#innocent lifes should not be shed over this :/

[rosecoloredknight]

If what I'm hearing about South Korea is true then I'm wholeheartedly sending my thoughts and prayers.

[earthtooz]

x : HOUSE OF CARDS :*+ﾟ

in which: for as long as you remember, sunday covers his eyes when he cries.

warnings: 1.5k words, fluff with elements of angst, kind of follows canon- not exactly though, sunday cries gold because i said so, based on his character stories, gn!reader who is an observer to the complexity that is sunday's lcharacter

a/n: an attempt into studying sunday was made- i don't think i hit the hammer on the nail quite right, but i tried, i mainly just wanted to celebrate him + his lc coming home YAY. i wish i had more time to let the outline of this marinate, but i couldn't see it being any better than it's current state, so apologies if this isn't the best or most eloquent read of your life.

Sunday had a habit of covering his eyes with his wings when he cried.

He didn’t cry often, but you would know when he did whenever his feathers pressed against his face, hiding his golden eyes and the ichor they’d shed front he world, not allowing anyone to see the depths of his soul, the magnitude of his suffering. 

The first time he did this was at the young age of nine, a fledgling barely a decade in to the tapestry of life. It happened after he fell over while chasing you and Robin around in Gopher Wood’s gardens, knee scraping against concrete and skin peeling in the process, resulting in a nasty scratch, and his wings fluttered to cover his face almost immediately, even stifling his sniffles as traces of golden tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto his clothes.

He bared himself to you not too long after, the tears and snot drying as you tended his wound with Robin singing him a comforting lullaby.

These were the innocent tears of childhood, none of you yet changed by the harsh realities that fate would guide your paths on.

The second time was after his first music class.

It seemed Robin stole the affinity for singing from him as their music teacher berated him, likening his voice to that of a ‘duckling’, comparable to the sound of nails on chalkboard. A 12 year old Sunday was sent out of class not too long after, the start of a tantrum beginning to take place as his eyes welled up and began sniffling, fists and wings clenched.

You come to his aid not too long after, having heard the commotion and wandering over, but when he saw you, he ducked out of your sight and covered his eyes with his wings, splaying them over his face. They were larger now and capable of covering the expanse of his head, only exposing his forehead and chin as you tried to console him.

“Hey, it’s okay!” You coo, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “Mr. Big Guy tells me your piano playing is amazing and that you’re a real prodigy, Sunday!”

The sniffles halt momentarily. “Really?” His wobbly voice had asked.

“Yeah! He’s proud of you, and you should be proud of that too!”

He bares himself to you, glassy golden eyes looking into you, trying to seek comfort in the familiarity of your friendliness and company. “You mean it?” 

“Of course!”

“Then… are you proud of me too, Y/n?”

“I’m always proud of you, dummy, now stop crying and cheer up!”

“You’re right,” he chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his hand as his other went to grasp yours. “I shouldn’t let that witch get to me.”

“Sunday! Be respectful of your teachers!”

Despite how often the grey-haired boy would listen to your whims and wishes, he never stopped calling his vocal teacher a witch or anything along the variant. It displeased you every time, but the most you would punish him with was a gentle slap on the arm and a scowl that would melt away as soon as he’d share his giantmoa pudding tarts with you.

A few months after that shared moment, Sunday had begun taking the Family lessons from the Bronze Melodia. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he had dreamed of being an influence that would change Penacony and its Dreamscape for the better, and now it was finally his moment- his calling to the world had finally been heard, and they answered with a path that was of utmost righteousness and virtue. 

However, as he took more lessons, learned more about the ways of the Family, he grew into someone else. 

The third time you saw him cry was when you received the news that Robin was shot. A bullet wound to the neck, it was a miracle that she survived, but Sunday was inconsolable, even whilst knowing that she was alive, just on another planet. The distance was akin to torture because no matter how desperately he wished to be by her side, he couldn’t cross it while shackled to his duties in Penacony, so the spirit of the elder brother rested in your arms and cried. 

He sobbed quietly into your shoulder, wings covering his eyes as the two of you sit on the floor, a hauntingly beautiful image of despair as his limbs intertwined with yours. Sunday had collapsed on you the moment you welcomed him into your embrace, the ability to hold himself up being too much to stomach after knowing that he could have lost his sister. 

He cries until your limbs grow pins and needles, until you begin to feel weak under the weight of his grief and your own, until you feel the puddle of tears on your clothes drying. 

Gloved hands hold onto you tightly, and he knew something then and there.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, breath shuddering as despair rolls off him in waves, and Sunday removes his face from your shoulder, a cold look of determination staring up at you. “I must protect you, I must shield your happiness too so that we may never suffer again.”

