#i straight up did not exist in anyone's memory

[societyfolklore]

Bad Idea, Right?

Title: Bad Idea, Right?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  You swore you were done. You told your friends you blocked him. But Bucky Barnes always knew how to get under your skin and between your thighs.

Word Count: 4.2k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Rough sex, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Praise & degradation mix, Hair pulling / wall sex, Toxic relationship themes, Lying to friends, Emotionally complicated dynamic, Post-sex emotional avoidance

A/N:  @sunday-bug… all because you shared that one damn edit (completely dif from this) but now I have ‘Olivia Rodrigo - Bad idea right’ on loop in my damn head..

Your back had hit the wall so hard you gasped, but not from pain. It was the way he did it with that desperate, reverent hunger, like he was trying to shove the world away just to get more of you. The contact shuddered through your spine, knocked the breath from your chest, and made your thighs tighten on instinct. His hands were already inside your shirt, fingers cold and rough against your overheated skin, dragging the fabric up like it had offended him just by existing. You felt the calluses scrape over your ribs, the pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your breast like he’d forgotten what it tasted like and now he needed to remember.

He mouthed down your throat, lips wet and hot, tongue flicking behind your ear with attack precision. It sent a shock straight to your core. Your knees threatened to buckle, and the only reason you stayed upright was because he pinned you there with his body; all sharp edges and heavy heat. His beard scraped your jaw and down your neck, and you hated that it made you wetter. Hated it even more when you tilted your head for more.

You were breathless, your palms splayed against the drywall, clutching for something solid while your mind went soft. Already halfway gone. You could feel him- hot breath, hard cock, clenched jaw.

It was always like this.

You always said no. You never meant it.

It wasn’t weakness. Not exactly. It was instinct. It was muscle memory. It was fire meeting gasoline in a dark room where nothing good ever happened, but you still lit the match.

This is a bad idea, you thought, right as his teeth caught the edge of your bra and dragged it down your shoulder. Had worse.

Hours earlier.

You weren’t going to go out tonight. Swore it. Even said it out loud in that tone you use when you're trying to convince yourself just as much as anyone else. You'd already taken off your makeup, put on that worn hoodie, queued up something half-hearted on Netflix.

But your friends were already dressed, already halfway to that bar you used to avoid like it had teeth. His bar. So you went. Just to prove it didn’t matter. Just to prove he didn’t matter. You told yourself you’d stay for one drink. One laugh. Maybe half a song.

And then you saw him.

Back corner. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to be noticed- but his eyes were already on you. Locked in. Hungry in that quiet, heavy-lidded way that always made your heart skip a beat you didn’t want to admit to.

He didn’t come over. He didn’t need to. Just sat there, fingers tapping the glass in front of him, mouth barely twitching like he already knew how the night was going to end.

You pretended not to see him. Ordered something strong and downed it too fast. Laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny. You held your phone like a shield. Fidgeted with the rim of your glass. Said you had to pee just to get away.

But the longer you stayed, the more you felt it, that low hum under your skin, a dangerous ache that didn’t quite hurt but refused to go away. The way your body always seemed to tune to his presence like a song it hated but still knew by heart. That magnetic pull.

That slow, inevitable draw.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping outside for some air. The noise had gotten too loud, the lights too sharp, and the burn of your drink wasn’t doing what it was supposed to anymore. You told your friends you needed a smoke. You didn’t have one. But you needed something to do besides stare at the bar and feel the heat of his gaze crawling up your spine.

And of course, he found you there. Like always. He didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

You’d barely had time to breathe before the back door creaked again behind you.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping out the back door for air. The night was cool, but your skin was flushed, your blood buzzing in that restless way it always did when he was close. You paced, fiddled with the zipper of your jacket, stared out into the alley like it might give you an answer. Like maybe it’d remind you that walking away was still an option.

He found you there, like always. Slow footsteps, his shadow stretching long across the alley wall before you even heard the creak of the door closing behind him.

“Couldn’t even wait until last call?”

You turned at the sound of his voice, smooth and low, tinged with something smug and sharp. That voice always got under your skin. Familiar enough to drag up a hundred memories you didn’t want to sift through.

You let out a small, crooked smile. Not quite a laugh.

“Still playing vigilante?” you asked, your head tilted like you were trying to gauge the bruises you were sure were hidden under his hoodie. You never asked where they came from. He never offered.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?” he shot back, and there it was, that grin. The smirk that had gotten him into your bed and under your skin more times than you could count. Hair falling around his jaw, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t seen you in months, even if it had only been a couple of weeks. 

He stepped closer. His boots scraped softly over gravel, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how to draw this out. Not touching. Not yet. But his presence was thick, magnetic. You could feel it curling around you, pulling at your spine, daring you to move first.

The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. All dark amusement and something heavier behind it. Like even when he smiled, there was still something broken beneath it. Something that wanted, needed. Not just sex. You knew that look. You’d seen it before, usually right before he kissed you like an apology and fucked you like a promise. You knew better. You always knew better.

“You left fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t even give me a chance to say something reckless and stupid.”

You raised a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t even see you.”

He laughed once, under his breath. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. Your gaze flicked down to his hands; scarred knuckles, a twitch of tension in his thumb. Then back up to his mouth, which was already curling again like he’d caught the slip.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of every fuck, every fight, every night you swore would be the last.

“One drink,” he said, stepping in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, but enough to make your stomach twist. Soft, like he knew he didn’t need to push.

You smirked. “Sure. One drink.”

He tilted his head, voice quiet. “I didn’t mean in there.”

You laughed despite yourself, and fuck, you hated that it felt good. “Didn’t think you did.”

You could pretend a little longer. Pretend you weren’t already leaning toward him. Pretend your hand didn’t slide into his just as easy as it always had.

“Still a bad idea,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Most fun ones are,” he replied.

And when he tugged gently, guiding you away from the alley wall and toward the edge of whatever this was, you didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Now.

His place had always been a mess- unmade bed, cluttered floor, that dim yellow lamp in the corner that buzzed when it was left on too long. But you didn’t see any of that. Not really. All you saw was the look in his eyes when he turned the lock. Like he’d been holding his breath since the alley and could finally exhale now that you were here.

You kicked your shoes off as he tugged your shirt over your head. You didn’t even remember the walk here, just the way his hand traveling your skin, pressing, possessive. You didn’t remember the elevator ride, but you remembered the heat of his mouth on your neck the second the door clicked shut. And you definitely remembered the sound you made when he pressed you into the wall like he needed to own you just to breathe.

His mouth had been on you before you could say a word. Hands rough, mouth softer than it had any right to be. And God, it was a hit- pure, concentrated need shot straight into your bloodstream. His tongue dragged across your throat like he was carving the shape of your name there, licking into your skin like he wanted it under his teeth forever.

You didn’t just take it, you gave it back.

One hand in his hair, tugging him closer, the other trailing down his side to feel the twitch of muscle under your palm. You traced the ridge of his spine, not for affection, but to anchor yourself. Because being with him was like balancing on a fault line, any second, you were going to break. And maybe you wanted to.

Your hips rolled against his thigh. His fingers pushed beneath the waistband of your jeans. You met his touch with your own, slipping your hand down between you, palming him through his jeans. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating into your chest. You liked the way his hips bucked into your hand. You liked knowing you could still pull that sound out of him.

It was a pattern. It was a loop. Your breath hitched when he bit your lip; his pulse jumped when you pressed harder, rubbing slow, lazy circles until you both lost track of who was chasing who. There was no rhythm, only craving, matching urges stacked on top of each other until your bodies didn’t care who had started it.

You kissed him hard, open-mouthed, your hand sliding up under his shirt to feel the twitch of his abs as he groaned. He gripped your hip like he was holding on for dear life. Like if he let go, he’d come apart. Maybe he would have.

It wasn��t just addiction.

It was relapse.

He backed you onto the bed, dragging your jeans down your legs like he was unwrapping something that had been meant for him all along. Like he was unwrapping a secret he’d kept hidden, a habit he wasn’t ready to kick. And maybe you were.

His eyes raked over you, pupils blown wide, lips slick from your mouth and smiling like he’d just won a prize. You were shirtless, flushed, the waistband of your panties biting into your hips and your jeans twisted around one ankle like you’d barely survived getting them off. Your chest rose and fell too fast. His hand slid up your thigh, lazy but sure.

Then your phone buzzed beside you on the mattress. Sharp. Interrupting.

You glanced at it. The name on the screen lit you up with guilt before you even answered.

Your best friend.

Bucky smirked against your stomach. “Go on,” he said, voice low and smug. “Tell her you blocked me.”

You answered before you could think better.

“Hey,” you said, voice tight, trying to sound bored. “What’s up?”

Your best friend didn’t waste time.

“Please tell me you’re not where I think you are.”

Bucky was already tugging your panties to the side, dragging the soaked fabric down with a slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, like he was savouring the reveal. One thick finger slid through your folds with ease, collecting wetness, and he groaned low against your skin like the sound alone might make you come apart. "You never came back inside.." 

Her voice sounded far away as Bucky stubble dragged along your inner thigh as he mouthed at the sensitive skin. The finger he’d dipped into you came back to circle your clit with practiced laziness, slick and filthy, and he chuckled into your skin when your thighs twitched involuntarily.

You glared down at him, trying to warn him off, but it only made him grin wider. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. His eyes set on your and then just tapped his ear, shit you were still on the phone. 

“No,” you lied, the word catching slightly as his finger made another circle. “Course I didn’t. I just went home.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking out once, twice. Lingering longer this time, pushing closer to the place you needed him most. You clamped your jaw shut, trying to keep your breathing even, trying not to moan his name with your best friend on the line.

He knew it. And he loved it.

“Seriously,” she said. “You need to block him for real this time.”

He dragged your panties down your thighs slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. You spread your legs wider for him, and he bit just above your knee- a sharp nip, enough to make you flinch.

“I did,” you whispered. “I’m done.”

His mouth moved up as he got settled on his stomach, tongue a firm stripe through your soaked folds, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit like he wanted to taste every bit of what he did to you. His groan was low and guttural, vibrating straight through your core, mouth open, tongue thick and wet, pressing in again to tease your fluttering hole before flattening and sliding up. His mouth closed over your clit like he was punishing you for the lie. He started to suck- slow at first, like he was building something. Like he wanted you to squirm, to shake. The suction was warm and steady, his tongue flicking under the hood with maddening precision, making your whole body arch into the pressure. Every inch of that stripe made you twitch, made your breath hitch, made your toes curl in the sheets.

“You okay? You sound- weird.”

You slammed the mute button as you arched chasing the feeling of him.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” you hissed

He didn’t.

Two fingers pushed inside you, thick and sure, curling up in that maddening rhythm that made your hips stutter against the bed, your entire lower half bucking toward his face like your body had a mind of its own. He was fucking you with them slow and deep, dragging against every nerve-ending inside you, fingertips pressing up into that sweet spot with a precision that made your vision blur.

His tongue worked your clit with slow, hungry circles, like he was savoring every second. Long licks became short, teasing flicks, then back again- until your breath was catching in your throat with every pass of his mouth.

You tried to unmute. Failed. Tried again, shaking, fingers fumbling across the screen.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice wrecked and thin. “You know how tequila hits me. I need to go...”

You hung up without saying goodbye. Couldn’t. Not like this. Not with your mouth falling open around a moan you couldn’t swallow. Not when he had you laid out, open and trembling, every inch of your skin burning under his mouth. Not when your legs were shaking from the pressure building low and fast, like a fuse just waiting for his next move to set it off. You didn’t need to say goodbye, you needed to fall apart.

You dropped the phone to the sheets like it was too heavy to hold, both hands now gripping his hair, pulling him closer, grinding up into his face as his fingers drove into you again. The angle shifted just enough to make stars blink behind your eyes, and the way he groaned into your clit.

“God!” It shattered something in you. That groan wasn’t just arousal. It was possession. It was homecoming.

You came with his name caught between your teeth, thighs clamping around his head, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles cracked

He didn’t stop. Not right away. Just kept licking, slow and greedy, like a man making up for lost time.

Only when your legs went limp did he pull back.

He kissed the inside of your knee, soft and smug.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “Real done with me, huh?”

You tugged on his hair, rolling your eyes even as your thighs still trembled.

“Shut the fuck up and take off your pants.”

He fucked you like a man with something to prove. Not just to you, but to himself. Every thrust was a declaration, every roll of his hips a punishment and a plea tangled together in the heat of your bodies.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him like you were drowning in the drag of his pace. His hips slammed into yours, rough and relentless, like he needed to bury himself so deep he could erase every trace of anyone who had ever touched you. Like he wanted to carve himself into your walls and never leave.

You gasped into his shoulder as he lifted your leg over his arm and angled deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision white out. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, matched only by the soft, guttural curses he muttered into your neck.

"You feel that? Fuck…" he grunted, his breath hot against your cheek. "You needed this. Needed me." "B-uck-y"  You moaned his name, the syllables breaking in your throat, because yes. You did. You always did.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, one hand hooked back under your knee, the other wrapping around your throat just enough to make your breath catch and your pulse skip. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there, steady, controlled, reminding you that he could if he wanted to. And fuck, part of you wanted him to. That edge, it lit you up like kindling.

He paused just long enough to lock eyes with you. "Say it," he muttered, grinding his hips forward.

"Say what?" you were panting.

"That you missed this. That you missed me."

You moaned instead, high and helpless.

Then he fucked you harder.

You clawed at his bed, dug your nails into his shoulder blades, into the sheets, into anything that could hold you down while he tore you apart, over and over. Your thighs wrapped tight around his waist, trying to keep him in, to hold him deeper. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing heavy, groaning when you clenched around him.

"You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?"

"Fuck… yes… don’t stop."

You didn’t even know what number you were on. You just knew you couldn’t stop chasing the way he filled you, stretched you, ruined you.

When he slid back in after your second climax, he fucked you deep, slow at first, letting you feel every inch like he wanted to leave a mark somewhere inside. Then he grunted and started again with that brutal pace. The kind that made you cry out, the kind that had your back arching up off the mattress.

He flipped you over like you weighed nothing, shoved your face into the bed, and drove into you from behind with a growl that vibrated down your spine. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking until your throat was bared to the air and your back arched like a bow.

“Such a fucking liar,” he sneered, voice thick with dark amusement. “Lied to your friends just as easy as you lied to me.”

He pulled your hips higher, snapping his hips forward again with brutal force, making your breath hitch on a whimper. 

You tried to speak, tried to tell him off, to deny how wet you still were for him- but all that came out was a broken moan as his cock hit that spot again, deep and punishing. His fingers dug into your hips, bruising. Holding you still.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Squeezing me like you’re starving for it. You were never gonna stay away.”

“F-fuck you,” you managed to gasp, even though you were pushing back onto him, desperate for more.

“Oh, you are,” he growled, fucking you harder, dirtier. “And you fucking love it.”

You didn’t disagree. You couldn’t. You only whimpered, pushed your hips back harder into him.

He didn’t stop. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you arch, the other splayed across your lower back, pinning you there while his cock slammed into you, relentless, desperate, almost angry with how much he wanted you.

Your thighs shook. Your vision blurred. You sobbed his name into the sheets as another orgasm hit you like a train.

All you could hear were his low groans, your cries, and the slick, messy sound of him ruining you in the dark.

You didn’t talk after. Not really.

He brought you water. Drank whiskey in just his underwear, perched on the edge of the bed like the last hour hadn’t wrecked both of you. His hair was a mess- your doing. You could still see the angry red crescents and lines your nails left on his ribs, fading but visible.

The room smelled like him. Or maybe it was you that did. The air felt thick with it; sweat and sex and the sharpness of his cologne. The evidence of him was still leaking from between your crossed thighs, soaking quietly into his sheets as you sat there, legs drawn up, trying to act like you weren’t completely unraveled.

“Your friends still hate me?” he asked after a stretch of silence, swirling the amber in his glass.

You snorted. “Told them I blocked you.” The lie came easy now. Just like all the others.

His mouth pulled into a lazy smirk. “Liar.”

“You’re one to talk. Told yours I was fucking my boss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe you should.” He didn’t even blink.

“I might.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Weighted with things neither of you were willing to say.

“I should go,” you murmured, making a vague reach for your underwear.

He didn’t move. “You want to?”

You didn’t answer. Just let your hand fall back to the sheets.

The next morning.

You’re still a little high off the night before.

Not just the orgasm- that was earth-shattering- but the feeling. The rush. The heat of his hands still echoes on your skin, phantom touches pressing into your thighs, your hips, your throat. You can feel where he bit you if you tilt your neck just right. Your panties are damp, your body humming like it’s waiting for round two. Or three. Or forever.

And the shame?

It’s only teasing at the edges, like a mean little whisper you haven’t let in yet.

It doesn’t matter. That’s what you tell yourself as your heels click against the sidewalk. That it’s your choice. That you’re allowed to have a dirty little secret. A vice. Something selfish and stupid and private. You’re not hurting anyone. Not really.

Only him. Only you.

Only every promise you both keep pretending not to make.

Your friend raised a brow over brunch, fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"Where’d you end up last night?"

You looked up from your coffee, careful to keep your face neutral. "Told you I went home."

Her brow lifted. "Uh-huh. Then why do you look like you got hit by a truck?"

You laughed a little too easily, stirring sugar into your cup. "Didn’t sleep well."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Her voice flat with disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged and took a sip.

Technically not a lie. You hadn’t slept well. Not with the way Bucky had taken you apart on his mattress like he was trying to fuck the fight out of you. Not with how your body had ached afterward in all the places his hands had held you too tight. Your thighs were still sore. Your voice still rasped when you laughed.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

Bucky: One more drink?

She saw it. You watched her read his name. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Just gave you that look. The one she always did when she was trying not to say, You deserve better.

"You’re not going, right?"

You laughed too quickly. Shrugged, like it meant nothing.

"God, no."

But the thing was, your legs were still sore under the table. You could still feel the bruises his fingers had left on your hips when he dragged you down onto him. You could still feel his come sliding out of you every time you shifted.

You left early.

You were already halfway to his place before the guilt even caught up to you.

And by then, it didn’t matter.

You were already buzzing from the anticipation. Already rationalizing.

It was your body, your decision. You were allowed to enjoy yourself. To take what you wanted. The only ones getting hurt were the two of you.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you both just kept coming back anyway.

[nintendont2502]

WHERE is that 'did you let me die in your arms in the timeloop' post it reminded me of something

[madamechrissy]

Pretty Please

Pairings- Yandere Caleb x F! reader

Warnings- MDNI/NSFW- a sick fic, you're literally sick from taking care of Caleb (based on the memory in the game) but Caleb knows just how to make you feel better. Don't read if not your thing- he's obsessive asf as we love him, oral sex (f receiving) low-key yandere behavior, Caleb being slutty for you even though you're the only girl he's been with, sweet and also freaky asf - 2k WC

Just me being actually sick ( I have the flu ughh ) and writing this as a completely self indulgent thing- comments and rbs appreciated if you enjoy

You're sick, really sick, after nursing Caleb during a really bad flu, now you've gone and caught it yourself. Ever the caretaker, Caleb is gently spooning some broth into your mouth, holding you up gently, his big hand supporting your head. You hate how good it feels, how good it felt laying against him when he held you all night.

You're both too close, you know that, childhood friends forever, fuck you are all each other even has these days, you never want to ruin it, but your flushed state and addled mind make it worse. You're too sick to ignore how good his cool fingers feel, too weak to pretend you don't crave him all over you.

