night of her little "deal" with Ettore, and she is plagued by the memory of the feel and taste of him in her mouth. It has awakened something primal in her that has her core throbbing for what she is certain only he can provide.

Her use of The Box has increased dramatically. Before, she had used it a couple of times a week to ease tension; now every spare moment she has she finds herself in there if it isn't already occupied. Thoughts of Ettore's body against hers, and all of the depraved things she'd allow him to do to her bring her to release each time, before she exits with her cheeks flushed and heart filled with shame.

The other inmates aboard have all commented upon her recent frequent usage of the masturbatory aid - not that they have any right to judge, it is an amenity used obsessively by everyone - so she is sure Ettore must have noticed too.

He hasn't said anything, but she knows he is trying to torture her. His work duties, that she wouldn't have batted an eye at him doing in the past, he now performs without the top half of his scrubs. She finds herself staring at the way his naked chest and biceps flex as he kneels to scrub the linoleum floor. She struggles to regulate her breathing, her mouth runs dry at the sight.

She has never experienced such unadulterated lust before and wonders if he is as affected by her as she is by him. Cursing under her breath, she turns on her heel and heads towards The Box. She spends the next half an hour toppling over the edge imagining his pectoral muscles tensing as he is above her.

Exiting, she runs straight into Ettore and she visibly flinches, shrinking backwards with a gasp. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment, her heart hammering in her chest, but he merely glances down at her, saying nothing. He brushes past, his expression unreadable as he enters the now vacant Box and closes the door behind him. She is silently hopeful he'll think of her, and a fresh wave of mortification washes over her.

There is a part of her that feels spurned by the fact he's made no further attempts to engage with her following that night. Though the rational side of her mind knows there is no privacy aboard the ship and sex is prohibited, it does nothing to slake her desire.

They are criminals, destined to die in outer space, nothing more than walking lab experiments for Dibs' twisted intentions. There is no happily ever after for her and Ettore, she is aware of that. She is not expecting them to ride off into the sunset together, however, his darkness calls to hers and she is all to willing to answer. Perhaps that is the issue; Ettore likes taking what isn't freely given and the novelty has worn off now that he knows she is willing.

The following morning she busies her hands and mind with tending to the plants in the garden. Tchemy is helping out in the lab, so for once she has the green space to herself. She relishes the tranquillity of it, it reminds her of being back on Earth, she can see why Tchemy spends so much time here; it's comforting.

She straightens, brushing soil from her hands onto the trousers of her scrubs. Her shocked yelp is muffled by a calloused palm clamping over her mouth, as she is pulled backwards by her throat into a familiar hardened torso.

"Stay quiet." Ettore orders in a murmur, his hot breath tickling the shell of her ear.

He spins her to face him, renewing his grip on her neck and forcing her to look up into those sinister icy blue eyes of his.

"I hear you." He says lowly. "Hear you moan my name through the door in The Box when you're getting off."

Her answer is a mere whimper, unable to speak through the intensity with which he's restricting her airway. It's painful and yet it sends a throbbing ache straight to her centre.

"Gonna have to do something so you stop going around the ship like a bitch in heat. Can't have you getting me into trouble."

He hooks his foot behind her ankle and pulls back, sending her toppling to the grassy floor. The wind is knocked harshly from her lungs as her back makes impact with the ground. Before she's had time to fully register what's happening, he's on top of her, pulling at her waistband.

"Ettore, what the fuck?!" She cries out, struggling beneath him. She attempts to kick out her legs, but he is too tall and heavy for her to budge.

The sharp crack against her cheek sends her head reeling to the side as he slaps her hard across the face, a hot stinging sensation instantly blooming across the skin.

"Shut the fuck up!" He hisses. "You're gonna get us found out."

She stays quiet, drawing in ragged breaths as he pulls her scrubs and underwear all the way off. She could cringe at the arousal that's pooling between her legs at his manhandling of her, but this is what she's been craving and now she's finally going to get it. It seems pointless to continue fighting it.

Ettore doesn't even bother to pull his trousers all the way down, simply lowering them enough to free his stiff cock before stuffing it inside of her.

She whines. Despite how wet she is, he's done little to prepare her and the sudden intrusion and stretch is painful.

As he begins to thrust inside of her, she turns her face to kiss him. He is quick to stop her, pressing his hand against her jawline and pushing her away.

"Don't do that." He says darkly, picking up the pace of his movements.

He is brutal with her. His hips snap against hers in quick, hard strikes, animalistic and relentless. There is no regard for her pleasure, and yet she finds herself enjoying it.

She angles her hips upwards and the head of Ettore's prick begins to bully at the spongy spot deep inside of her. She knows she won't last for much longer. She has been pent up for too long and this feels too good.

As the coil within her lower belly begins to tighten, she elicits a breathy moan.

"Oh fuck...I'm so close!"

"Keep your whore mouth shut!" Ettore barks back at her, never faltering as he continues to rut into her.

She realises that besides the occasional pant, Ettore has been completely silent. However, as her inner walls begin to tighten and spasm with the onslaught of her orgasm, she can't help but feel a small swell of pride at the grunt that escapes him.

He stills and she can feel from the pulsations inside of her that he's reached his own end. She has little time to bask in the afterglow, as he quickly pulls out once he's finished, standing and readjusting his clothing.

"Thanks for that." He shoots casually over his shoulder, as he walks out of the garden, leaving her laying there bewildered and half naked.