“What?”

His words are incomprehensible to you at this point, and they sound akin to the ramblings of a mad man. “You will never struggle to be happy again, I will give you everything you need- I see it now, Y/n. The strong must guide the weak, for who else will they seek solace in?”

Realisation seeps into your bones like ice. After so many confessionals, so many witnesses of humanity at its most helpless, he has grown nihilistic, devoid of hope towards the resilience of human beings. Still, he yearns to help. Yearns to help people thrive even though he does not truly believe in things getting better, and shoulders this impossible fight by himself. 

The sweet boy you once knew has hardened his defences, fortified his walls and relentlessly chased the most obscure path of Harmony: Order. Destroyed himself under the belief of being responsible for creating a painless reality for humanity, and you witnessed the catalyst for Sunday’s own dismantling whilst he was laid on your lap. 

You haven’t seen him cry since that day. He no longer hides himself behind his wings because he no longer gives himself a moment to mourn. Devastation is engrained in every fibre of his being. 

Now, when he plays the piano for you, you don’t hear the melodic tune of the most important person in your life- you hear a complex piece of toil and struggle. When you sit next to him on the piano stool, you watch the dexterity of his fingers and how his face remains serenely calm whilst playing the hardest sonata known to man, acclimatized to the toughest scenarios that even the polished wood of the piano won’t warp his pristine image. 

Then, when he is finished, you lay your head on his shoulder as you shower him with praises, searching for a familiar fragment of him that you can grasp onto. However, all you find is a shard of bittersweet longing when he turns to place a dainty kiss on the top of your head.

Everyday before the Charmony Festival, you feel like you know him less and less. He won’t even touch the giantmoa pudding tarts you leave on his desk. 

The fourth time you see Sunday cry, he is a changed man.

After exiling himself from Penacony, you naturally grow to ache for his presence. At least Robin has returned to you and will share conversations about the mysterious future of her older brother, sometimes you cry together, over him and also over other things, but at the core of all your emotions is how badly you miss him. You miss him as you overlook Penacony’s Grand Theatre, you miss him in all the old desserts you used to love together, you miss him when you think about him. 

Letters are infrequent and never quite soothe the emptiness, but you hope that in some vast corner of the universe, he is discovering a sense of peace he could never have here. The events of the Charmony Festival still make you cringe, but knowing that he is with the kind souls of the Astral Express relieves you.

In fact, you have half a mind to be rather jealous- you want to be exploring the stars as well.  

However, he comes back to you after countless moons.

You run into him where you least expect to, on the streets of Penacony, under the vibrant advertisements for SoulGlad, Hanu’s Advertisement, and Robin’s latest album. Under the blinding neon monstrosity of Penacony’s main street, you are swept into the arms of a man who you have missed for countless moons, who you have thought of as the weeks turn into months, who you fell in love with since the time he scraped his knee after falling on pavement. 

And this time, he doesn’t cover his eyes as liquid gold drips down his cheek.

You forgot how unfairly pretty of a crier he is, but you don't have time to think about it as he pulls you close and rejoices on your lips. There's a small whimper that escapes you when you feel his tears fall on your skin, but your hands crawl up to the collar of his coat to keep him close so you can keep catching them.

His gloved hands come to rest on your cheeks in kind, stubborn to not let you stray too far again.

He tastes like giantmoa pudding tarts. 

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper between kisses. 

He responds by pressing you closer and pouring his devotion into your mouth.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[atyourmerci]

I hope your daddy doesn’t own a gun

Southern dbf!abby

Cw: smut, MDNI, dom!abby, subfem!reader, age gap (r! Is 20, abby is in her 30s), masturbation, phone sex if you squint and turn your head, lil sprinkle of degradation, fingering, voyerism, no y/n, no pdor

A/N: I hate this<3

They all saw you as a child, still just daddy’s little girl in your pigtails and bloomers. Even at twenty, after ditching the pigtails and swapping the bloomers with mini skirts that let your ass peak out, didn’t deter their perception of innocence.

Your father was a wealthy man, charismatic and giving that drew the people around him in. Most of his friends watched you grow from childhood, through the ugly duckling phase, all the boyfriends, and growth of your now womanly figure. Not that they noticed. Not that you cared- other than her, Abigail, your father’s best friend from college. Abigail went on to work at your father’s company after college and frequented your life from birth.

You couldn’t recall when it shifted, when she went from your father’s best friend to a toy dangled in front of your face, so close yet unattainable. Clean cut, dressed in button ups, khakis, the cowboy boots that peaked through the bottom of them. Her hair neatly tied in a braid.