You take a shaky breath as he puts an electolyte drink to your lips now, you wrap your mouth around the rim of the cup, sipping just so, lip print left on the beveled glass. "I told you, Pip squeak, you were gonna catch it, but someone is stubborn."

You manage a cute little glare, and he laughs at it, as he sets the drink down, running his fingers over your hot forehead, frowning a bit. Even with the medicine you were still running a pretty high fever, breaking just a little sweat that's shimmering on your skin. He can't help but think how pretty you are even sick, but fuck when weren't you?

In his bed, in his arms all night, like pure torture, trying to focus on caring for you instead of doing what he really wanted, to have you wrapped around him, to forget anyone exists but him. He is even taking the slightest pleasure with you depending on him so much right now, selfish but how can he not feel that way, when he's so desperately in love?

"I refuse to be sick." You inform him, making him chuckle, his dark lavender eyes lighting up just a bit, mischievous in their glint.

"Oh, yeah? Think you're so invincible." His voice is a comfortable taunt, a tease as he brushes a droplet off your lips, making you pause then.

"I am! I'll tell it to-" you cough just a bit. "To fuck off."

"I bet you will." He's brushing your hair back, so close now, you pause, looking up at him, breath so quick it makes your chest rise and fall.

Why are you wet while you're sick?

Fuck.

"It's all your fault, you know, playing doctor." You pout now, but your eyes flutter shut as he leans over you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a sweet kiss, eliciting a little whimper that makes him pause, kissing it again. "Feel good, honey?"

"Honey... not Pip squeak?" He chuckles again, looking at you as he runs his thumb in a circle over your flushed cheek, damn near burning to the touch.

"The noise you made," his voice drops to a husky whisper, straight nose damn near brushing yours, and your hands find their way to his soft blue shirt, thinking wildly he'd kiss you then. "It was as if... you really liked it, did the kiss make you feel better?"

You nod then, sighing, and he trembles in his grip of you, desire making him ache. "You can't kiss my lips, you'll get sick again."

"You want me to?" His whisper was shocked, you turn your face then, but he presses a kiss on your hot cheek now, making your grip tighten on his shirt. "You're sweet when you're sick. Look at you, weak like a little kitten."

"Jerk." He laughs again, pecking a kiss on your neck, and that's when Caleb loses control, the insane control he's always kept with you, when he brushes lips on your sweet flesh, and you cry out, and he can feel that heat between your thighs. "Caleb..."

"Yeah? Feeling better yet?" He kisses down your collarbone, tugging at the shirt you wore, swallowing you since it's his shirt, and he wonders if you're wearing anything else.

His bed.

His clothes.

His.

You're his, you're supposed to be his, fuck.

When his hand slips down, brushing your breast, he watches your nipple press against the thin white fabric, making him let out a shaky, heavy breath, and your hand slides up, palm over his racing heart. Caleb has an athlete's heart, but it's fucking racing like crazy, you feel it, eyes locking.

"Where do you need me to kiss it better, Pip squeak? You just tell me."

"Caleb..."

"Aren't I always here for you? Don't I always take care of you?" You swallow now, nodding, as his eyes get darker, plump lips parting, looking up under his dark long lashes as he kisses your nipple over the shirt, and your back arches, cunt throbbing again.

"You always take care of me." He moans again, hands sliding down to your waist now, then your hips.

"So let me make you feel better. Make you feel so fucking good."

"How?" Your innocent whisper almost ends him, he's never asked you outright but always hoped you would wait for him.

"Has anyone kissed you..." his fingers drift down until he finds your slick cunt, your gasp of pleasure making his cock throb and leak sticky precum. "Here?"

"No... you know I..."

"Never like anyone enough to?"

"You're... usually annoying me too much for me to notice anyone." He smiles against your skin, yanking the blanket off you and leaning back on his knees, looking down at you as he slips that big shirt up your thighs.

"Oh, is that it? Just annoying?" He bites his lower lip when he sees it, your bare glistening cunt, emitting even more heat than your fevered skin. "Fuck..."

"You're annoying and... clingy and... attention- ah!" He scoots down the bed, spreading your thighs, slipping that shirt up and pressing a hand on your tummy, breath so close to your cunt you can't take it, gripping the soft blankets under you. "C-Caleb!"

"So no one has kissed you... right..." His lips smack as they press a kiss to your clit, and you weakly jerk, body still aching from the fever now. "Here?"

"No one." Your answer ends him, he rests his head on your inner thigh, trying to fucking compose himself, rigourous military training couldn't prepare him for the scent or taste of you- of course he'd stolen many panties- but the source was even sweeter. "Are you sure it'll um... make me feel better?"

"Well if I kiss your other lips you think I'll get sick, right?" He asks casually, pulling your folds apart and breathing against your tiny clit, making it twitch as he smirks just a bit. "You tell me if it makes you feel better, I'll always make you feel better."

You nod weakly, and soon Caleb, the closest person in the world to you, is lapping his long pink tongue up your slit. Your thighs close, earning a firm smack to them that stings.

"Hold them open." That commanding voice, the military voice of his that makes you ache, you immediately agree. "Good girl."

Good girl!?

You're done, when Caleb slips his tongue up your slit now, juices gushing out of your hole, which he hungrily fucking laps up, as you're shaking, desperate for more. Your hands entangle in dark brown silky locks, just making him moan when your nails press his scalp, when you pull, and he flicks his tongue again.

"Ah!" You're shaking, weak and exhausted, like he's sapping the last bit of hydration from your body, but it feels so fucking good you can't take it.

"This helping, honey? Feel better yet?" You shake your head, earning his grin, you feel every line of his teeth against your plump lips, jerking your hips as he flicks the tip of his tongue up again on your engorged clit. "You need more, then ask for it. How do we ask nicely huh?"

"Pretty please." The words ruins him, fuck you ruin him, he grips your ass then, dragging you closer, and starts eating your pussy in earnest, in ways he's only ever dreamed of, better than lapping your soaking wetness off your panties, better than anything. The first time he's finally gotten the girl of his dreams against his face, and you're falling apart for him.

He feels so good, tongue slipping inside gummy walls that convulse as your hoarse voice echoes in Caleb's spacious room, and the sounds of him drinking you up are fucking obscene, lewd, the squelching wetness mixing with his moans as he laps at you. His fingers press into the plush of your thighs, leaving bruises he hopes stay, and so do you, as you're arching your hips up, weak but willing to give him all of you.

Caleb's grinding his cock against his mattress, aching to slide it in, and fuck he'd love that, to take you, make you fully his, but he knows you'll need energy for that. So for now he murmurs - "Cum for me, would you? You'll feel so much better, won't you? Let me take care of you."

You manage a nod, then Caleb sinks a finger in your tight entrance, the stretch and how full you are too much, he grins, sighing, eyes so dilated they're black with desire, damn near cumming as he presses up, finding your spot, and your body responds violently, you feel it all fall apart, almost hurting with how weak and sore you already are, the pleasure so intense you can't see.

"Caleb, m'gonna-"

"Cum, pretty, lemme drink you all up, hmm?" You're ended, cumming so hard you almost faint, as you feel lightheaded, ears ringing when he laps at your clit and presses a fingertip in that spongy spot, and when you do, you gush so much he has trouble drinking you all up. Dripping down his face, down to the dark sheets underneath you, screaming out so weakly the last of your voice is gone.

"Oh my god..." You're struggling as he presses one more kiss on your pussy now, then your inner thigh, running his fingers up and down your slit, smirking as you twitch, crying out with a voice almost gone.

"Feel better, don't you?" He asks, leaning over you, strong muscles of his arms tense and defined, and you feel it, his hard cock hot and heavy under his sweats, as it rests between you. "Answer."

"Y-yes. But Caleb we..." You swipe some of your glistening cum off his chin, flushing furiously, as he smiles, brows lowering, so dangerous then, he's so fucking dangerous. Your body has used so much you feel exhausted, eyes fluttering shut as he leans on an elbow, brushing your hair back. "We just..."

"I took care of you, I made you feel good. Didn't I say I always will?" He adjusts your shirt now, helping you sit up once more, and you eye his lips.

"Then kiss me."

"Kiss you hmm? You're so greedy, you're gonna get me sick again?" You just nod, energy seeping from your sick body, and he does just that, kissing you, and he grips you so tightly then, shaking with the effort it takes not to fuck into you. "God, taste yourself, don't you?"

"Y-yes..." You hide your face against his chest then, as he holds you close, stroking your hair.

"You're cute I swear, I'd give you anything you ask." He will give you everything, in time. For now, he knows what's best, pulling back and covering you again, brushing your hair gently. "You need to hydrate, you've... lost a lot."

"Oh my god." He's chuckling a bit now, eyes bright, and you feel yourself wanting to tell him everything, but for now he's helping you drink, and then giving you medicine, before holding you against his chest. You drift off quickly, and he smiles as he thinks of how you're going to have to extend your trip, he doesn't think you'll be feeling good enough yet, and he will take care of you, no one else can quite like him.

Had a few requests for more Caleb, I am in LOVE with him during this event my goodness, I am down to write more if you all want! Hope ya'll enjoyedd this was somehow cute and filthy lmao.

perm tags- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @raendarkfaerie @shokosbunny

[strayingawayy]

i've loved you in scribbles and silences...

...the one where the silent creator meets the effortless muse

{ @jeonginsleftcheek requested a fic w/ reader as popular kid in class and hyunjin as the shy piner. i hope i did this justice, sweetheart 💌 word count: 1900 words approx}

hwang hyunjin was not the kind of guy you could just ignore.

even in his silence, he commanded attention, not in an intentional way, but in the way that made people naturally gravitate toward him. maybe it was his presence, lean and elegant, draped in effortlessly cool outfits that looked straight out of a fashion editorial. or maybe it was the way his sharp, expressive eyes always seemed lost in thought, like he was seeing something beyond the walls of the classroom, like he understood the depth lying in the professor's words in a way none of you ever could.

or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he looked like a literal prince but behaved like an artist stuck in his own little world, constantly sketching by the window instead of paying attention. not that your professors minded. after all, he was an art major for a reason.

one thing was that hyunjin didn’t talk much in class. he wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t the type to insert himself into conversations either. people knew him, of course. the hot, mysterious art guy. the one who made lazy doodles look like renaissance masterpieces. the one who unintentionally broke hearts just by existing.

and then. well then there was you.

if hyunjin was the quiet presence in the corner, you were the center of attraction.

popular, passionate, hardworking, you weren’t just well-known, but well-loved too. a lethal combo. you had this energy about you, the kind that made people want to be around you, like standing in your orbit made their lives more exciting. balancing academics, extracurriculars, and a good social life, you made it all seem effortless.

and hyunjin?

he had been hopelessly, pathetically in love with you since the first semester.

but like he’d ever say it out loud.

he wasn’t delusional. he knew how different the two of you were. while you thrived under the attention of others, he was perfectly content sitting in the background, watching you shine from afar, his lips curling and eyes crinkling in the corners when you'd crack a joke that would have the entire class rolling over with laughter.

maybe that’s why his sketchbook was filled with you.

your laughter, frozen mid-motion like a memory, because it probably was. your hands, caught in the middle of an animated conversation. your eyes, wide with excitement when you spoke about something you loved. he'd hoped that one day you'd have that look in your eyes if you'd ever talk about him too.

god. he was so gone for you.

and it was getting out of hand.

because lately, his friends (ahem han jisung and lee felix) had started catching on.

"you're ridiculous," jisung had said one evening, watching hyunjin rip yet another drawing out of his sketchbook, crumpling it up. "just tell them."

"or don’t," felix added, flipping through hyunjin’s abandoned sketchbook like it was a diary. "just keep pining like a tragic 19th century ahh poet."

hyunjin groaned, yanking his sketchbook back from his friends. “they’re way out of my league.”

jisung rolled his eyes. "dude. you do know you're one of the hottest guys in college right?"

"careful ji, your bi confusion is on full display," seungmin says, only dropping into the conversation with a one liner before grabbing a donut off the table and leaving a flustered jisung stammering.

"that aside, yeah, if anyone has a chance with them, it's you mate." felix nodded, as if stating a fact, munching on a donut himself.

hyunjin scowled. “that’s not the point. they’re not just like, cool. they’re brilliant. they’re like, fuck,” he waved his hands wildly, searching for the words. “the human embodiment of shooting stars and ambition and-”

"oh my god" jisung clapped his hands dramatically. "he’s waxing poetic now."

felix gasped. "he's down bad. we need to stop him before he bends shakespeare over with his words."

hyunjin groaned, shoving his face into his ink stained hands and immediately regretting it. “i hate you both.”

but unfortu-fucking-nately, they were right.

maybe it was time he did something about it.

...

hyunjin was NOT going to half-ass this.

if he was going to confess, he was going to do it right.

so, naturally, he spent two hours spiraling over what right even meant, another hour staring at pinterest's idea of proposals for no reason, and then another seventeen hours crafting the most romantic, heartfelt, artistic confession ever.

his plan?

a huge, mural sized drawing.

of you.

obviously.

because, in his mind, there was no better way to show his feelings than through art.

the plan was simple:

1. sneak into the art room where you often kept your paintings too.

2. place inside the room, a breathtaking sketch of you.

3. casually bring you there and let the art do the talking.

4. pray you didn’t laugh in his face and pat his shoulder mockingly.

it should have gone smoothly.

but this was hyunjin.

and nothing, nothing, ever went smoothly when it involved his feelings.

...

the moment he finished the drawing, he knew two things:

1. it was the best thing he’d ever drawn in his life.

2. he was going to pass out from nerves.

but whatever. it was done. he just had to get you to see it.

so, the next day, he walked up to you, heart pounding, palms sweaty, already regretting everything, and blurted out:

“hey-wamma-see-something-cool?”

you blinked, mouth half-stuffed with the infamous campus canteen donuts, bottom lip covered in chocolate frosting (it was still one of the most breathtaking things hyunjin had ever seen in his life, he noted) “uh. sure?”

without thinking, he grabbed your wrist when you stood up (oh my god, he grabbed your wrist, what was he thinking, jisung was gonna scream when he told him this) and practically dragged you down the hallway.

"hyunjin, where are we-"

"just trust me," he muttered, swallowing hard, his cheeks already flushing when you spoke his name so tenderly, as if you hadn't dozens of times before in classes and group projects.

when he finally shoved open the door to the art room, he braced himself for the big reveal as he placed his fingers over the cloth covering the canvas.

"i- w-words fail me when i need them most. that's- probably why you don't hear me talk too often. and probably why i'm an art major instead of like- in mass communication or something. pfft can you imagine- anyway. (god he was rambling, he was rambling and you were smiling). just...just see for yourself yeah? please?" he said almost pleading. when you nodded, he inhaled deeply, like he was about to reveal the meaning of life itself ,and pulled the cloth off in one dramatic swoop.

hyunjin froze, his eyes widening.

no.

oh hell no.

staring back at him was a giant, fat, fucking cat drawn messily. big, googly eyes. a grin that was more terrifying than friendly, and nothing remotely close to being romantic. he can't believe a cat doodle was gonna get him rejected.

his entire drawing was gone and in front of him was a fat ass cat one covered by the same cloth he had used.

hyunjin’s soul left his body.

this was not happening.

you stared at the board. then at hyunjin. then at the board again.

“…hyunjin,” you said slowly. "i mean- it's. it's cool as fuck yeah-"

“nononono-there was-” he turned, searching every corner of the room like his drawing might miraculously reappear. “i drew something else. i swear it was romantic. it was you of course it was romantic-”

“-you drew me?“ you asked, a small teasing, curious smile on your face.

he turned back to you, ears burning, palms sweaty. “yes. i mean. yes.”

your teasing expression softened. “so… you were confessing?” you asked, expression almost hopeful.

hyunjin opened his mouth, closed it, then ran a frustrated hand through his short, blonde hair. "this is not how this was supposed to go."

you suddenly glanced to the side, eyes widening. “wait… is that it?”

hyunjin followed your gaze, spinning on his feet, and there it was.

his drawing.

propped against an easel in the corner, untouched, perfect.

the second you saw it, the teasing stopped.

your expression shifted, eyes widening, lips parting slightly, the kind of reaction that made hyunjin feel like time had paused.

because it wasn’t just a drawing of you.

it was you.

the way you laughed, the way you looked when you were deep in thought, the way your eyes shone when you talked about something you loved, it was all there, put into the strokes and shadows and scribbles like a love letter without words.

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

hyunjin swallowed hard. “…so.”

slowly, you turned to him, something unreadable in your expression.

"i-" he stammered, his voice cracking. "i just- gods-i wanted to do something... something that was real, something that would... show you how much i..."

his throat tightened. there it was again. the words that refused to come. the weight of his feelings choking him with each failed attempt to articulate it. he couldn't bring himself to say it. his head hung in shame, eyes fixed on the floor, desperate to escape the vulnerability that was threatening to suffocate him.

and you weren’t making it any easier. you were still looking at him with that unreadable expression. he felt like he was unravelling in front of you, a mix of fear and hope and something else twisted in his gut. why were you so quiet?

then, finally, your lips parted.

"hyunjin," you murmured, your voice soft, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "this is... the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me."

hyunjin blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he prayed silently.

"really?" he asked, a little too desperately, the hope in his voice clear.

you nodded, stepping forward slowly, and the world felt like it was holding its own breath as you closed the distance between you. hyunjin stood frozen, unsure.

"you really see me," you whispered, your gaze locking with his. "all of me. even the parts i don’t really show...like...the little mole below my lip."

hyunjin’s heart skipped, a new rush of warmth spreading through him as he dared to meet your eyes again. "i do. i see everything. and it’s... perfect. you're perfect."

the words barely left his mouth before you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek with a softness that was foreign but not unwelcome.

his breath stopped, and for a moment, everything in him screamed to pull away, to shield himself, but all he could do was blink slowly and lean into your touch.

"i’m not good with words either," you whispered, and before he could react, you gently placed your lips against his.

the kiss was tender, the kind that spoke volumes even in its softness. hyunjin’s breath caught as he melted into it, his hand reaching out instinctively to touch your arm, as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he didn’t hold on tight enough. when he realised he needed you closer, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

and as you both smiled into the kiss, hyunjin knew that words didn't have to be exchanged further. you understood each other. through brushstrokes and gestures that would take you down the road of life together.

somewhere above the classroom, felix and jisung screamed as they watched it all go down through the cctv camera while the security personnel snored beside them.

[tainbocuailnge]

this is a final fantasy fourteen dawntrail post. it speaks incredibly for the desperation of the people of alexandria in its decline that they both couldn't bear to remember the dead and couldn't bear the thought of the dead no longer being remembered, and thus created this contradictory system where the dead are only remembered by something other than those to whom that memory is meaningful. so crushed by collective trauma and grief that they directed every effort to eradicating awareness of mortality altogether and it's resulted in a paradise where everyone is incredibly blasé about dying because the dead live forever in the cloud until they run out of spare souls and are completely paralyzed with fear of their own mortality.

but even more than desperation it speaks of a naive sincerity that the scientists and officials behind the project just actually genuinely built and maintained this giant memory database to preserve the deceased at increasingly large cost, rather than just lie that they totally did that to a populace who won't remember those deceased anyway. they're not harvesting souls to power the war effort while using a recreation of the beloved princess as puppet figurehead, they completely sincerely recreate the dead from their memories and simulate them living happily ever after, started by a sincere desire to not lose their beloved princess. living memory is an eternal theme park that actively goes out of its way to facilitate letting people who remember each other fondly meet again. it's the manifestation of a childish wish for a world where there are no partings, only reunions. it's a theme park rather than an actual city with a dmv and shit like amaurot was precisely Because it's a childish dream. it's fundamentally an artificial experience, but one which sole motive is to bring joy and relief from everyday sadness.

and sphene is the first and most prominent victim of that naive sincerity. she's the mascot of this theme park, and because she's the mascot in charge of providing this artificial but kind experience she can't ever break character. the people of alexandria couldn't bear the thought of her being forgotten, so they created a memory of her that would last forever, but they also couldn't bear to actually remember sphene, so she's a mascot instead of a person. she loves her people, and they love her, but none of them can possibly understand the weight that love puts on her shoulders. the sphene we meet is fundamentally trapped by other people's deeply limited understanding of her.

it's so so so important to her character that she's a small dainty feminine woman that exists to take care of everyone emotionally and be loved by them for being so nice and sweet and loving, and when she tries to arrange some kind of secure future she ends up with an abusive husband who ignores her wants and needs for his own ambitions, and she is fundamentally unable to act outside this highly gendered framework. sphene reads like the commonplace tragedy of the straight woman to me to the point where making her in lesbians with wuk lamat is like. I can certainly understand wanting to grant sphene the sense of liberation and comfort that many lesbians themselves feel at the realisation that they don't have to marry men, so far be it from me to say anyone is wrong to do so. but it's kinda ignoring part of what her deal is for the sake of that comfort I think.

not that lesbians have never ended up in abusive marriages with men but sphene very explicitly does not have other options, part of the tragedy is that you fundamentally cannot actually grant her that liberation and comfort. cahciua explicitly says there's no way to know what the real living sphene would have done because this sphene is a recreated memory of the beloved princess whose job is to sustain living memory. their darling sphene who will always listen to all their troubles and is always nice to them and will always take care of them. she's literally trapped by the role society assigned her, and that role is essentially to be their tradwife mother. the living sphene may have been into women, but the people who recorded her to create the sphene we meet never even considered the option.

do you guys know that tweet thread where OP describes going to a funeral for a woman they didn't know who'd died young of a heart attack, and the husband spent most of the eulogy talking about himself instead of his recently deceased wife, and by the end of the ceremony OP had learned nothing at all about what this woman was like beyond being a wife and mother? everyone fondly remembers the princess and queen of alexandria, but nobody remembers sphene. and just like all OP could still do for this woman was go to her casket and acknowledge that she too had been a full person in her own right before the stress of swallowing everything about herself killed her, all wuk lamat can really still do for sphene is think of her as the full person she must have been.

we're not told anything about what sphene was like as a leader, what her policies were, how she actually did her work, her vision for the future of her country before she died and was reconstructed. they only tell us everyone loved her so dearly because she was so kind to them. we're shown her dying moments and it's her using her airship to shield a civilian, so we can assume her love for her people was indeed true. but none of sphene's history that we're shown and nothing of how otis (who knew the living sphene) talks about her tells us anything about what she was like outside her role as beloved princess. her memories from after her "revival" are dissonant and corrupted and possibly not even real, and her policy of preserving living memory no matter what is a wish implanted in her by the people who reconstructed her. we don't even get to see what she looked like when alive. the only sphene the people know is the theme park mascot of living memory.

cahciua was exactly as erenville knew her and was true enough to herself to be able to turn against the system, so we're not given reason to believe any of the endless were tampered with. but sphene was already dead by the time they even tried to figure out how to preserve her memory, her actual soul and memories definitely long gone by the time the technology worked. we're explicitly told that nobody in everkeep really cared who or what sphene was as long as she adequately fulfilled this role of loving them all so much. she can't even tell you her favourite food, none of the people who labored so intensely and sincerely to bring her back bothered to write down even her most basic personal preferences when they reconstructed her. she has to deflect the question with "when I think of the people who make the food I can't pick just one" because the only preference she's allowed is loving all her people equally. she's completely thrown off that wuk lamat would even ask.

and it's precisely because she is remembered only as this kind loving woman who gave everything for her people that she is weak and powerless to actually do whatever it takes to keep them safe. she does not have the freedom to assert herself, let alone to be cruel or violent or take extreme actions. society does not give her that freedom, because she is a small dainty woman and (therefore) the only role allowed to her is to be their tradwife mother. so while her desire to protect her people is as real and true as it can be part of her plan to lobotomise herself in order to become someone capable of violence and cruelty also reads to me as that specific female frustration of wanting to destroy the sweet babygirl image of yourself by doing something extreme. like britney spears shaving her head. but in sphene's case destroying the babygirl image amounts to destroying herself completely, because the babygirl image of her is all that comprises her. and so when all is said and done the only fragment of sphene that is restored and lingers just a bit longer after that image is destroyed is the sphene that wuk lamat sincerely wanted to get to know.

[endlessapples]

Summer's Paradise | 3 The Heat

xia yizhou | caleb x reader

synopsis:

Waking up in a different world where you have to pretend you have amnesia to get by is one thing. Waking up in a different world where you're married to a complete stranger and have to pretend you have amnesia is another.Yet, this stranger seems to know you well. Too well. And with everything this world seems to be hiding from you, he's the only one you can bring yourself to trust.But when distrust wedges itself between you and your newfound connection with this stranger-turned-husband, you begin to doubt if you can ever find a way to leave this world and return back to yours.

tags: smut (mention of masturbation, slight voyeurism), amnesia, eventual forced imprisonment, transmigration, yandere!caleb, dark!caleb, domestic fluff (weirdly enough), manipulation, themes of forceful confinement, slight angst, married!au

word count: 5.6k

1 the warmth | 2 the smoke | 3 the heat

Dr. Zayne has the same exact voice as he did in this body’s memory. You reach out for the remote and turn the volume up.

“Is there any advice that you would recommend to our viewers?” the male anchor beams. The young doctor sitting next to him gives a dry smile.

“Yes, make sure to focus on incorporating regular exercise into your daily routine. Health is not something that you can easily regain once you have lost it,” the doctor—no, Dr. Zayne, you clarify in your head—speaks.

Well, one thing for sure is that the co-anchor was right. Dr. Zayne is handsome. While Caleb is boyishly gorgeous, this Dr. Zayne is a mature type of good-looking that attracts attention, even if he tries to stay on the periphery.

“Now, I suppose this really isn’t the main purpose of this interview, but our viewers are just dying to know. Do you have a special someone that might be watching today’s show?” the anchor presses on.

Anyone would have been uncomfortable with the sudden prying. You lean forward, waiting to hear the answer.

Dr. Zayne looks at the camera, and his lips flatten into a straight line. But even though anyone could have interpreted his look as mild annoyance at the personal question, somehow, a part of you saw it for what it was: sadness.

“It seems if I were to have someone like that to me...well, it would seem that person might have gone somewhere far away.”

For some odd reason, you have a weird gut feeling that he might be talking about you. But what did he mean by that? You were alive and well. Did the two of you fall apart? Or even worst, was this relationship between the two of you just some weird figment of your imagination?

The anchor nods his head then. Based on his awkward expression, you’re certain that it wasn’t the answer he had been looking for.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Zayne doesn’t even acknowledge the statement. He just gazes away, as if his mind is on a different matter.

Good, you think, a surge of protectiveness boiling in you. That’s what you get for asking an unprofessional question!

“Well, that concludes our interview with Akso Hospital’s Dr. Zayne Li. We’ll be talking about the current rise in Wanderer appearances when we come back and safety guidelines that can help you keep yourself and your family safe.”

When the tv flicks to commercials, you sit there deep in thought. Wrapping your arms around your legs, you prop your chin on your knees.

And then, you go searching for your phone.

You find it charging in the bedroom. You are certain that it wasn’t you who had plugged it in. Most likely Caleb had done so while you were asleep.

You unlock the phone. And then you open a browser. You hesitate before searching for the incognito feature—luckily, it exists.

Akso Hospital Zayne Li.

Articles mentioning his name pop up. It’s in your brief scan of those articles that you see more images of him appear. You even stumble upon a fan page for him by medical students.

One comment reads: I prayed to Dr. Zayne before my exam and got a 100! Tears of blood streamed down my face lol.

Another comment reads: The one time I didn’t pray to Dr. Zayne and I failed my exam...After that I learned my lesson...!

You laugh at that. Well, you could see why a desperate student would pray to him for help. He does seem like the type that would garner a cult following.

And then an idea pops up in your head. You go into your contacts. Maybe he’ll be in there?

But there’s only one number.

Caleb.

Disappointment seeks its teeth into you. Were you just delusional then? Did you make up that memory?

Your head begins to hurt again. You roll a knuckle over your forehead, closing your eyes. Whatever, this isn't for you to figure out. Whatever issues arose between your current body and this mysterious Dr. Zayne was for the original soul to figure out, whenever fate decided that it had enough fun throwing random souls into alternate universes and decided to switch the two of you back your rightful places.

And even somehow importantly, was your only friend Caleb? Sure, you didn’t have many friends in your world—most of them had moved on with their own things after university, and now your socializing primarily consisted of mundane chatter with coworkers twice your age. Did you have no friends here too?

You think of the picture of the you of this world, beaming at the camera with an ease that you could never find yourself carrying.

You scrunch your nose at the thought. For some odd reason, it doesn’t sit easy with you.

Your phone buzzes then with a message.

Did you eat breakfast yet?

You pause. The congee and youtiao are still outside in the living room, basically untouched. You type out a reply.

I got the delivery...but I think I got too invested in watching tv...Why did I look down and it was suddenly cold?

Right after you send the message, his reply comes in quickly.

You can’t skip breakfast.

An apple emoji ends his message, and it looks up at you with a disapproving stare, one hand on its hip. You can almost imagine him in the same position, ready to scold you. You let out a giggle.

Another message pops up from him.

What were you watching?

Your smile slips. Should you ask him?

Your fingers hesitate over the screen for a brief moment. You purse your lips and then type your message out.

Just some news. Heard it’s supposed to be warm this afternoon :D

You sigh and hit send.

His reply is quick: Are you sure you still want to eat hot pot today then?

Your nose wrinkles, and you frantically type out another message: Of course!

Okay...I’ll bring us to our usual spot then. You just wait.

Another message whooshes in.

I gotta go now. I’ll see you soon.

Three dots pop up on his end. And then it disappears. No message comes in. What was he going to say? You shut off your phone. Your stomach grumbles then, a protest that you hadn’t eaten breakfast. Whatever, you’ll just heat up your breakfast.

🍏🍎

Caleb comes home at exactly 2pm. When you go up to greet him, you see that strands of his hair are stuck to his forehead in sweat, and on instinct, you reach up to brush them away.

He stiffens then, slightly. You realize what you did too late and hurriedly pull your hand away.

He grabs your hand then, his hold gentle. “Didn’t mean I didn’t like it. But don’t I smell gross?”

You relax at that, letting out a laugh at that before teasing, “Maybe a little.”

He does an exaggerated sniff of himself and then feigns backing away from you. But his touch is still on you. He’s needy. “Whoa, let me take a shower then. And then we’ll go.” There’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

You laugh again and then take a step closer to ruffle his hair with your other hand. His eyelids lower, and you might’ve seen an imaginary large tail from him thwacking around. “You know, you didn’t have to rush home so early. I’m sure the matters at the Fleet were more important.”

A little part of you is glad that he came home early. Sure, you had always been the independent type—the kind that could spend days by yourself with no one checking up on you, and you were fine with it. But you had gotten accustomed to having Caleb around almost every hour.

“They’re not that important. Not when it comes to you. They can handle some time without me there anyways,” he murmurs, reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you closer, “Snakes always find a way to entertain themselves in the dirt after all.”

You frown. You haven’t heard this kind of language from Caleb before. Sure, he didn't seem like he quite enjoyed his work at the Fleet, with the way his lips always seemed to be pressed in a disgruntled line, but to this extent? “Is it really that horrible there? Can’t you change your workplace?”

He takes a whiff of your hair. “Did you shower earlier? Smells nice.”

You can’t see the expression he’s making, but you have a feeling he’s changing the subject, and you let him. You let Caleb get away with a lot of things. And in this case, maybe work contracts are near impossible to get out of. It’s the same with your real world. Right?

You huff out an exaggerated sigh then. “Mm-hm. And it looks like you should hop into one now. While you shower, I’ll get changed. I’m itching to get outside.”

He laughs and nuzzles your skin one more time before letting go, reluctantly. “I’ll follow your orders, Captain.”

He comes back out when he’s done to you lazing around on the sofa. You had changed into a yellow sundress pretty quickly, and it had been boring waiting for Caleb to be done with the shower. You’re almost about to doze off, and he snaps you awake with a prod on your cheek. You let out a dazed murmur, wiping away the drool at the corner of your mouth, before a familiar scent hits your nose. It’s apple-y and fresh and well...familiar. You think of the green bottle in the shower then and squint your eyes at him. “Did you use my body wash?”

He grins playfully. “Uh, you mean our body wash right. We always use the same stuff. Now come on, time’s a-ticking and I’m getting hungry.”

You roll your eyes at him and feign to roll away from him and onto your side.

“Whoa!” you let out a shriek when you start floating in the air. Your legs are splayed out awkwardly, and you fumble to keep your skirt over your legs. You whip your head back to glare at him. When you notice that his gaze can’t seem to leave the bare skin of your thighs, your glare intensifies.

Right, you forgot that the people in this world had fucking superpowers or Evols or whatever the fuck they called it. And Caleb’s happened to be gravity. Of fucking course. You remember him using it at the hospital when you had almost dropped something and he had stopped it from falling.

What was your superpower then? And could you use it against this man, as much of a menace he is?

He’s already set you in a seated position before you can let out a spiel of curse words fly out of your mouth. Your cheeks are puffed out in annoyance as you begin to wag an angry finger. “Hey, hey, foul play-!”

He lets out a laugh, interrupting your burst. And then he’s grabbing your foot with one hand and tucking it into a pair of sandals that he got from who knows where. Even though you let him, you give him another glare as he fixes the straps in place. When he’s done, he looks up at you and gives you a boyish grin. “Ready to go?”

You have half a mind to continue to be angry at him. But your breakfast really had not been that great when you heated it up and the thought of hot pot—something familiar and comforting—was making your stomach grumble and you really were itching to be outside. And you have a feeling that he might use his Evol to have you float after him to your destination.

Then it seems like he’s remembered something important. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a sparkling band from his pocket. Your heart lurches at the sight. It’s the ring you hid. Or is it? You see that it’s sparkling new, unlike the one that you had found. “Where’d you get that?” you force the words to leave your suddenly dry throat.

He glances up, and your eyes meet. “Just got it back from the shop today. I guess you already forgot what I told you yesterday.”

You purse your lips, heart thrumming nervously in your chest, as he beckons for you to give him his hand. You move stiffly, and before you know it, the ring is already on your finger. It glints at you, almost mockingly.

“Now everyone will know we’re married.” He dips his head down and presses a soft kiss against the ring. There’s that look again in his eyes. Your heart stutters in your chest—not out of anxiety this time but out of something else. Something you can’t quite understand yourself.

You hop to your feet before he can do anything else, and in a flash, you’re by the front door. Turning back to him, who’s still kneeling on the floor in a daze, you jut your chin towards the outdoors, feigning a mocking grin. “Hurry up, or I’m gonna leave you behind!”

You run off, his laugh echoing behind you, and as you’re about to turn out of the neighborhood, you feel a tug from behind. He’s caught up to you easily.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks.

“Uhhh...” You sheepishly smile. “No.”

He grins before reaching out and grasping your hand. Looping your fingers together, he tugs you to the left. “Can’t have you getting lost. Come on, follow me, Pipsqueak.”

You let a disgruntled murmur out, but you don’t even attempt to take your hand out of his grip. As he tugs you along, you pause and gape. As similar as this world is to yours, this world is also different. The streets are crowded at this time with families and couples and student friend groups, even though this would usually be the time where everyone is away and busy. Despite how high-tech all the buildings surrounding you are, you still let an impressed oo when you stumble upon a vendor selling sticks of candied hawthorn.

You turn and give pitiful eyes to Caleb, tugging on the hem of the casual jean jacket he’s thrown over his clothes.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite.”

You glance at the sparkling crystalized exterior of the candy, fighting back the urge to drool, before turning back to tug on his hem again, more insistently this time.

The vendor, an old man, lets out a guffaw at that. “Come on, young man, you should spoil your beautiful wife.”

You flush at that. A glance at Caleb shows that his ears are tinged red as well. And then a mischievous idea creeps up in your mind.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing up to his side. You notice his eyes flick down towards the gape in your neckline and then flick back up, and his face turns even more red.

“If each of us eat half, our appetite won’t be ruined. Hubby, buy it for me.” You use a coquettish tone that would normally have you throwing up a bit in your mouth (and you do, just a little). But for the sake of your target (a snack), you are willing to do almost anything to have it.

In a flash, the stick of candy is already in your hand, and Caleb has already paid for it. You take a large bite, in awe at the crunch. It’s both sweet and tart. Delighted, you beam up at Caleb. “Thank you, Caleb.”

He nods, and his hand is back around your free hand. You beckon the half-bitten hawthorn up at him playfully. “Wanna try?”

He looks frantic, and you almost feel bad for messing with the guy so much. But then he takes a bite and chews it. “It’s good.”

“Are the two of you recently married? It looks like you’re in the honeymoon stage right now.” the vendor comments. You turn, and your mouth opens, about to answer, when it clamps shut. Right, you don’t know. You don’t know because this isn’t your place. Is it possible to feel like the other woman when the woman in the relationship and the other woman are both...you? You wilt a bit at the thought.

Caleb answers. “We’ve been married for just a few months.” His hold on your hand tightens, and you almost wince, before his hold becomes gentle again. “But even in twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy years, I still will be more than happy every day as long as I’m with her...Even in another word or in another life.”

The vendor looks at him in surprise before letting out a laugh. “Young man, how romantic! Well, I hope the two of you have a prosperous marriage!” He then winks at you. “You have a good catch.”

You bashfully nod at that.

Caleb speaks again. “No, I’m the lucky one.” He pauses. “I worked hard to be with her.”

You feel Caleb’s gaze on you. The skin of your neck prickles with heat, and you know you can’t look at him right now. You tug him away from the stand quickly after bidding a quick thank you to the vendor.

And then you realize you don’t actually know which way you’re going. Again. You turn back to him, your eyes averted. “Um, where’s the hot pot place again?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you were leading the way,” his tone is teasing. You’re about to make a quip back when you hear a shrill scream.

“Wanderer! Help!”

You look up, startled. A crowd rushes in your direction, and before you know it, Caleb’s grasp on your hand has loosened. And your hawthorn candy has fallen somewhere, most likely crushed underfoot.

When you gather your wits, you take a quick look around at your new surroundings. And realize with a rush of anxiety that Caleb is gone.

🍏🍎

You’re lost. Hopelessly lost.

As you grope for your phone, you realize with a groan that you had left it in Caleb’s pocket earlier because you didn’t have pockets. At least one thing was majorly consistent between the two worlds—the lack of functionality in women’s clothing.

You have two choices: stay where you are and hope he finds you or go and try to find him yourself.

But the idea of staying out in the open when there’s a wanderer around...well that doesn’t sit right for you either. A part of you itches to go and find where it is.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re already wandering off. Even though it’s entirely foolish and impulsive and you don’t have any weapons on you, you can’t stay still. Not when you’re almost certain that you could somehow solve the issue. 

Key word, somehow.

If only had your gun.

The thought scares you the moment it enters your mind. You hadn't even played with the toy guns back in your world, but here, your fingers itch to find something usually tucked into your side that's missing.

You think back on it—really, you should just go hide and wait for it to be safe and hope that Caleb finds you.

And then you hear another scream in the distance. It sounds inhumane, like it's from some creature. Before you know it, you’re already running towards the direction of the sound in classic horror-movie-character-who-gets-killed-in-the-first-act style.

You pause outside of the alleyway where the scream had originated from. There’s no sound of a scuffle inside it, not any that you can pick up at least. But instead, two voices are speaking. And you recognize one of them. You peek in, cautiously. And immediately press yourself back out.

Caleb’s back is to you. From your brief glance, you can see that he’s speaking with another man, if that term is right. The man seems almost snake-like, with green hair and words that spill out of his mouth in a cruel sss. And there’s bits and pieces of something smoldering around the ground.

You identify it almost immediately, as if on instinct. It’s a protocore.

Even as close as you are, you can’t clearly hear what they’re saying.

“Wanderer...Attack...Plan...Whose idea?” You pick up these words from Caleb.

“Fool...plan...that girl...sssupposed...dead...Immoral!”

And then you hear a loud crash, as if someone’s body was flung against the brick wall. You peer back in urgently. The green snake man is gone. Save for a pile of crushed trash cans and for the fact that the protocore fragments on the ground are gone, there’s no evidence that he was in there in the first place. And fortunately, Caleb looks unharmed.

You realize that he’s turning back. Your mind races with thoughts on what to do.

Quickly, you take several steps back before propelling yourself forward. You let your body crash into his as he emerges from the alley.

“Caleb!” you let out a gasp, hoping that whatever emotion is showing on your face looks close to relief. And you are relieved, save for your confusion at whatever the hell that interaction was, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

He looks surprised to see you. And for a moment, suspicion prickles in his eyes. In a second, that emotion is gone, and he’s looking at you in relief, scanning you to make sure you’re unharmed. “I’ve been looking for you.” His voice is even, showing no indication that there was anything happening. “I’m sorry to dash your hot pot dreams, but we should head home until the wanderer situation is resolved. I’m assuming the restaurant is closing down for the day because of the news.”

If you weren’t on edge, you might have not spotted his eyes glimpse around like he’s checking to make sure there’s nothing around.

You wonder, almost aimlessly, at how bizarre it feels to be lying to this man and to know that he too is lying to you.

But for some reason, you let him lie to you. You have no choice. He’s the only one you can trust. And you want to trust him.

You weakly smile. “Yeah, Caleb. Let’s go home. Maybe you can make those chicken wings again? And we can try again another day?”

He relaxes a bit. For real this time. But the tension is still there in his shoulders and in his grip as he clasps your hand again. You feel the band of your wedding ring pinch, just slightly.

Your smile almost slips from your face.

Home. For you, that word too is a lie.

🍏🍎

You and Caleb don’t speak any further about the wanderer incident. Instead, there’s an evening routine for the two of you, one that you find yourself settling in easily. You flick on what you had termed our show earlier. Caleb has the pieces of a model kit spread on a table. The two of you jokingly bicker when he starts to hog the project, and you pretend to settle in a huff next to him on the floor (but really, you were more interested in watching partly the rest of the episode and partly him focusing in on the airplane model—something about a man locked in on a goal...well, you had to admit it was very attractive).

In fact, he’s maybe too attractive. He’s changed his clothes earlier to a plain blue shirt and sweatpants, and the necklace is hanging around his neck, dangling into the collar. But for some reason, something simple on any other man looks model-like on him. Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing closer to him, trying to not drool out of your mouth.

He’s not really noticing your sudden shift, not when his fingers are moving at warp speed to piece together the model. Something that should take a week to put together is effortlessly coming together in just over an hour. You look at his fingers. Really, you shouldn’t be this hot and bothered.

You let out a puff of air, blowing a strand of your hair out of your face. And then you settle a coy hand on his thigh, leaning into whisper into his ear. “You sure you don’t want any help?”

He stiffens under your touch. You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Hmm,” his voice is thick, “And how do you suggest you help?”

You let out a soft hum. And then before you can stop yourself, you’ve pushed his chest back so that his back is against the front of the sofa and swung yourself across his lap so that you’re straddling him. He’s looking up at you, with an almost pitiful look in his eyes that makes you want to tease him further.

“Why don’t you tell me?” you tease, reaching out to cup his jaw with a hand.

And then his eyes sharpen, hungry. They flick down to your lips and linger there. His hands settle around your waist, the heat of his palms searing into your flesh. You lean down, your lips almost a breath away from his and...

The doorbell rings. You throw yourself off him, landing on the carpet next to him with a soft thump. He narrows his eyes at the door.

“I’ll check who it is. Why don’t you take a bit of a break in our room?”

You nod. There’s an edge to his voice, one that he gets whenever it was associated with the Fleet. Whoever it was on the other side of the door—well, whoever it was, they didn’t sound like good news. You’re already closing the door behind you when he opens the front door.

You hear the intruders move into the common room. Caleb’s voice follows them, muffled through the door. “If there’s anything urgent for us to discuss now, it should’ve been a call.”

“Colonel.” A voice speaks. Your ears prickle at the sound. Even though it should be unfamiliar, a part of you almost feels like you’ve heard it before. There’s a tingle behind your forehead, and you close your eyes, trying to focus in on it. “We just wanted to check to see how you were faring. After the incident that happened one year ago and hearing about the amount of leave you’ve taken these past few weeks, we wanted to be...cautious.”

Another voice speaks. “Well, it seems like you’re busy.” It pauses, for a very long time. “Do you have someone else here?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. You stiffen, afraid to be caught, even though there’s no way for you to be seen. You remember, almost belatedly, that you had left your pair of sandals outside by the front door.

Caleb speaks, his voice low. “No, as you can see, it’s just me here.”

The second voice speaks. Its voice is hushed. “I apologize for the personal question. We’ll take our leave now.” There’s another pause, brief this time. “You know, we never were really able to express our condolences about last year. W--.”

“Time passes. We all learn to deal with it in different ways. I appreciate the concern, but it’s getting late,” Caleb interrupts.

You hear their footsteps creak on the floorboards and then the sound of the front door closing shut.

You back up away from the bedroom door, searching for something to focus on. But before you can do anything, the door opens.

Caleb walks into the room. There’s a stiffness to him. He feels unstable, and his eyes seem murky, like he can’t even see what’s in front of him. And then he sees you.

You step forward, cautiously.

Before you can say anything, he’s advanced towards you. You can’t fully read the expression on his face, but he looks agonized, like a wounded animal. You take a step back, tentative. And then another one. But he keeps chase. Right before he can close the gap, he stops himself. His fingers flex next to him, and you see that his chest is puffing out ragged breaths.

You step forward, this time. “Are you...,” your voice is soft and uncertain, “Are you alright?”

He lets in a shaky breath. “Please,” he exhales. You look up at him, hesitant, and then nod.

And then his mouth is on you. He’s dragged you so that the two of you are pressed firmly together. His hands press against your hips, and his fingers are already traveling up under your shirt. You let out a whimper as he nips your bottom lip, opening up your mouth in invitation, and his tongue enters your mouth.

Something wet splashes against your skin. You stiffen underneath his touch. Is he crying?

His fingers are up against your back at the clasp of your bra. You tremble at the heat of his palm against the sensitive skin of your back.

You’re suddenly moving too fast. You can’t breathe. You reach up and press Caleb’s chest away, but he seems like he isn’t even here with you anymore. You push again, more firm this time, and try to back away. Your right leg twists. You’re falling back, knocking against the wall of plushies.

He breaks away from you just in time to catch you. But it’s too late for the collision—the plushies come tumbling down in a cascade.

You look up at him with teary eyes, your cheeks flushed. “Caleb,” you breathe in air roughly, “Are you alright?”

There’s that look in his eyes again—like he’s seeing you, but at the same time not seeing you. There are dried tears on his cheeks. He’s distraught. And then his gaze clears. He’s seeing you, properly this time.

“I’m...,” he takes a step back, dragging his hand down his face in defeat. “I’m sorry. I...can’t trust myself with you right now. I’ll...I’ll sleep outside today.”

He turns his back to you and is already on his way out of the room.

You reach a hand out. “Caleb, please. Wait, please just explain to me--.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

You drop to your knees, winded. Your head is beginning to hurt again, and that awful pain is prickling again in your chest. And then you catch a glint, one that exactly matches that of the ring around your finger.

You flick your gaze to the door. Did he see it?

And then you hang your head down, burying your face in your hands, and let out a sound that sounds like a fragile mixture of an exhale and a sob.

You can’t keep doing this, can you?

🍏🍎

You wake up, alone in the bed, in the middle of the night. You don’t know how you got to sleep, but you did. When you had stepped out in the living room earlier, hoping to talk to him, you had found that Caleb had disappeared. In that state?

You had called him, but each time, he had let it go to voicemail. You had tried to wait for him, but it had gotten late, and before you knew it you fell asleep.

But now that you’ve heard a sound in the common room, you hastily hurry out of bed. Sure, the middle of the night is never ideal for a conversation, but at least you have to make sure that he returned back safe and unharmed.

You’re about to open the door when you hear a soft murmur through the door. A gasp of your name. A soft, husky whine. And then you realize, your cheeks furiously burning, what exactly he’s doing on the sofa you were sleeping on earlier. You close your eyes, trying to imagine the sight on the other side of the door.

Caleb, his cheeks rosy, with his hand around his leaking cock. Caleb, with his head tilted back, murmuring your name in desperation. Your head is dizzy with your own imagination.

And then you hear a soft grunt and a sigh.

There’s a heat prickling in your gut, not unfamiliar. You force yourself to snap out of it.

You know what, you’ll try talking to him tomorrow. Not now, when the image of a flash of his abs as he strokes himself to completion keeps popping up in your mind.

You hear the floorboards creak under his feet, and then the door of the guest bathroom closing. You hurriedly lay back down in the bed, burying your tomato-red face in the pillow.

You shut your eyes tightly, your heartbeat racing in your chest, as you hear him emerge from the bathroom...and walk by the bedroom door.

You relax, relieved that he didn’t decide to come into the bedroom. Though the bed did seem a little too large and cold without him there, the idea of him, his body heat, after everything that happened today and tonight...well, you just didn’t quite know what to think about it.

You roll onto your other side, reaching out for your phone. The website that you had left on pops open, and Dr. Zayne’s face appears in front of you again.

You click on the Akso Hospital website link. Searching through the directory of doctors, you find Dr. Zayne’s unsmiling picture easily.

Whatever had been referred to as last year’s incident and whatever had caused you to remember this Dr. Zayne (real memory or not), you couldn’t help being curious about. Who knows, you might be of help to the you of this world, whenever she decides to return.

Maybe in finding out more about this Dr. Zayne, you might have an idea of what exactly brought you into this world.

You take another glance at the bedroom door.

And then you hit contact us.

An error pops up the moment the number pops up. You try to press the contact us again, and the screen freezes, not letting you open the page. But when you try to search something else up, your phone acts normal, like it's supposed to.

After several failed attempts, you turn off your phone and set it to the side, frustrated.

You’ll try again tomorrow. And if it doesn’t work then, you’ll just keep trying again and again. But for some sinking reason, you have a feeling that the end result will be the same as it was today.

Futile.

A/N: apologies for the delay! lots happened (including food poisoning...yikes!), so we're steadily recovering... but the pace for this story is definitely amping up in this chapter! I actually wrote half of this chapter pre-food poisoning and the other half post-food poisoning, so hopefully it's not disjointed...I hope you guys stick around for the rest of the ride :D

[softsunnyy]

WAIT WAIT BC I HAVE A REQUEST and i think its a good one too

so yk how there's that Halsey song (bad at love??) when it says

Got a boy back home in Michigan And he tastes like Jack when I'm kissing him

u could write one where reader isn't with Jack anymore and is fucking someone else (could literally be anyone tbh) but she keeps thinking abt how jack does it better, and comparing the two 🥺🥺

so… you should know about the thousand Jack edits i've downloaded with that song. My gosh.

🚨 emotional and physical cheating, you never really loved the poor guy, Jack is a bit of a stalker; mentions of sex with your ex. 🚨

this feels a bit like a part one

you moaned against his ear, feeling his cock slide in and out of you at a slow, patient, and gentle pace. You can feel his love, his devotion, his need to please you…

and those are some of the many things that makes him so... different.

you closed your eyes, trying not to see his face, because you knew it would turn you off, that when you opened them you'd find brown eyes, straight, light hair, skin that was too soft, and a sparkle in his eyes that was too innocent for you. And you knew it would eat you up with guilt, that it'd feel bad, so you preferred not to see it, to let yourself be guided by the sensations and imagining…

imagining other hands touching you.

because nothing had been the same since Jack and you broke up, since you parted ways, vowing to maintain respect, contact, and a good relationship. It makes it worse knowing that you broke up not because you fell out of love with each other, or because something felt wrong, but because his future is bright, and you didn't want to interfere when his life was just starting. I mean, how could you do that to him?

and so much time has passed, you've tried to rebuild your life, meet new people, change your appearance and the people you choose to have sex with. That's how you ended up with Matt, a guy who doesn't even like hockey to begin with. He´s... short, less muscular, and has friends who look at you like you're their next meal. He's not your type, you're not even sure you like him, but you'd already gotten yourself into it too much, and it was the only thing that kept your mind off things at times.

the problem is, his magic started to wear off this summer, when you took him to Michigan to meet your family, not knowing he'd be there before the regular season ended, in a sling, since he'd apparently injured his shoulder. When you saw him, your breath caught in your throat; it's like you'd gone back to your late teens, letting go of the love of your life. And your memories came flooding back, as did the feelings you thought you'd buried deep in your heart.

now looking at Matt feels like a reminder, like a constant call to wake up and realize what you're doing with your life. And you try to ignore it, to not feel this way, but when Matt slides his cock into your walls, you realize it's not working.

and you remember those big, not-so-soft hands that traveled over your body and touched you possessively, leaving bruises on your sides, and touching your tits like a toy. His cock, hammering inside you, bruising your cervix, expanding your walls, while your hands scratched his back.

you remember his head between your legs, and how his eyes were tattooed on your soul, consuming you. And his lips, his chest, his arms, his thighs.

your mind goes back to Jack, and you moan, you whimper; Your body reacts like he´s there with you, and it's when you cum that your mind betrays you, your mouth works before your conscience, and then you say his name.

Matt stops moving, perplexed, confused, offended. You don't realize it yet, but when you open your eyes and see him, you understand.

his name is Matt, not Jack.

and of course, the fun was soon over, and he had questions, valid and charged with emotion.

you´re not proud to say you lied, that you looked him in the eye and, barely able to breathe, told him "Jack" doesn't exist, that you'd made a mistake, that your mind was confused by the pleasure you were feeling. And to continue your lie, you offered him to look at your phone, to check your messages, whatever would make him feel confident that there was no Jack in your life. You´re not proud to say you breathed again when his expression relaxed, when his eyes softened and his hand touched yours once more.

and you had to pretend, letting the weeks pass, and wishing Jack had left Michigan. Sadly, your thoughts won't leave you alone, and you can't concentrate anymore, not even during sex, so you have to fake it, clenching your walls around Matt´s cock to make it look like you've come; moaning in a more pornographic way; doing it in positions where he couldn't see your face properly.

by the third week, you decide to go out, go to a bar, and try to enjoy yourselves. He knows you'd normally like the idea, and continuing to reject him would only raise suspicions again. So you get ready, put on some nice clothes, and try to remember what security feels like when you go out.

when you arrive, the place is packed, and you see many familiar faces, who greet you, hug you, and some look at you curiously, asking you about the new guy, while you just pray they don't ask about him.

the hours begin to pass, Matt has a couple of drinks under his belt, and you're still on your first drink, feeling your blood run cold. There's a pair of eyes following you, you know it, and you can't even pretend to laugh at the things Matt says to you anymore.

you know who's watching you.

because even though you haven't turned around, you know Jack is behind you, probably a couple of tables away, watching as Matt gets a little more touchy, with his hands on your waist every so often, leaving little kisses on your shoulder, and saying stupid comments that you no longer find funny.

and you know, you know he's upset, that he doesn't like what he sees, but he doesn't come closer, doesn't intervene, and the longer this passes, the more tense he makes you feel. You don't know what he wants, and you try to get away from Matt, to reclaim your space, your sanity, and your courage, but it doesn't work, and you feel heat in your curves, in your ass, in your legs, because you know he's looking at you, analyzing what has become of you.

and you wonder if he likes it, if you look pretty to him, if he still feels fucking hot when he sees your thighs.

Matt's hands return to you, and you want to throw up, you feel guilty, dirty, like you've betrayed him, letting someone else try to take you over. You feel paranoid, and you don't have the strength to look at him.

and Jack? he wants to laugh, to scream, to push you away from that guy and hit his face for thinking he can touch you. He doesn't even feel betrayed; rather, he's... almost amused.

he's just so... different, and he knows you don't like Matt. God, he even wants to correct the guy, tell him to be rougher, to put his hands in the right places, to make sure he has your attention.

does he even know what he's doing? because it seems like he doesn't know you. Not like he does.

so he watches, like you were his prey, analyzing every move so he can choose the perfect moment to attack and devour you. He's more patient than ever, enduring the tension in his body, the sweat, the heavy breathing, and the strength in his body that makes him want to get up and walk over to you.

then Matt kisses you, and it's like time stops. You try to kiss him back, but you close your eyes and all you can see is him, putting one hand on your neck so you can't pull away, while the other caresses your hip, slowly moving up to reach under your tits. It's what Jack would do, and you try to focus on that, but it's impossible. It's not him.

so you pull away, abruptly, excusing yourself to go to the bathroom, trying to make your way through the sea of ​​people, feeling cold sweats, your hands trembling, your lips burning, and you struggling to breathe. When you see the bathroom door, you try to walk faster, but a hand grabs your waist, pulling you back, causing your body to crash into the wall.

in front of you, you see him, the man of your dreams, nightmares, and deepest desires, looking at you with a cocky smile, like in these few hours he's learned everything he needed to.

your mind clouds, and you try to get closer to him unconsciously, almost instinctively, which makes his smile grow bigger.

"what are you doing?" you hear him say, and you want to cry, jump into his arms, and kiss him. You've missed him so much, and having him in front of you has brought back all your feelings, all your memories. You can't even answer what he asked because you haven't processed his words. You feel dazed, overwhelmed, and your mouth opens and closes, but you don't say anything.

he raises an eyebrow, amused, and with his good hand, he caresses your waist, as if nothing has changed, as if he hadn't acted on impulse after spending hours restraining himself from doing this.

"i asked you something. What are you doing?" he said it again, looking you up and down, taking his time, enjoying your reaction.

“what do you mean?” you asked, stunned, not knowing where to put your hands, and trying to tear your gaze away from his eyes.

“you’re letting him touch you in a way you don’t like,” he commented, like admitting he’d been watching you wasn’t important, and that slowly brought your awareness back to you.

“how do you know it’s not what i like? time has passed,” you responded defensively, trying to create some distance, though the wall made it difficult.

damn, you hadn’t seen Jack in so long, and this is the first thing he says to you?

“you never liked being touched like that.” his hand remained firm, making it impossible for you to move too far away, applying just the right amount of pressure.

and it frustrates you to know that he remembers, that he knows where to touch, in what tone to speak, what to say, and how to look at you. It’s like you’re an open book to him, because he took all the time in the world to get to know you, to learn so much about you that nothing would take him by surprise, so that you’d never have a complaint, so that he could make you happy.

“people change, Jack.” His name fell from your lips smoothly, and you saw how he hesitated for a moment, like that had been his weakness. However, soon the smile returned to his lips.

“yeah... but i doubt you’ve forgotten what you really like” his hand moved up slowly, passing over your tits, down your chest, to your neck, applying pressure near your jaw, making you look at him, unable to lower your head. “Tell me, did you miss me?”

Jack doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It wasn’t his plan. It’s not what he’s thought for weeks since he saw you when you arrived in Michigan.

it wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but now he can’t pull away. Not when his breath hits yours, and you’re so close that your eyelashes will soon brush his skin. Not when he’s drunk on your perfume again. Not when your eyes look at him in that same way they always do.

like you’re silently begging him to fuck you right there.

and his question distracts you, and you wanna lie, tell him no, but the hesitation in your voice is enough to give him the real answer, which makes him feel confident, smug, like he just won.

“well, i did miss you… and i never thought that when i saw you again it would be with… him.” The last part was said with a disgust you couldn't ignore.

and deep down… your chest felt warm knowing he doesn't like this.

“Jack…”

“are you satisfied?”

three words, three that took your breath away once again, because you know he's referring to everything. He's not just asking you about sex. His eyes don't lie. And you wanna lie, for him and for you, but you can't, you can't form a false sentence in your mind.

so you stay silent for a couple of minutes, not even hearing the music, the conversations, the people. Under his gaze, you feel small, and like it was just the two of you, like old times.

your silence might be answer enough, but he wants to hear you say it, wants to know that you wanna join your lips with his, that you too want to sneak into the bathroom behind your back and remember who you belong to.

“he's not you, Jack,” you whispered, ashamed, guilty. And he took it as a green light, attaching his mouth to yours like a magnet, like it was the sign he'd been waiting for.

and that night, when you find yourself back at home, without Matt, with Jack, and with no regrets… you know your life is about to turn upside down once again.

but you don't regret it. Not when you feel his hands on your body again, and his cock being welcomed home, forcing its way into your soaked, tight pussy.

and you're sensitive, you cry, you whimper. You feel him everywhere, and you know the night is just beginning now.

he makes you feel alive, like you're a teenager again, and you wouldn't change that for anything.

all that's left is to apologize to Matt, if Jack doesn't do something about it first.

[bettelaboure]

bf jiyong x reader where its the morning after doing ykw 🌚

⊹Morning, Jagi⊹ | Kwon Ji-yong

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

⊹Pairing: Kwon Ji-Yong x reader

⊹Summary: The morning after their first night together, you and Jiyong share tender moments, teasing banter, and quiet intimacy—with sore bodies, soft kisses, and the company of his two cats, Lye and Zoa—as you navigate the gentle, love-drenched aftermath of something real.

⊹Warnings: brief nudity, soft aftermath, teasing

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

It’s the kind of morning that feels suspended in time—like the universe has pressed pause just for you.

The air is still, golden with sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, and wrapped in the kind of hush that only exists between two people who’ve just crossed the most delicate threshold together. Your body is draped in a tangle of sheets and skin, still echoing with the aftershocks of the night before, but it’s not lust that lingers now. It’s something quieter. Thicker. More dangerous.

“I’m your menace,” he whispers again against your shoulder, and this time you don’t argue. "Morning, Jagi."

Because it’s true.

You feel it in every inch of your body—the ache in your muscles, the sore tug between your thighs, the gentle soreness of your lips from where he kissed you too many times to count. Your skin still hums with the memory of his mouth, the way he murmured your name like a promise, like a prayer, like a secret he’d waited his whole life to say out loud.

He’d ruined you.

Not just your body—though yes, thoroughly—but your standards. Because how could you go back to anything less after last night? How could you kiss anyone else, when no kiss would ever feel like that again?

He shifts behind you, the smooth press of his chest against your back, a hand running down your side with the kind of gentleness that belies how rough he had you hours ago. “You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, and it’s that question—the quiet sincerity of it—that really undoes you.

“I’m better than okay,” you whisper, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“I’m a little concerned I’ve turned you into a puddle,” he murmurs. “You haven’t moved in twenty minutes.”

“I can’t move,” you say with mock accusation. “You broke me.”

“You loved it,” he says smugly.

“You made me say your name like—ten times.”

“Twelve,” he corrects with a sly grin. “I counted. Every time you said it, I got harder. I thought I was going to combust when you moaned it that last time.”

You swat at his arm, embarrassed, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, soft as silk. “Don't be shy now,” he whispers. “You were so confident last night. You told me exactly what you wanted.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory of it—how you’d pulled him close by his shirt, whispering in his ear with a voice you barely recognized as your own. He liked when you took control. He loved it when you gasped into his mouth and begged him to let go.

And he did.

Completely. Messily. Beautifully.

Now, in the golden hush of morning, he’s a different kind of creature—softer, gentler, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, but still teasing, still dangerous in that way only Jiyong can be.

“Come on,” he says after a beat, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Bath time. You’re too sore to walk straight, and I don’t want your memory of me to include falling down the stairs.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He’s already climbing out of bed, naked and unapologetic. “I have you in my bed. I think I’ve earned it.”

You watch him stretch, lean and gorgeous and completely at ease in his skin. He disappears into the bathroom and a second later, you hear water rushing, the hum of something dropped into the tub—probably one of those expensive bath salts he pretends not to use.

Zoa follows him with an offended chirp, like she’s had enough of this romance and wants breakfast. Lye stays with you, curled into the blanket, still purring like a small engine.

You finally sit up, wincing slightly, and laugh at yourself. “He really did break me.”

From the bathroom, you hear: “I can still hear you.”

You roll your eyes and shuffle toward the doorway, Jiyong’s oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder. The scent of eucalyptus and jasmine is already filling the air, steam curling through the room as the tub fills.

Jiyong’s kneeling beside it, testing the temperature like he’s preparing something sacred.

“You treat baths like rituals,” you tease, leaning against the doorframe.

He glances back, then stops altogether—eyes tracing you slowly, like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You look ridiculous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Ridiculously good,” he clarifies. “Like...you should be in a painting. In a museum. Guarded. Or stolen.”

You shake your head, but your smile betrays you.

He stands, reaching for you. “Come on. I made it perfect.”

You let him undress you, slowly, reverently—like last night all over again, but quieter now, gentler. He helps you into the water first, then slips in behind you, pulling your back to his chest as the warmth envelops you both.

His legs slide around yours. His arms find your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder.

And you sit there like that—two bodies suspended in a world made of steam and skin and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of breath.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

“Anything.”

“When did you start liking me?”

He’s quiet for a second. You almost regret asking, but then he answers, voice low and honest:

“The first time you called me out.”

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He grins. “Yeah. Everyone around me nods too much. But you? You looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘That’s a terrible idea, Kwon.’ I think I fell in love right then.”

Your heart thumps. “I remember that day.”

“You had no idea who I was,” he says, kissing your temple. “It was so hot.”

You both laugh, and he holds you tighter.

Silence falls again, but it’s the best kind. Not awkward. Not empty. Just comfortable. Like two people who no longer need to fill the space between them with words.

Eventually, you feel your eyes start to close.

Jiyong kisses your wet shoulder and murmurs, “Nap here. I’ll carry you back to bed after.”

You smile. “You’re not strong enough for that.”

“Woman, I lifted you last night while you were wrapped around me. Do not question my power.”

You laugh into his neck. “Okay, okay.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll prove it again tonight.”

You don’t reply.

But your hand finds his beneath the water. Fingers tangled.

Heart full.

And for the first time in a long time, you think you finally understand what home feels like.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[kingkat12]

pervert, pervert, pervert (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: syntribation/masturbation, voyeurism, reader is a FREAK

summary: working for Mr. Godfrey was making you a nervous wreck-- how were you supposed to deal with it, other than the way you knew a little too well?

word count: 5,613

← previous chapter | next chapter →

a/n: this one goes out to all the girlies that KNOW. you know the feeling when that part of your jeans rubs up against your clit when you shift in your seat? yes. yes, you know, don't you lie to me xx

I bought the magazine.

I wasn't planning to, I swear.

But there it was, staring at me from the newsstand like a dare; Forbes, special feature, The Man Who Rebuilt an Empire. And right there on the cover, in crisp matte print, was my boss. His sculpted nose, the high curve of his cheekbone, the impossible shadow of his jaw-- Roman Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey. 

I had only worked for him for a week, but I was already spiraling. I thought I'd be able to keep my fascination with him under wraps for at least a month, yet alas; I handed the cashier a crumpled five, grabbed it like it might disappear if I waited too long, and stuffed it in my bag before anyone could see.

I took it home. Ran a bath, lit a candle, and stared at the magazine cover like it might blink first. Honestly, I didn’t even read the article, I just... looked. And it was then that I realized how outright gorgeous Mr. Godfrey's nose truly was, how the sharp angle of it was something so unique that I couldn't take my eyes off it, and I think some broken, wicked part of me liked that it took my breath away, liked how it made me feel-- small, unworthy, aching.

And this morning?

This morning, that nose was five inches from my face.

I stood outside the glass office doors balancing his coffee, trying to breathe through the memory of last night; not too much milk, one cube of brown sugar, stirred exactly three times. Through the glass, I could see Mr. Godfrey seated at the head of the long table, surrounded by advisors and business partners, speaking with the same detached authority he always did. He didn’t need to raise his voice-- he simply existed, and everyone fell in line by birthright.

I stepped inside as quietly as I could. My heels made a soft click against the polished floor, and no one turned their head. That was the way it worked-- I was background. Necessary, but unimportant. And still, as I walked toward him, I felt every molecule of air bend around his presence, like gravity shifted in his direction. Of course the universe would bend to someone so gorgeous.

Mr. Godfrey looked good. Unbearably good. It was undeniable, simple as that. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he sat with the ease of someone who knew he was being watched, but never needed to look back to confirm it. He was of such wealth that his posture alone wasn't even a performance, but nature-- spine straight, one hand resting casually on the table, and the other lifted a document with slow, deliberate precision. It was clear that he was focused, and that the meeting was of importance, meaning I had to act accordingly on my fifth day of work.

But then... he licked his bottom lip.

It was subtle, almost absentminded, but I felt it in my knees. My throat tightened, my grip on the mug stiffened, and suddenly, the heat from the coffee felt like a warning in my palms. 

Get it together, pervert. Why couldn't I be normal about this? I blamed it on Forbes.

I was close to him, now. Close to him and his perfect nose, so close that I could smell the sharpness of his cologne. Then, when I leaned forward, just slightly, to place the cup on the table before him, I caught it-- the upturn of his nose. The Forbes nose.

It was stupid, the way I fixated on it. But there was something about the slope of it, the arch, the way it gave his face that hint of aristocratic cruelty-- I had stared at it for too long on that magazine cover last night, and now here it was again, real and breathtaking.

Stupid little me lingered for three seconds too long.

Maybe four?

Until, like a snap of a band around my wrist, Mr. Godfrey's eyes shot towards me as his face remained turned to his business partners; caught you. 

My breath hitched as he continued to speak like he wasn't glaring at me with the wrath of God, and the break of my fourth wall jolted through my spine. Fuck. My hands, traitorous and clammy, fumbled under the weight of his stare. The coffee sloshed hard against the rim of the cup, a dark arc of heat kissing the lip of the mug, a wave that threatening to spill. I gasped, audibly, stupidly, as the liquid nearly tipped toward the floor, and for one horrific second I thought it would splash right across Mr. Godfrey's papers, his lap, his perfect goddamn suit.

No one moved, but I heard someone gasp across the table, sharp and quiet.

I jerked the cup back just in time, barely keeping the liquid contained by steadying it against the heel of my palm. The saucer clicked, clacked, harder than it should’ve, as I set it down too fast, too loud. My fingers hovered above it like I’d placed down a live grenade.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes dragged over me like a blade, like he could see the heat blooming across my cheeks, the pulse thudding in my neck, and the tiny tremors in my fingertips. His eye didn’t twitch, his lips didn’t part, but he saw... oh, he saw everything.

I mumbled something between a sorry or excuse me, or maybe it was just the sound of my soul fleeing my body? I turned away so fast that I nearly clipped the edge of the conference table with my hip, narrowly avoiding it.

I fled back toward the door, the burn of Mr. Godfrey's green eyes following me all the way through the glass wall. The clack of my heels bounced hard off the walls, and I sat down behind my desk right outside, ready to sink through all the floors of the skyscraper and disappear for all of eternity. 

"Stupid," I hissed, barely above a whisper. "Fucking idiot. Stupid, stupid."

I knew this would happen. Of course it would. The second I took this job, I knew it was a risk. I just thought I’d have a little more time to prove myself before I humiliated myself in front of him, but no. One week in, and I was already the secretary who couldn’t even serve coffee without looking like she’d had a small stroke. Perfect impression. Just perfect.

My heart was pounding too fast-- I couldn't think. My body was on high alert, skin buzzing with residual panic and something darker, warmer. I just needed it to stop.

I shifted in my seat, trying to exhale through the tension. Mortification still gripped me by the throat, but beneath it was that other feeling, the one that made my skin feel too tight, my stomach flutter-- I crossed my legs. The stretch of my pencil skirt whined softly at the motion, and I squeezed my thighs together just enough to send a tiny shiver of release through my core.

Just enough to breathe.

This was what happened when I spiralled, when I got overwhelmed and overstimulated-- I had learned how to self-soothe the odd way. Years of buried anxiety attacks that crept up in school, at family dinners, in public places where I had to keep my composure, I found my own escape, my own... coping method, if I may.

My fingers clicked open the first email in my inbox; it was some logistics guy from the New York office. My nails tapped the keys too quickly, like I was being timed, like I could answer fast enough to undo what just happened, but the friction of the seam of my pantyhose grazing against my underwear made it bearable. 

Made everything bearable.

A sigh escaped before I could stop it, quiet and embarrassed, and I ducked my head to hide it behind the screen. It wasn’t even about pleasure-- not really. It was about calming down, about surviving the fact that I’d just made a complete fool of myself in front of the most terrifyingly beautiful man I’d ever met.

The man whose cologne I could still smell.

The man whose voice still echoed in my skull.

The man I had fantasized about the night before while staring at the cover of a fucking magazine.

It was only last year that I found out what I was doing technically counted as masturbation. I remember blinking at the screen, reading some late-night advice column, and feeling that horrible, guilty heat crawl up my neck. But honestly? I didn’t care. No one ever saw. No one had ever noticed. It was just a small shift in posture, a soft clench of my thighs. I could easily make myself cum without anyone ever noticing, so what was the harm? It was discreet, it was harmless, and most importantly, it worked.

My cheeks burned. I scooted forward in my chair with a sheepish little smile tugging at my lips as I replied to a second email, this one from the Dubai office. My fingers were fast and competent, my face was calm and professional-- I was the image of a well-oiled machine.

... Even as I got off beneath the desk with my thighs.

I even managed to act normal when all of Mr. Godfrey's business associates left his office (see, I was a pro!), and I sent them off with a polite goodbye and a sweet secretary-smile. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious-- just a secretary doing her job.

But then... he stepped out.

Mr. Godfrey.

He didn’t walk past me, didn’t leave-- he simply leaned against the doorframe of his office like a man who knew he didn’t have to say anything to make his presence known.

I didn’t dare to look up, but I could feel his green eyes scour me like x-rays, like spotlights. They drilled into the top of my head, down my neck, across my back; it made my breath catch in my throat. I pressed my thighs together harder, half in panic, half in instinct, as shame flooded me like a second skin; the same shame that made my adrenaline spike. 

He cleared his throat-- "Good morning,"

I nearly jumped in my seat at being addressed, and immediately unfolded my legs before daring to meet his gaze. "Good morning, Mr. Godfrey!" I hoped my cheerful voice would overshadow the nervous twitching of the outer corners of my mouth. It wasn't my favorite thing to know that a telling-off was looming over me, especially from someone with authority-- usually, that ended up with me bursting into tears. 

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes burned themselves into mine, and something told me he was imagining an alternative universe where he could shoot lazers through them and obliterate me in an instant. "The way you dress," he snarled. "It's disgusting."

"... What?"

Narrowing his gaze, he folded his arms over his suit-clad chest, getting his hair out of his eyes with a nod of his head. If this had been a movie, my vision would've gone pink and hazy as time slowed to show the way the softness of his hair flowed with the kick of his neck, falling perfectly into place as he looked at me. "You represent me," Mr. Godfrey threatened. "From the way that you move, to the way that you dress. Let down your hair."

"O-Okay?--"

"And are your hands unsteady, or are you just pathetically clumsy?"

Mr. Godfrey could've squeezed my tongue between the tips of his fingers and dragged it out of my mouth with force, and that would've felt the same as I felt now, trying to speak. "Not usually," I confessed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't sleep well and... and the cup slipped. It won't happen again, I promise." Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, you gorgeous man. No more studying his side-profile. Please, please. No more getting off to that Forbes magazine. I could be good, please, please.

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Godfrey let out a disappointed groan. It was almost as though he wanted me to snark back at him like I had done in my interview, yet I knew that'd get me kicked out of the company with no less than a dime in compensation. "Why didn't you sleep?"

What? Why he was he making normal conversation with me? This wasn't usually how this worked. He'd come in, tell me what I needed to do for the day, and call me in for his ridiculously specific coffee after a while. This was new. "I got a bit distracted, sir,"

"With what?"

"With... reading," The words on the front page over and over as I scanned the beautiful upturn of his nose? Exactly.

"What do you read?" he asked, now seemingly interested.

Fuck. "Nothing that would interest you, sir,"

There was a sparkle that appeared in his eyes. "Try me," 

Having to rake through my brain for random book-titles was nerve-wracking, especially when Roman Godfrey was staring me down with his green challenge burning a hole through my skull. I decided to be honest; "The last thing I read wasn't very appropriate, sir. I shouldn't say," The last thing I read that wasn't Forbes, that is.

Mr. Godfrey allowed his eyes to widen, just a little. Finally, that seemed to crack through his harsh mood this morning, and he let out a scoff that sounded an awful lot like a pitied laugh. "Lie, then,"

"Pardon?"

"Say the first book that comes to mind. One that seems smart,"

"Well..." This was beyond intimidating, yet I complied. Amusement simmered in my chest, somewhere. "War and peace. Leo Tolstoy."

That seemed to do the trick. With a nod of approval, Mr. Godfrey pushed away from the doorframe with a handsome smirk. "Good," he hummed. "That's a dull one."

"Have you read it, sir?"

"Yes," Tapping his fingers against the wood of the door, he cocked his head to the side, scanning me; "Now, let down your hair."

Rapunzel, Rapunzel? 

Oh. 

Letting my smile falter, I reached for the claw-clip I had in my hair and put it on my desk, looking up at Mr. Godfrey with eyes pleading for approval. I felt pathetic, really, yet there was something satisfactory about his scary tone. Then, without thinking, it fell from between my lips-- "What else disgusts you about me, sir?"

No, no, stupid!

I just felt so eager to fix myself, to comply-- fucking pathetic.

Mr. Godfrey's smirk fell in an instant, like a drop of water hitting the ground.

It felt like I had broken some sort of agreement by opening my mouth like that. Holding back my snark was certainly something I had to work on, especially in front of the most powerful man in Hemlock Grove. 

His eye twitched, barely noticeable. Then, he turned on his heel, imposing the most squeaky, uncomfortable squeak of his shoes on the walls of the office like it'd be punishment enough for my behaviour-- automatically, I pressed my thighs together and shivered. 

Mr. Godfrey slammed the door shut, making me jump in my seat. It felt like I was getting sonically beat black and blue, and I proceeded to cross my legs now that he was out of sight. 

Hopefully, this day would get better soon.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... It did, but in the most peculiar way. 

Later that day, whilst I rummaged through Mr. Godfrey's spam folder for mails I could've missed, I got a notification from my personal work email, which was was odd-- no one ever sent me mails directly, since they all knew I waded through Mr. Godfrey's inbox and was easier to reach there. Hence, I checked it out the second it ticked onto my screen, and... well.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Disgust And So Forth

Dear secretary,

I trust that you will sleep better tomorrow. Coffee that is stirred correctly is always appreciated, yet coffee that threatens to spill all over my new suit which cost me $5,348 is not. 

And regarding your inquiries about my disgust, I would like to point out that your nails are unkempt and therefore distracting when I pass by your desk and see you type. I suggest you find yourself a manicurist. What is fashionable in nails these days?

I'm happy to answer any other questions you have for me via email, should you so desire. 

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Never had I ever scooted forward on my chair as fast as now. My head snapped to the side, looking directly through Mr. Godfrey's glass office, hoping to catch him looking at me with that boyish smile I'd assume came accompanied with this email, yet-- nothing. He was certainly not looking, nor did he seem like he had just typed out this email. His green eyes were glued to his screen, his long, slender fingers reaching for a marker to circle the paper in front of him as though he was correcting something, deep in work and thought.

Was someone in the office pranking the newbie? Then again, who else could've typed out this email? 

Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Enlightenment And Epiphanies

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I must apologize once more. The incident this morning was utmost unfortunate, and it shall not be repeated. However, I would like to specify that I do not have the funding to dry-clean your suits as compensation if any accidents were to happen. Am I legally bound to do so, sir? I do not believe I saw that in my contract. I could have perhaps afforded that luxury, had I not had the salary of a secretary.

In regards to your observations about my nails, I must say I take offence. Just because they are short, does not mean that they are not looked after. As for styles, I believe French tips are rather in at the moment. What colors are appropriate for the office?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

I hit the send button with dread pooling in my stomach. I pulled a face despite knowing he could see me at any moment. Did I take it too far? Why was Mr. Godfrey sending me emails in the first place? This could probably get us both into a long, disciplinary meeting with HR if they found out about our odd emails.

I did my best to sneak another peek at him through the glass walls of his office, yet there were once again no signs of him having seen it or having reacted to anything unusual. Was I maybe overanalyzing this? Was this maybe normal behaviour at an office job? Since this was my first job ever, I decided to give Mr. Godfrey the benefit of the doubt until I saw his next email pop up on my screen unusually fast.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clearing Up Legalities

Dear secretary,

You are not legally required to pay for my dry-cleaning. Still, I hope there will be no need for any dry-cleaning at all after you get the appropriate amount of rest for the night. And by law, your salary is more than satisfactory for a person with a bachelors degree and no other job references or experience. 

And as for the nails, I had no idea they were called French tips. In my experience, the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs; I will refer you to the phenomenon of French fries. 

Color?

Lilac.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I had to bite down on my lip rather harshly to suppress the girly giggle threatening to escape me. I shouldn't be feeling this giddy over an email from my boss-- maybe he was just being friendly? Maybe he was aware that his behaviour and tantrums were odd and sometimes hurtful? It was surely that!

Excited by the sudden rush of energy at work, I crossed my legs; that was when I realized to which depths I was truly excited. It was highly inappropriate to masturbate over mails from my unbelievably attractive boss, yet here I was, shamelessly shifting around on my chair to make sure the seam of my pantyhose scooted to the most pleasurable place between my legs. With a sheepish look of relief spreading across my lips, I typed my answer. 

From: You

Subject: The Spirit Of Napoleon Lives On

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I'm relieved to hear that my duties do not span paying for your dry-cleaning. Thank you for clearing that up, sir.

I will also make sure to be more critical of things that are tied to the French from now on. You certainly have a point. Next time I am in France, I shall make sure to keep it in mind. Anything else I need to be made aware of, sir?

And lilac is a pretty colour. Am I allowed any other designs?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

My lower abdomen was pooling with dread, excitement, and oddly profound arousal. Suppressing a choppy exhale, I dared another glance at Mr. Godfrey, once again hoping to catch him looking at me with my heart stuck in my chest-- yet, again, nothing. Now, he had even stood up, pacing back and forth in front of his desk with his long legs, reading the paper he had been marking over and over. Was it maybe a speech he was preparing? I had no idea. As his secretary, I should've probably had some idea, at least. Was I maybe doing a bad job? Perhaps.

In the meantime, I hoped to relieve myself of the way my heart was beating with anticipation. Maybe if I got off, I'd relax? I hadn't managed to, earlier. Maybe then, I'd calm down and treat these emails as what they really were, simply a boss trying to be kind to his new and anxious employee? 

A few more minutes passed by, and I made myself busy by googling nail salons and various nail designs. I even dared to play some snake on my Google browser to pass the time.

Then, finally, when I had built up a nice, steady rhythm with my legs clenching and unclenching, letting the pantyhose stroke up against my clit through my dampening underwear, the anticipated email ticked in. 

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Appropriate Fashion

Dear secretary, 

There are no rules in place about nail designs. Nothing is prohibited, but please make sure to be tasteful. We have some important people coming in next week, and I am not too keen on my secretary not looking the part. 

Actually, I cannot seem to remember who it is we are welcoming; is it some oligarch from Azerbaijan? Cannot find it on the schedule. Need to know.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Some part of me wanted him to order me to get the French nails, to get them specifically to his liking and taste-- the second my mind got into that mind space, I uncrossed my legs, clearing my throat as I started looking for who next week's guest actually was. I was unraveling. I needed to get myself together.

And just as I was about to read the long name of the rich, lavish business partners from Azerbaijan (Mr. Godfrey had been right after all), someone teasingly knocked on my desk. 

My eyes darted up over the top of my computer, and my smile immediately widened-- "Peter!"

There he stood, the only friend I had made during my time at Godfrey Industries. He worked in the legal department, and was Mr. Godfrey's paralegal that showed up from time to time. He was also one of the few people that dared to pass the threshold of my desk and venture into the dark forest, also known as Mr. Godfrey's office. Here, clad in a suit, staring down at me with a charming grin, Peter Rumancek leaned over my computer as he spoke, his brown hair falling softly over his eyes; "How are you doing? I see that your head's still intact,"

"Barely," I breathed, straightening my skirt-- I was undeniably happy to see Peter. Every time he came around, he either made me laugh or made my day. "I nearly spilled coffee all over Mr. Godfrey at a meeting earlier... It really set him off, so I suppose I'm going to be sent to the Guillotine at the end of the day. You passed by at the right time."

Peter huffed. "Is this goodbye, then?"

"It seems so... Au revoir, Peter,"

"Oh, sweet melancholy," He straightened up with a smirk, trailing his fingers across my computer. "But, uh, is bossman busy?" Nodding toward Mr. Godfrey, Peter made a face-- it was clear that he dreaded going into the office. "Need to go in and ask about the ongoing case."

And with complete certainty that Mr. Godfrey didn't care enough to look my way (as always), to even give me a second of his attention, I turned to look at him with the perfect view I had. Which was why, when I immediately met his striking green eyes, that my breath hitched with horror. Surprisingly, he seemed rather amused by my antics, briefly passing his eyes between Peter and I as if to mock me for flirting with his paralegal-- caught you. But Mr. Godfrey didn't spend much time caring or tending to my life, and he returned to whatever he was doing behind his enormous computer screen in no time.

Something about the way he seemed outright entertained by the fact that I had a life outside of being stepped on made my blood boil and my heart ache. I turned to my friend, the paralegal, and nodded solemnly, not saying a word.

Peter caught what had happened, letting out a breathy oh. He nodded too, mostly to himself, before he retracted his hands into his pockets. "I might meet the Guillotine before you," he joked, hoping to get a reaction out of me before walking into his impending doom.

But I could only stare at my computer, mortified. My right leg gave into a bounce, and some odd feeling I couldn't place kept gnawing at my chest and made me nauseous-- I didn't think before I spoke; "The French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs,"

Peter blinked. "What?" 

"What?" I echoed-- it was as though I hadn't been the one to speak. Had I just quoted my boss's email? Fuck. I was really falling apart, wasn't I? 

In an attempt to save face, I tried to plaster on a smile. A twitchy one, at that. "Sorry, I'm spacing out. Mr. Godfrey is in his office, yes, but what's the case about? Do I have you listed on his schedule for today?" Grabbing the mouse to my right, I clicked back into the schedule, looking for Peter's last name while managing to squeeze in a quick glance into Mr. Godfrey's office again-- he wasn't looking at me anymore. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, despite knowing I shouldn't.

Peter scoffed, tapping his fingers against my desk. "Well, I shouldn't be telling you this actually, but this information might save you down along the road, so..." He lowered his voice, reluctant to tell me; "It's about the last secretary. She's suing him."

My gaze snapped up to meet Peter's.

Shit.

The image of her with the bunched up paper between her teeth, her mascara running down her cheeks, along with the odd tear along her skirt, flashed before my eyes.

What had happened to her?

I couldn't think about this-- not right now, not with the humiliation of Mr. Godfrey's gaze mere meters away. "You're on the schedule," I breathed. "He's probably waiting for you right now."

Peter caught my disturbance, yet decided not to comment. He had already said more than he was legally allowed to say, anyway. "Okay... Will I see you at lunch?"

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Sure,"

Peter gave me a half-hearted salute and walked toward the double doors, probably eager to be done with my odd behaviour for now. I could hear the low click of his shoes against the wood floor as I glued my eyes to the screen, or at least pretended to, hyper-aware of every movement in my periphery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Peter approach Mr. Godfrey's desk-- it was odd how my boss immediately looked so nice whenever he spoke to anyone that wasn't me.

It was humiliating to think it was funny to him that I could have anyone be interested in me. Everything about it made me want to cry; why did I need Mr. Godfrey to like me so much? It was so obvious that he thought I was a cretin of sorts, so why did I need him to think otherwise so badly?

To distract myself, I finally answered his email. Maybe it was time to stand my ground?

From: You

Subject: Revolution - The French Way

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

You will be welcoming Mr. Aliyev next Thursday at 14:00. He is not an oligarch, but the son of the president of Azerbaijan, and he will be here to discuss a collaboration with Godfrey Industries regarding oil, and our shared ambition to extract profit while spending as little money, or effort, as possible.

I shall draft up talking points, as I did for your last meeting.

Also, I do look like your secretary. You would not have hired me in the first place if I did not. Your remarks about my appearance are unwarranted. Were I shuffling through the building wearing sweatpants, you might have a point. However, I am not. I will change my nails, but I will keep my skirts. They are office-appropriate.

After all, I am not working at Vogue. 

Kind regards,

Your secretary.

I hit send.

And then I immediately wanted to die.

That was it-- my rebellious email had been enough to make my heart patter with excessive force, and the second I hit send, I feared I'd faint from the anxiety. I was okay with possibly saying this out loud to his face, but in an email? That email could get me fired. Blacklisted. Dragged to HR and spat out like gum from beneath someone's shoe.

Mr. Godfrey could ruin me if he wanted to, and that was the part I hated; how badly he could wreck me, and how little it would take. However... that was also the part that made my heart beat faster. Pervert, pervert, pervert.

I started to feel light-headed from all the worrying, and that's when I crossed my legs again-- searched for that sweet, aching pressure. The relief was the only thing that helped, and the only thing that quieted it all down.

Peter passed me by shortly after, but didn't stop to chat. He nodded at me, flashing me a charming, apologetic smile, and I allowed myself to sink into my seat with pleasure as his back turned to me and he disappeared down the hall. 

It felt wrong to do this at the office, perfectly in eye-sight of my boss, yet he had pissed me off to the point where I couldn't care. If he was going to treat me like shit, I had to make myself feel better, right? On top of that, I had an odd feeling I was close-- resting my head in my palm, propping my elbow on my desk, I stirred the mouse across my computer in random motion as I melted.

My thighs clenched tight. The desk shielded me, the chaos around me offered cover, and I let it happen. Again.

Was I sick for doing this? Probably.

Did it matter? Not in this moment. Not when the pleasure bloomed sharp and fast, not when my breath faltered and I shuddered at the ghost of Mr. Godfrey's voice in my head, the threat of him, the humiliation of him. 

I tried not to worry about the lack of following emails from Mr. Godfrey; he was probably not going to respond to it anyway. He had better things to do. Knowing him, he'd ignore me from now on, and maybe even pretend I didn't exist for the rest of the day. The idea that I was figuratively not seen, not cared about, not paid attention to, made me more secure about pulling this off, getting off like this, without being noticed-- not that anyone had ever caught me doing this anyway. They wouldn't know what they were looking at anyway, even if they saw me.

I made a fist in front of my mouth, clenching and unclenching, feeling my clit rub against that perfect spot in the seam of my pantyhose; it felt so unbearably good, and I had done this enough times to know how to cum quickly. 

So finally, when I felt it crash over me, when I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath, I finally felt relief. Relief from the humiliation, from not being respected, from being treated like I was nothing-- at this moment, I felt at peace. Blissful peace. 

I cleared my throat, allowing a cheeky smile to form across my lips. There was a huge thrill in being able to get away with getting off in the office in broad daylight, to be the nasty piece of shit Mr. Godfrey saw me as-- maybe he could see right through me? Maybe that was the real reason he hated me, because he recognized something twisted and depraved inside me that mirrored him?

I couldn't stop myself from smiling, drunk on shame and secrecy. So, with a newfound sense of confidence, I allowed my eyes the victory lap; to look into Mr. Godfrey's office and feel like a God, to know he could never figure me out, that he could never, ever have the fucking brains to know. He thought he was such a fucking big-shot, he thought he could stomp all over me, he thought he could intimidate me into making myself smaller?--

I froze.

Green.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were staring right back at me, wide with recognition.

I held my breath. My blood ran cold.

He knew.

He knew. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't blink, didn't look away. 

Leaning forward, refusing to break eye contact, his fingers ghosted over his keyboard...

And then, the notification ticked in on my screen.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Warning #1

Dear secretary,

I rather like your skirts. Keep them.

PS: I saw that.

Kind regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries

(a/n: did I just do that? yes. have I ever seen anyone else write about this? no. did I need to take it into my own hands? YES. MWAH GIRLIESSSSS HOPE U ENJOYED<33333)

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[43501]

Opened my copy of Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases for the first time in a decade and man, I forgot this is a goldmine of info and Mello characterization. It lets us know what kind of person Mello is almost more than the source material. Every time he's on panel/screen he's always so intense, it's fascinating to see him write and kind of get this feeling of "oh, he is also a normal guy outside of those situations".

He says he had one extensive in-person meeting with L, which is backed up by this other post of mine where I point out that, in the anime at least, Mello references having spoken to L personally. If we take it as canon it means L and Mello met at some point between Kira emerging and L leaving England for Japan.

He expresses a strong sense he might die. I've seen people say that he's "narrating from beyond (heh) the grave" and it's nonsensical, but that's not what's happening here. He's just writing while anticipating his death and writing as if these notes may be discovered posthumously.

He thinks that, in the event he dies, Near is the one who will discover his writings. This is interesting to me because it suggests Mello either knows Near knows his whereabouts, or would figure it out and recover his belongings. I actually think this is outright supported by canon - we see Near eating Mello's chocolate in the manga's epilogue. I don't think he instructed his staff to go out and buy that same chocolate, I think that's straight up Mello's stash.

At some point he started identifying less with the "Mello" alias and calling himself Mihael.

He's so sentimental... ending the prologue simply with "Good memories and nightmares". Bro.

"Imagine you were going to kill someone. What do you think would be the most difficult part? .... The correct answer: killing someone." Damn, I love you Mello lol. Also fascinating when you remember that he achieved his status in the mafia by beheading someone. Yes, he would know how hard it is to kill a person.

Mello states that he and Near belong to the "fourth generation" of Wammy's House kids.

He expresses open sympathy for Beyond and his state, twice... based on his own narration and how he portrays B in the course of the story, he definitely relates to B's emotions.

"Perhaps these gods actually wanted a blood soaked world of betrayal and false accusation. Perhaps the entire episode exists as a lesson to teach us the difference between the Almighty and the shinigami." I can't entirely make sense of this, and I don't want to get ahead of myself, but is "Almighty" capitalized here to definitely refer to the divine? Like, the Christian God but in a bit of a sidestepped, roundabout way? Wish I could see the original Japanese text for this line. If anyone has essays/posts about it, please show me.

And on a meta-textual level, the ambiguity of our role/perspective as the reader of these notes is also interesting. We're probably just an omniscient, unmoored observer being told about this set of notes Mello wrote and his line to the effect of "if it happens to turn into [a book]" is tongue-in-cheek. I know there's a slight, hanging implication that Near did in fact publish his notes, but I think that's unlikely since they contain so much sensitive/classified information.

[irisintheafterglow]

been having a very odd moment in my brain so take exes to lovers with prohero!shoto

"hi."

"what are you doing here?"

i'm still in love with you.

"i wanted to see how you were holding up." you're a different person compared to the last time he saw you. you from the past would smile at him, softly thanking him for his concern and inviting him inside with a hand on his shoulder. you in front of him, however, just laughs. it's humorless, pained even. you don't laugh the same as you did with him. "what is it?"

"nothing," you say with a shake of your head. "i appreciate you coming by, but i swear i'm fine." he catches the way your eyes space out, if only for a moment like your consciousness disappeared into a different plane of existence. "yeah, i'm fine," you reiterate when your senses come back and you move to close the door. he carefully but firmly stops you from shutting it and you narrow your eyes. "the fuck do you think you're doing?" you never swore when you were with him.

"i brought you food," shoto offers, pulling the plastic bag from behind him and watching patiently as you analyze him like you were assessing his threat level. what had your asshole of an ex done to you to make you so guarded? "it's your favorite," he adds when he interprets your silence as apprehension. without another word, you nod and open the door, no reassuring hand on his shoulder.

you quietly take the bag from him and set it on your kitchen counter, neatly arranging the to-go containers while shoto moves on pure muscle memory to where you keep your plates. he opens the cabinet to find it bare, along with the cabinets to the left and right of it. perhaps you'd rearranged the place with your new--no, old--partner. he doesn't notice the heavy silence until you clear your throat, swallowing thickly.

"i...i smashed all the dinnerware because i was angry...at him," you croak, your head hung in shame. he hums his understanding but his heart sinks into his stomach. a memory flickers to life in the back of his mind: you and shoto in the local pottery studio, painting strawberries and penguins on matching dinner sets. you beam at him and hold up your newest creation, a baby blue bowl decorated with red and white hearts. it's beautiful, love, he says and your grin grows wider. you tell him the colors of the hearts are to match his hair, and that the bowl would always be your favorite because it reminded you of him. i can't wait to eat soba from it, then, since the art will always remind me of the artist.

"there should be paper plates in the bag," he says gently, shutting the cabinet softly because he knows you don't like the sound of it slamming. "if there isn't, i don't mind eating straight from the container."

"thank you for coming over. it means a lot," you murmur with a container and a fork in your hands, bypassing your dining set and opting for the floor of your living room. he follows you, sitting a respectful distance away that violates every thought willing him to hold you close.

"has anyone else been by?"

"mina, momo, and jiro yesterday. midoriya and uraraka the day before that." you release a little puff of air through your nose, an indicator of sad amusement. "even bakugo stopped by with kirishima. that asshole must have known you were coming because he brought cold soba and i told him i don't eat it."

"what did he say?"

"he told me 'i know you don't, but he does.' weird, isn't it?" your eyes flicker from your food up to his own, watching him again. "did you tell bakugo that you were gonna come over?" he shakes his head, the honest answer. "we've been broken up for two years but people still predict how we operate."

"maybe they know something that we don't," he proposes and your expression hardens.

"don't say that. you can't say that."

"you told me relationships are built on trust," he reminds you. "i won't lie to you, even if we aren't together." your grip tightens around your fork and you forcefully set your container on the coffee table. he steadies his resolve, preparing his defenses so that when you lash out, he can take it in stride. you're in love with them, dumbass, bakugo said to him with a scowl during a night at a pros-only bar. they're in love with you, too, so get your heads out of your asses and get back together.

he's not prepared when tears start rolling down your face.

he reaches out on instinct and you dodge his hand, unsuccessfully wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand.

"the reason why we didn't work was because you were honest. you told me it wasn't the right time, that maybe we could try again in the future," your voice cracks and so does something in shoto's chest. "and then we didn't. you moved on, which forced me to move on too, and now you think you can just walk in here and expect me to open up?"

say it.

tell them.

tell them everything you never did. tell them everything you wanted to but couldn't find the words.

tell them you still love them.

"i want you to let me love you again." what?

"i don't understand." that's not what he meant to say...was it?

"i don't either," he whispers and you finally let him brush a tear from your cheek. his body gravitates toward you magnetically and, even after so long, your skin is a familiar sensation. "all i know is that i miss you, and i'm sorry." another round wells up in your eyes but you know it's not from anger; it's from longing.

"he didn't love me," you sniffled. the muscle in shoto's jaw clenches so tightly, he could chip a tooth. "he loved the idea of loving me, but he didn't love me. i hated who i was when i was with him. and," you pause to exhale shakily, "i miss who i was when i was with you."

"i miss who i was when i was with you, too." he offers you a sad smile and you laugh through your tears, a genuine laugh that he knows in his soul is real. "there you are."

"you still love me? even after two years?"

"it felt longer than that," he admits and you smile the kind of smile that you only have when you're with him. "i can't undo leaving, nor can i undo how he was with you...but i can promise i can bring you back to yourself again. because i love who you are when you're with me."

"are you asking me if you can try again?"

"i'm begging you to let me try again," he pleads, taking your hands in his. they're rough and calloused and familiar and safe. "please."

your eyes sparkle and you stand unexpectedly, moving to rummage around in the fridge and kitchen cabinets. when you get back, you're holding a bowl of what he can only assume is bakugo's cold soba. you place it in front of him and settle into his side, resting your head on his shoulder as you grab the tv remote. with a satisfied smile, he opens his chopsticks and looks down at the bowl.

baby blue with red and white hearts.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! commissions and nsfw requests can be sent through my fiverr! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[elanorpam]

it's been way too long since i last did wildly self-indulgent fanart, so of course i did it for an SVSSS AU that doesn't even have any actual fanfiction written of it yet. but what can i say! it's a compelling scenario! Just check the original post for details!

here's a workplace doodle for his mess of an outfit, too:

Xin Mo is floating behind his back, wrapped in talismans. the collars are meant to be vaguely inspired on a flower bud.

Some notes i came up with for this version, copied straight from a month-old discord convo:

he may have protagonist halo now, but he's for sure not a stallion protagonist. he literally exchanged fates with his favorite person in the world in order to spare them a hellish trial-- that's romantic as fuck!! damn!! this is old CLAMP shoujo and no mistake!!

binghe may no longer be the protag, but he's still a half-heavenly demon. power-wise, heavenly demons can't be topped, and all the remaining heavenly demons are accounted for. so, SQQ can't be a heavenly demon, even in part.

HOWEVER, as a protagonist, there's a factor more important than power! it's the CHUUNI FACTOR. what's more CHUUNI™️ than being part demon?

one option is being part demon and part angel.

how would that even fucking work??????? IDK man, you can either pull from chinese folklore for fairies or heavenly beings or spirits, or you can blame Airplane and go "he accidentally implied the existence of christian elements by means of importing unexamined anime tropes"

Shen Jiu conveniently has a big fat blank on his parentage. We as fans can and have put whatever the hell we wanted there.

SQQ would jump into the abyss still under the impression SJ was a shallow villain. If his trip through the abyss involves recovering SJ's memories somehow, that sure would be fun times, huh?

so he awakens a mysterious ancestry and survives the abyss and takes Xin Mo, but he probably takes longer than Binghe did due to being squishier.

but Xin Mo isn't ACTUALLY his! so he papers it over with sealing talismans, and to battle the temptation to wield it he takes to wearing these longass sleeves. they're probably covered in talismans as well.

guessing Xiu Ya stayed behind to be mooned over by the clown trio in Cang Qiong. let's go full sparkle-sue here and say he's now fighting almost entirely via musical cultivation. i like swan-necked konghou harps so let's go with that, it'll look dope.

why is he barefoot? why WOULDN'T he be, is the question. fragile!! suffering!! dainty!! he's a shrinking flower, tormented by the weight of the One Sword To Rule Them All!!

also for extra pathos, his constant mental struggle against Xin Mo means he can't spare energy to front. it takes constant focus! he's still a bit in his delusional shit, but even when he's going "oh no, binghe is only latched throat-deep onto my dick because he's a good boy who's concerned about me and the danger i could pose by losing control" he'd probably… well, he'd probably say that out loud to anyone who asked. he's in a half-trance, mentally battling the crazy-making sword. lying is too much work.

Wouldn’t resisting Xin Mo’s influence be the mental and spiritual equivalent to training under 400x gravity or something? his wife-beam is going to be off the charts when he puts it down.

also also: who the hell dressed him like that? fucking shang qinghua, of course, after SQQ showed up in the northern palace to punish MBJ for hurting binghe in the conference. did the system explain shit to SQH? on the one hand, extremely funny if it updates him on the role change out of nowhere mid-alliance. on the other hand, extremely funny if he only finds out because Binghe is crying safely in Qing Jing while the scum villain apparently jumped into the abyss.

Here's another link to the original AU post! I've had it open on a tab all this time just so i could point to it when I was done, so make sure to check it out!

[samsno1]

you should write jealous sam!!

Gut Feeling

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

the gif is not exactly accurate since the fic passes after the first lucifer shenenigans but i wanted to use it. also, sorry that it took so long to write this request, ive been struggling for a while with writing but here it is, better late than never i guess

Summary: Falling in love with his brother's best friend is good, Sam could keep it secret and stay close to her at the same time but jealousy eats at him slowly because her and Dean seem way too close for his liking

Warnings: just fluff, kind of hurt/comfort, jealousy (duh), sam wants to kill dean, dean is flirty and reader jokingly flirts back, sam's got it bad, hinted bisexual sam because idc what anyone says this man ain't straight, NOT PROOF READ, english is not my first language

wc: 4.3k

enjoy!

Sam wouldn’t call himself a jealous man, especially of those who weren’t romantically related to him. He had his insecurities but, if any woman or man was willing to be with him, even knowing everything that he did, — and does — he didn’t think they would feel the need to betray him. Besides, Sam wasn’t cocky, but he knew he was above average in the ranking of looks, he had been more than assured of that by both men and women throughout his life. Even so, Sam still was Sam, the one who constantly put himself down, the one who constantly didn’t feel enough and the one that constantly stared at you like a predator eyeing a prey everytime you were too giggly with his brother.

You had come into the Winchester’s lives while Sam was away at college, meeting Dean and his father, John, first. It took a few weeks for you to find out through a fight between Dean and John that Sam existed and that he was Dean’s younger brother. You had questioned Dean at the time while comforting him after the heated argument why he hadn’t told you about Sam and he said it was a sensitive subject. You had assumed Sam died — thank God you were wrong — but he was studying Law at Stanford. You were shocked at that, usually hunters that grew in the life didn’t even care about education, much less were capable of getting into a renewed University such as Stanford. Dean told you about how Sam always hated hunting, complained about constantly moving, had straight A’s in whatever schools he went to and, as soon as he got the invitation letter, he left.

You could see Dean missed his brother, just talking about Sam made him show this nostalgic look, like he was talking about a distant memory. A few months later you finally met Sam while you looked for John — who had disappeared in a hunt. He wasn’t what you expected — usually you picture the younger brother shorter and you didn’t stop making fun of Dean for days after that. Sam was smart with quick thinking and incredible deducing skills, finding out about the Woman in White was easier than you thought it would be.

At the end of the hunt, you said your goodbyes to Sam. You could see the bitterness surrounding Dean when he couldn’t convince Sam to keep hunting with him and your hand rubbed his back discreetly for comfort.

Imagine your surprise when you hear Sam scream in horror as fire spreads through his home. Dean didn’t think twice before going in, soon coming back out with Sam, who was crying his heart out as he put up a battle against his brother while Dean pulled him away from the fire. He screamed a girl’s name — Jess, his girlfriend — and you soon understood what happened.

Ever since then it was you, Sam and Dean against the world, literally. You were there when their father died selling his soul to save Dean, you were there when Sam died and tried to convince Dean not to sell his soul for him and do the same his father did — when you thought you finally persuaded him he sneaked out when you were sleeping and made a deal —, you were there when Dean went to hell and back and met the Angel Castiel, when Sam was addicted to demon blood, when the brothers wouldn’t stop fighting, when Lucifer was freed and everything the boys had gone through up until now.

Throughout these years, Sam grew enchanted by you. At first, he didn’t think much of you, he thought you were dating Dean and when he questioned you about it you made a fake gag sound, dramatizing your motions by putting a hand to your stomach and curving your spine forward. You got a chuckle out of Sam and rolling eyes out of Dean. On a more serious note, you clarified to him that you and Dean were nothing more than close friends and that you had been there for Dean when he needed you, and Dean, for you.

You had developed somewhat of a close relationship with the brothers as the years passed and they were your rock. When your parents died on a hunt of their own you were inconsolable and Sam and Dean were there to help you grieve. When you wouldn’t get out of bed for days it was Sam who brought you breakfast, lunch and dinner. Dean would distract you by telling you stories about 80s drummers and rock bands. They comforted you through the whole thing and you couldn’t be more grateful. When you thanked them they said it was the bare minimum they could’ve done for you since, according to them, you had been there for them through the toughest shit.

Sam never thought he would secretly fall for you, so secretly that not even he noticed. He doesn’t know when it began but he remembers when your smiles got brighter and your eyes shinier as he swam through the color in them. Your laugh got sweeter and your gestures had more meaning — at least in Sam’s eyes they did.

He would catch himself stealing glances from afar, learning the littlest of things about you just so he could impress you, yearning to be closer to you, not just physically but emotionally. He would read your favorite books and watch your favorite movies just to have something to talk to you about and he loved when you shot that confused yet shocked look at him when he mentioned your favorite media. Your eyebrows first furrowed as you looked at him then your eyes widened and a smile opened up in your face — oh, your smile — as you started talking about all the things that you liked in said book or film. It was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever laid his eyes on. 

After Jess, he didn’t think he would feel this way ever again. Of course his deceased girlfriend still crossed his mind until this day, it was hard to forget someone like that, especially with such a horrific death. Especially someone Sam loved. But you were there, in his mind, from when he woke up until he fell asleep, maybe even in his dreams. You were easy to love, your personality was incredible, your looks were capable of taking people’s breath away easily and, being a hunter, your strength was more than impressive, mentally and physically.

But Sam didn’t want to love you, he felt guilty for loving you. He had his fair share of terrible experiences with romantic partners and he would never forgive himself if something ever happened to you — much how he doesn’t forgive himself from what happened to Jess. So he swallowed those feelings down and kept them hidden as well as he could. Even now that you are sitting close to Dean in the booth, his arm over your shoulder as you look through the diner menu. Dean’s thumb caressed your shoulder and Sam felt sick to his stomach.

“I think I’m going to get a chicken burger with fries, it’s cheap and looks good” You said as your finger ran through the page, looking between the prices and the food itself. Being a hunter on the road didn’t allow you to waste much so you always went for the cheapest looking thing on the menu but that still looked decent enough to eat. “Sam”

That brought him back to reality, your gentle voice making him look at you. He hummed as an answer to his name being called.

“There’s some good options of salads here, do you want to take a look?” You said with a small smile, offering him the menu. Dean piped up and brought the menu back to himself.

“Wait, Sweetheart, I didn’t even choose what I want” He complained and you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t already sure of what you want. Bacon cheeseburger with fries, extra bacon”

Dean shot you a wide grin. “You know me too well…Okay Sam, dive in” He said to his brother as he closed the menu and handed it to him.

Sam’s blood was boiling. Sweetheart? You know me too well? He was going to kill Dean as soon as he got the chance. He grabbed the menu from him with a fake smile and a weak thanks then looked at you. His face softened. “I’ll look through it, thank you”

“The Cobb Salad seems good, if I was in the mood for salad, I’d go for that one” You said, pointing the dish out on the page. This type of salad had bacon in it. “If you don’t want the bacon, ask them to take it off…or give it to me” You said with a mischievous smile and a playful wink in his direction. Sam chuckled as he gently shook his head.

“I think I’ll try but just because you were convincing” He said. You put a hand to your heart and straightened your spine, filling your lungs with air as would someone who was — sarcastically — proud of themselves.

“I have awesome taste, you won’t regret it Sammy” You teased with the nickname on purpose but Sam didn’t care. It was odd that the only person he somewhat enjoyed calling him that was you. Sam didn’t have many nicknames — Moose didn’t count — so you feeling comfortable enough to call him by any kind of affectionate or teasing name showed him that you were comfortable around him and that felt greater than ever. He knew that if he asked you to seriously stop calling him ‘Sammy’ you would stop, you never made him feel uncomfortable or ignored in any way, you would listen to him.

—

You and Sam were still eating when Dean said he needed to go to the bathroom, after he inhaled his hamburger as if it was nothing. Sam was looking through some stuff on his computer, probably looking for suspicious news that gave away the interference of a supernatural being. You noticed he seemed off, biting the inside of his cheeks constantly, his eyebrows furrowed for minutes on end and you could hear his foot bouncing anxiously under the table. You put your burger down and cleaned your hands and mouth with a paper towel, analyzing Sam’s behavior a little further. Honestly, you were staring. Clearly staring.

“Do I have something in my face?” Sam said without taking his eyes away from the computer screen.

“I don’t know, but you definitely have something up your ass” You replied, raising your eyebrows provocatively. That made Sam look at you with a shocked look and that’s when you noticed he had something on his mind. On a normal day Sam would’ve laughed at you instead of giving you the stink eye. “What’s wrong?”

Sam sighed “Nothing’s wrong”

“Bullshit”

“What do you know?” Sam seemingly snapped and you shut your mouth for a couple seconds.

“You” You said, playing with one of the fries on your plate, not looking at him anymore. You took Sam’s silence as a hint for you to continue “I know you, and I sense that something’s wrong. C’mon Sam we’ve been friends for years, do you really think I don’t see it when you’re not fine? If you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine but don’t belittle me like that” The conversation seemed to end there as you went back to eating your burger. Sam was still looking at you, his finger tapping the table. He let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. Friends. That was exactly what was wrong.

“Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just– I’ve been stressing over the last case…” (lie) “...And it’s bothering me how long it took us to solve it…” (complete lie, Sam was in love with you and absolutely jealous of his brother) “...But otherwise I’m fine, I didn’t want to snap like that” (well, there’s the first truth of that sentence). Sam was wondering if you would believe him, you could read him well and if you really looked into it you would be able to see he wasn’t being truthful.

You swallowed the single bite you took of the burger and untensed your shoulders, letting down your defensiveness. “Sam…” You gently called, putting down your food. You cleaned your hands and fingers on a paper towel, wiping away the grease off of them and placed one of your hands over Sam’s fidgeting one on the table. Sam froze. “...You’re too hard on yourself. C’mon, we were able to find and burn that ghost with only the death that you saw on the paper that led us to finding the case, nobody else died, we are all okay and that spirit is now free.” You gave his unmoving hand a gentle squeeze then patted it twice, letting it go. “Don’t stress over it”

People tend to say that, for those who are in love, anything that their loved one does makes them feel euphoric, or feel it a hundred times stronger, deeper. Sam’s heart ringing in his ears showed that this was, in fact, very true. It was stupid, love was really a sickness that ate you from the inside out.

He felt bad for lying to you because he knew you’d always try your best to help him through anything, he could count on you with his life but there was no way he was admitting to you that he was upset because you decided to sit beside Dean at the diner table instead of him. Or because you directed more of your smiles to his brother, that you brushed your hand against his shoulder while you laughed at his jokes, or maybe because Dean always spoke to you in a flirty manner — like he would to a bartender or waitress he wanted to take back to his motel room — and you egged him on, flirting back. Sam would always ignore it because one, you weren’t even his, two, you knew Dean for longer and three, neither you nor his brother knew about his crush on you. To sum it up, if Dean really wanted to try anything with you, Sam had no right to stop him — but he could still be silently angry about it.

And that’s what he was doing. Dean was back from the bathroom and sat beside you again, reaching his hand to steal one of your fries from your plate. Much like Dean, you were overprotective of your food so you almost instantly dragged your plate away from him and pushed him through his chest to stay far from you.

“Hey! You already ate a whole entire burger and fries!” You argued.

“Oh c’mon Sweetheart-” Stop calling her that “-just one fry, please” Dean begged like a child and you shook your head.

“No, stop that, I’m hungry” You firmly replied and, even though he had a frown on his face, Dean backed off with a laugh.

“Alright but I’ll make you pay for this later” He said wiggling his eyebrows, a mischievous smirk on his lips, his words dripping innuendo. You looked at him, already used to his constant dirtiness.

“Mhm, come right on sweetie” You replied, the double meaning in your words as clear as day. Sam could puke. Actually, he would if he stayed there for another minute.

“You guys are disgusting, I’m going to the car” Sam said, closing his laptop and getting up from the booth as quickly as he could, not even looking back as he pushed the glass door of the diner to get out, the bells above it ringing loudly.

You looked at him through the window as he walked to the Impala in long, angry strides. You turned to face Dean with furrowed eyebrows and clear confusion on your face as you could faintly hear the passenger door of Baby being aggressively slammed. Dean looked just as confused and slightly bitter since he saw the way his car shook with the strength his brother just applied on the old door.

“Was it something I said?” You asked Dean, your eyes still looking in the overall direction of where the Impala was parked. You went through your past conversation, it was nothing out of the ordinary, this was usually the setting of when you three were together, Sam focused on something else while you and Dean talked or joked with each other, it was never an issue and, if it was, it was never voiced as one before.

Dean sighed “He’s probably just having one of his temper tantrums, he’ll be back to normal in a few hours”

You hummed unconvinced but didn’t press the issue further. After you finished eating and paid the bill, you left the diner with Dean by your side and Sam was staring out the passenger window at the both of you with that sinking feeling in his gut again. He was biting his nails — a habit he tried for years to overcome but never succeeded — and his knee bounced up and down as if he was trying to drain all his anger through the bottom of his feet (it wasn’t working).

Though muffled through the closed window of the Impala, he could hear your sweet laugh as you approached the backdoor, probably directed at a stupid commentary or joke his brother made. He sighed just as you opened the door and sat down right behind him.

“Okay, I surrender, Ramble On is definitely much superior to The Rain Song, happy now Winchester?”

“Not when you don’t sound sincere about it! It is much better” Dean replied and Sam’s eyes accompanied his movements as he sat on the driver’s seat and started the car.

This is what Sam disliked the most, you had so much in common with Dean it made him sick. From music taste to food you were almost the same and he hated it. Of course that compared to his brother you had your particularities, and it’s not like you hadn’t gotten some mannerisms from Sam himself but when you put them on a scale of comparison, guess who won.

“Yeah, yeah, I agree” You sarcastically said but a smile was on your face, one that Sam saw shining through the rearview mirror. The same way he saw your eyes darting to his through said reflection.

You placed a hand over the one from which he was biting his nails to make him stop. Sam turned to you — a weird sideways position that kind of hurt his back — and you leaned towards the front seat, closer to him.

“Stop” You demanded, looking straight into his eyes. Sam had this expression of a kid that got caught doing something wrong and you saw his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. You nodded at him, as if to ask if he understood and Sam nodded back, making you smile sweetly at him, retreating back to your seat.

–

Okay, what the fuck.

Right now, you were back at the bunker and Dean had gone to isolate himself in his cave since you guys didn’t have anything to do, nothing to hunt, nothing to kill, not even chores to do because you ate out, so no dishes were dirty — a rare occurrence — and you were sitting across from Sam, staring at him, trying to read his mind about what was going on.

He told you he was fine but the way he was treating you told you otherwise. Ever since he stormed off from the diner he was short and dry with you, something that never happened, not even when you did something stupid during a hunt and he got mad at you for it. Usually in those times he scolded you, yelled at you and spoke his mind.

Of course Sam shutting out wasn’t something you were foreign to, he did it quite often and it was one of his behaviors you always tried to work your way around because you knew how hard it could be to talk about your own problems without feeling extremely vulnerable. And Sam Winchester hated being vulnerable. He hated having to rely on others or speaking up about how he was feeling and you understood that, he had to be strong and independent or whatever his sick father put in his mind that he had to be. But, even though you understood, you wouldn’t take shit from Sam Winchester.

You looked at him one more time, he was biting his nails again. You sighed and got up from your chair, circling around the table until you stood right beside him, who still didn’t look at you, so you decided to take drastic measures. You grabbed his cheeks, turned his face to you and pretended to analyse the patient, putting the back of your hand on his forehead, looking into his eyes to see if the pupils were blown out or not…Sam was in shock, his eyes were wide and he was paralysed. When you started to try and pry open his mouth he gripped both your wrists to make you stop.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Trying to figure out what’s wrong with you” You replied and Sam closed his eyes, sighing.

“I already told you that–”

“And I don’t believe you, Sam” You interrupted, a scowl on your face “What is it, huh? Are you under some spell? Did you eat something that made your stomach upset? Did you get cockblocked last–”

“No, no! Stop it! It’s nothing like that–  God why are you like this?” Sam said, looking down slightly, his hair partially covering his face. Your wrists were still grasped in his hands, his rough hands contrasting with the gentleness in which he held them. His thumb caressed your skin unconsciously.

“Oh so I am the problem? What did I do Sam?” You rose your defenses, his words making you feel partially upset, partially angry. You hated making Sam sad or mad and you especially hated when he didn’t say anything about it to you.

“Why do you keep flirting with Dean like that, huh? Why do you laugh so much at his jokes?” He asks, getting up from his chair and staring down at you. “And in front of me too? Don’t you know how that makes me feel? Seeing you all over Dean and him all over you while I just stare from the sidelines?!” He snaps, letting go of your wrists, yet, you’re too stunned to even move. His breathing is quicker after his rant and yours just stopped in pure shock, was Sam–

“Jealous? You’re…jealous?” You asked, almost whispering. Sam opened his mouth as if to say something but nothing came out besides a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing just how stupid this sounded when he said it out loud and he wanted to dig a hole on the ground — his grave.

“I’m not– I mean– I just–” He tried to make something up when he heard a low giggle, his eyes closing in on your hand over your mouth as you stifled a laugh behind it. Sam’s face felt warm suddenly and he avoided booking at you entirely for a moment.

“Oh, Sam…” You said, residue of laughter still on your words as you shook your head.

“Look, I’m sorry, I know this is weird and we are just friends so let’s just forget about it and–”

“Hey, hey, slow down pretty boy, who said I wanted to forget it?” You stopped him, one of your eyebrows raising as he turned to look at you, a confused expression adorning his features.

“What?”

You reached your arms to wrap around his neck, pulling him down slightly, his back curving. Your faces were inches from each other, which made him hold his breath. 

“Who says I don’t like you either Sammy?” You whisper, your minty breath invading his lungs, intoxicating his whole being with the smell of you, so close, so kissable, so beautiful. He didn’t know what to do besides hesitantly put his hands over your waist and squeeze lightly, to make sure you’re there, to make sure he’s not dreaming…he doesn’t know but he wanted to make sure of something.

“Do you?” He whispers back, his eyes looking down at your lips then at your eyes again. You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth, just a tiny peck, and pulled back again.

“Do I?” You asked, faking confusion and Sam mumbled something intelligible as he pulled you in again for a proper kiss, one of his hands crawling up your back and holding the back of your neck gently. He pulls back for a second and looks at you to guarantee you’re fine with this but you pull him back to your mouth again before he can ask anything.

His tongue teases your bottom lip and you happily let him in, a groan escaping his throat. He tastes the hint of toothpaste in your mouth and he feels in heaven — when he dies, he wants this exact moment to be his heaven, he'll make Castiel convince someone of this. All the worries, all the anxiety, all the jealousy went away because you were his. The thought made goosebumps spread over his skin.

Sam put his hands behind your thighs and propped you up on the table.

“You don’t know how long…” He breathed out, his hands roaming over your body like you were some fragile sculpture. “How much…I dreamed of this, of you.”

You gave him a peck. “Make your dreams come true Sam, I’m right here, I’m yours”

[alphajocklover]

500 Followers Special: The Hometown Hex, Wally’s Visit

Wallace Power was parked in his parents driveway, a confident grin on his face as he unbuckled his seatbelt, his impressive biceps flexing slightly as he did. While, that wasn’t exactly right. Wally Power was the one getting out of his car and confidently strutting up to his parents house, excited to see his family. Wally Power was a manly, buff, straight, conservative bro who believes in traditional values and masculinity. He was not Wallace Power. Wallace Power was a skinny, sweet, gay man who had a steady boyfriend and, at least currently, was just a voice in the back of Wally Power’s head. The reason for this strange situation was Wallace’s/Wally's hometown of Maxford.

Maxford is a very unique place, one that has a strange effect on the people who live there. Anyone who enters Maxford is transformed into a conservative, traditionally attractive, straight version of themselves. Wally, having been born and raised in Maxford, had spent his entire life as a straight manly jock. Until he went to college and, upon leaving city limits, transformed into a very confused Walllace. Wallace had enjoyed being himself, living without the town's influence, but he wasn’t always able to avoid coming back home and turning back into Wally. He didn’t want to ice out his family completely afterall. He loved them, in both forms. So, Wallace had driven into town and allowed himself to transform into Wally, a horny straight playboy who couldn’t even remember Wallace existed.

Wally knocked on the door, his usual confident smirk replaced by a more genuine, excited grin. It had been way too fucking long since he saw his little bro Eddie. He loudly knocked on the door, and grinned as a younger but equally muscular man opened the door.

“Eddie! Happy birthday lil bro!” Wally said with a grin, taking the younger jock into a short, manly bro hug. Eddie smiled back, accepting the hug happily before pulling back and jokingly punching his older brothers arm.

“Thanks bro. It’s good to see you. Feels like it’s been forever! Always seems like we have to drag you away from that college.” Eddie teased

“Well, you know what they say about college girls.” Wally said with a charming wink and a crude laugh. Deep inside Wally’s head, Wallace sighed. Whatever changed people when they entered Maxford also supplied false memories for their time outside. As far as Wally was concerned he had been fucking sorority bimbos left and right, but in reality Wallace actually had a steady boyfriend named Micheal. Wallace adored Micheal. He was a sweet, loving guy who made Wallace weak in the knees. The only strain in their relationship was that he hadn’t introduced Micheal to his family. One day he’d have to tell Micheal about Maxford… but that was for another trip. Wallace was so deep in thought (technically all he was was thought at that moment) that he barely noticed that Wally kept talking.

“So, what’s with your hair bro? Why’d you dye it blond? It looks fucking gay.” Wally said, making him and Eddie both laugh obnoxiously. Eddie flexed his biceps before replying

“What can I say, girls like blonds. Trust me, no one is going to think a fucking stud like me is a queer.” Eddie said cockily. Wally laughed, filled with pride in his brother. Wallace however only felt saddened. Wallace, while only a voice right now, actually did have some influence over Wally. He had only been able to exert enough influence to get Wally to convince Eddie to drive to a bar out of town. The second Eddie had left, Walllace had gotten to meet Ed. Ed was smaller than Eddie, which was to be expected, but he was also so much… meeker. He had so much more fear in him. Ed couldn’t handle not being Eddie, so he begged Wallace to take him back. Wallace didn’t want to lose Ed… but he didn’t want to make him miserable. So Wally and Eddie went to a local bar. Wallace had always regretted that he hadn’t been able to show his little brother the world outside Maxford… but Wally didn’t give a fuck.

After a while of talking about their recent fucks, football, and how annoying fucking queers are, the two studs made their way out to the backyard, where their parents were waiting. Wally’s dad, Rick, was waiting out there sitting with their Mom, a hand on the MILFs perky ass. He greeted his sons with a confident grin and a strong handshake

“There’s my boys! Glad to see you home after so long Wally. Guess you had to come for lil Eddie’s birthday.” He said, teasing both his sons lightly, who just rolled their eyes at their dads antics. “Glad to see that college hasn’t turned you into some kind of queer.” He continued, causing the whole family to burst into laughter. Wallace sighed. If only they knew

Wallace tried to spend the next week as unalert as possible. He had found it was easier that way, sinking into the background and letting Wally do whatever he wanted. If he didn’t he’d have to put up with the homophobic jokes, the toxic masculinity, and the rampant sexism the entire time. Better to just let Wally take the reins. He just kept to the back of Wally’s mind as he worked out, but partied with his little bro, played football, and (much to Wallace’s horror) hooked up with old girlfriends. Wallace would come out shortly whenever that happened, but only to exert all his will to force Wally to wear a condom. If he got a girl pregnant here he’d never be able to leave. After a week of all of this and 3 different old girlfriends doing things Wally that Wallace would never be able to forget and Wally would never let his brother forget he got to do, Wallace had almost had it. Still he was determined to stick out the final week. Until one day he heard a knock at his door.

Still slightly hungover from the night before, Wally strutted over to the door and opened it, a cocky smirk on his manly face. It took both him and Wallace a moment to recognize the man in front of them. When they finally did they almost couldn’t believe it.

“Mikey?!” ‘Micheal?!’ Wally and Wallace thought simultaneously .

Wally couldn’t believe it. His roommate and best friend had come to surprise him in Maxford! This was the fucking best!

Wallace couldn’t believe it. His boyfriend, the man he loved, had come to surprise him in Maxford, and got turned into a straight jock. This was the absolute worst.

**Hope this was worth the wait guys! I had a blast writing it! I’ll go into Wally’s second week at Maxford and Micheal/Mikeys surprise visit another time. I might even go into Eddies experience one day. Hope you enjoy’**

[tsuma-senju]

I wanna meet you again - Kakashi Hatake

Pairing Kakashi Hatake x Reader - Relationship; strange

Summary Kakashi returns from a dangerous mission and ends up forgetting about his girlfriend, but he is willing to meet her again. m.list

The smell of iron in the air is strong, impregnating your throat as you move through the wreckage of the battlefield. The end of the mission was a disaster. You knew something was wrong from the start, but you never imagined things would come to this.

The team assigned to eliminate a group of dangerous mercenaries fell into a trap. Kakashi, always a brilliant strategist, tried to lead the retreat, but was hit by an unknown attack. You remember the exact moment he fell, blood dripping from his thin mask and his gaze unfocused, as if his consciousness was slipping from his grasp. You carried him back, struggling against the weight of his body and the despair growing inside you.

You didn't stop for a second during the journey back to Konoha. The heat of Kakashi's fever made his heart clench, and his hands were always pressed against his chest, feeling his irregular breathing. He spoke in disjointed tones, whispered his name, squeezed his hand as if that was the only thing keeping him there.

But when he woke up in the hospital ward, with empty gray eyes and an expression of confusion, something inside you broke.

"Who are you?"

The question echoes in your head, and you feel as if you've been hit straight in the chest. You take a step back, your heart hammering wildly. His gaze carries no trace of recognition, no spark of the tenderness you used to find so easily.

"It's me… Y/N," his voice comes out lower than you'd like.

He just blinks, as if trying to pull non-existent memories from the back of his mind. Tsunade appears at his side, her serious gaze confirming what you feared most: he had lost part of his memory. Especially the memories about you.

Before that, Kakashi knew you better than anyone. He was the man who woke you up with coffee and a kiss on the forehead before missions, the shinobi who dragged you under the covers on cold days and read scrolls while you snuggled against him.

You remember every touch, every muffled laugh as he leaned his forehead against yours after a long day. You remember how he used to say your name quietly, as if it were a secret he never wanted to share with anyone else.

Naruto was the first to revolt. "Is this some kind of joke? What do you mean he forgot Y/N Sensei?" he exclaimed, his fists clenched. Sakura remained silent for a few moments, her green eyes shining with something between pain and compassion. Sasuke maintained his indifferent expression, but you knew him well enough to realize that he was processing the information carefully.

"It's true," Tsunade confirmed. "It seems that the attack affected specific memories. He remembers the village, you, all his missions… But not Y/N."

Naruto looked at you, his blue eyes carrying a pain you didn't want to see reflected. "It can't stay like this. He has to remember."

But the question was: did he want to remember?

You tried. You spent days by his side, talking about moments that were once natural between you. You took him to Ichiraku, where you used to share bowls of lamen in comfortable silence. You showed him the book he'd given you as a present, the notes he'd written on the back cover.

But nothing worked.

"I'm sorry," he murmured one day, as you held his hand across the table. The touch felt the same, but the emotion behind it wasn't there. "I don't… I don't remember you."

You wanted to scream, to cry, to ask what else you could do to bring him back. But instead, you just smiled, even though you felt your heart breaking.

"It's okay," you lied.

The days passed, and Kakashi began to observe you differently. He noticed the way Naruto treated you with affection and the way Sakura looked at you with pity. He noticed the way your gaze lingered on him, carrying a weight he didn't fully understand.

One night, he found you at the top of Hokage Rock, where you used to go when you needed peace. He approached slowly and stopped beside you.

"I don't remember you," he repeated, but this time, there was something different in his tone. "But I want to meet you."

[woradat]

Dear, memories #1

PT1(here) — next ->

SUMMARY - He didn’t think he’d ever see you again. You weren’t exactly sweet and kind to him—in fact, you were pretty much the emotional equivalent of a punch in the face. And yet... weirdly enough, he found it kind of refreshing

THEME - angst, drama, slow burn (I meant it)

PARING - tarn x reader, damus x reader

Tarn has been many things in his long, dramatic, and very loud existence—power, leader, enforcer, Decepticon, devout fanatic. And yet, after all these millions of years, he still found himself... mildly surprised to run into you, of all bots, on some random dirtball of a planet his team landed on for snacks and a breather

To be fair, he hadn’t exactly expected to meet anyone from his old life. Especially not you

Mainly because most of the bots he used to know are very, very dead

And yet here you are, strolling back into his life like a ghost with attitude. Part of him—the twisted part that he usually tries to keep under wraps—wanted to wrap his fingers around your throat and see what kind of sounds you’d make. Would you beg? Plead for mercy? Or would you still be the same insufferable bastard, spitting in his face like the good old days?

Ah, memories

Back then, Damus was just a helpless little nobody—ostracized, bullied, shunned. And what did you call him again? Glitch. Charming, really. A nickname that reeked of mockery. But Damus couldn’t do much about it. The weak didn’t get a say. Or the strength to fight back

You both started off in Shockwave’s little institutional hellhole for rejects. Outcasts together, sure—but you made it very clear Damus was the bottom rung on your social ladder. And he accepted that. Reluctantly. If Mirage was prideful and smug, then you were a walking cautionary tale on what happens when arrogance gets drunk on its own ego

You were the emotional punching bag kind of bully—he was too sweet, too soft, too damned kind to stand up for himself. And that made him perfect for you

So at first, Tarn told himself it wasn’t you. Just a bot with a similar frame, similar paintjob. Surely the universe wouldn’t be that cruel

But the more he stared, the more time ticked by, the more sure he became. Oh yes. That was you

The asshole from the past

But Tarn is no longer Damus. He’s grown. Smarter. Wiser. He knows not to pick a fight over the ghosts of yesterday. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder—how’ve you been these past few million years?

Not out of concern. Please. Tarn's pretty sure concern was surgically removed from his emotional registry eons ago

.

.

Then the crash happened

Of course. What’s a scummy dive bar without a little chaos? There was yelling, clattering, and a full-on brawl because a fragile-looking blue bot had the misfortune of spilling someone’s drink

And of course it had to be that guy—the angry drunk with the loudest voice and the least self-awareness

He didn’t look like he was going to let it slide. And that’s when you stepped in

If Tarn had eyebrows, one would’ve shot straight off his face

You? Helping someone? Willingly?

“Act like that again and you won’t have hands left to swing,” you growled, twisting the drunk’s arm till he yelped like a malfunctioning servo

Rude. Violent. Effective

You de-escalated the situation—more or less—and the bar returned to its regular mix of chatter, laughter, and background noise. You got a few thank-yous. The drunk got a free lesson in not being a jerk. And Tarn?

Tarn was trying very hard not to stare

Spoiler alert: He failed

His red optics followed you like a stalker with a philosophical grudge. And eventually, he stood up and walked over

“May I sit here?” You didn’t answer. Just stared at him like he’d tracked mud onto your face. Charming, he thought (sarcastically) But he took the silence as a yes. He knows how to play this game

His giant frame folded awkwardly into the seat beside you, nearly breaking the poor thing in the process. It was almost funny. But no one laughed. Not with his reputation

“That was... brave of you, back there. Helping some random bot you don’t even know—”

“What the hell do you want?”

Ah. There it is. That sweet, nostalgic hostility

Tarn blinked, a little thrown. You always did have a gift for turning words into weapons. It worked back then, and it clearly still packed a punch

Damus would've flinched. Tarn? Not so much

“Relax,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “I was just appreciating your bravery. No one else in the bar was going to step in. Am I wrong?”

“No. Just a bunch of cowards. That bastard’s only talent was being loud and annoying. I did everyone a favor”

“Fascinating”

And he meant it

.

.

You were still all rough edges, sharp tongue, and zero tolerance. But you’d grown too. Matured, in your own, uh, special way. You’d learned things—just like he had. For him, it was strength. Purpose. Becoming everything Damus wasn’t allowed to be

And you?

He wasn’t sure yet. You were different, but still you

You helped the weak now, apparently. That was new. Tarn’s optics scanned your frame for any insignia—nothing. No Decepticon badge, no Autobot scrap. Nothing

Neutral, then? Disappointing

He would've bet his mask you’d be one of the first to dive headfirst into the war for the sheer drama of it all. Guess he didn’t know you as well as he thought

Then or now

And that made him... curious. Very curious about you