The only time you’d seen it down was when your dad held a backyard rager you snuck out to watch. Most of the party had dissipated late into the night, but you had spotted Abby and one of the receptionists in your pool. You watched as the pretty receptionist lazily dragged the strands out with her fingers as Abigail worked her mouth around her chest.

Thats when the heat in your chest began for her, watching her control. Seeing how she could have anything she wanted. You wanted her to desire you, need you so badly shed take you there, even with the risk of wondering eyes.

-

This night ended as they all did. At the end of the night you’d get sent to your room so they could smoke cigars and speak of vulgarities that you now were more than aware of. For fucks sake you were in college now, getting tossed around by pitiful girls that still couldn’t make you come. Abby would, you knew it.

You’d touch yourself at night to the thought of her for the past couple of years, she’d know how to take care of your needy cunt. You’d think of yourself in the pool that night, how your fingers would dance through her hair. The scent of musky pine still overwhelming your senses even though her skin was bleached of pool water. How her fingers would feel deep inside you, her hand covering your mouth to quiet you.

Your father would kill her.

“Alright hun, why don’t you head to bed,” your father says after a fit of laughter. Everyone continues the comfort, your eyes dart to Abby, who seems to be the only one privy to your father’s prompt.

“Dad don’t you think i’m too old for that now,” you try not to get defensive but it comes out bitchy. He gives you that stern glare, the ‘don’t make me ask you again’ look and you glance back at Abigail who gives you a pitied pout, “be a good girl, listen to your father.”

You huff out, making a scene and storming off. Slamming your bedroom door behind you, infuriated. Pissed at your father for treating you like a child still, pissed at Abigail for backing him up. Pissed that she looked so good tonight, the way she put her hand on your lower back to pass you, whispering a ‘xcuse’ me darlin’. Maybe it was her goal to work you up just to leave you helpless and begging.

Your window has a shot of the backyard, all your father’s friends laughing over cigars and bourbon. Pissed how she called you a good girl, right in front of your father, everyone, knowing the effect it would have on you.

She wanted to tease you, work you up in front of everyone? Then they should all watch what she did, a careless act on both ends.

Throwing yourself on your warm sheets, pulling up your sundress to reveal your bare cunt. Driving your head back into the sheets as your fingers work at the pulsing flesh, so tense from the slow incline Abby had you on all day. Your fingers slid so easily through your folds, pearly white slick coating your harsh fingers.

Your breath panting and eager, so ready to revel in your own pleasure after being ripped from it. You’re already close, feeling your stomach tighten in anticipation as you feel your phone buzz at your side. ‘Abigail Anderson’ illuminates your face, without giving yourself a chance to catch your breath you answer.

“Don’t you dare think of coming,” Abby says sternly. Your face flushes, fuck. You peer your weary eyes at the window next to your body, Abby stands a couple feet away from the men, staring dead at you through the glass.

“Wha-“ you pant out, staring dumbly at the woman that never gave you this extent of her control. Your head drops back down onto your pillow, too embarrassed to admit your shameful actions.

“I didnt tell you to stop, did I sweetheart?” Abby says with smugness in her tone.

“N- no ma’am,” giving into her so easily, running your hand down your body to meet back at your sopping cunt that buzzes at her words. “Good girl… you like that, don’t you?” She says doubling down- so fucking sure of her power over you, your mind, your cunt.

“Yes Abby- yes! please Im so close,” you bite down on your lip for relief, your hole clenches over nothing, fingers eagerly tracing circles around your swollen bud. Any moment you’d break, heels digging into your frilly sheets as your chest soaks with sweat. You hear the line go flat on your phone.

You were too fucked to stop, you were going to let yourself have this. Gripping into the sheets you prepare yourself, legs shaking as your door swings open to Abigail. Your legs wide open for her eyes to feast on, she takes a moment to gawk at the sight before locking the door behind her.

She walks over to the head of your bed, unbuttoning her shirt as she watches you drive lazy motions over your clit. She discards her shirt to the side, revealing her bare chest. Climbing so slowly up to you she places her hand on your sloppy cunt, cupping it as her other hand covers your mouth, “Don’t make a sound and I’ll let you come.”

Wild eyed you nod your head, letting her run her thick fingers down the slit of your cunt to collect your release. The smell of pine thick in the air, the sound of her fingers dragging in and out of you the only peep to be heard.

“you think about this all the time don’t you darlin? Turned into a nasty little girl, didn’t ya.” Abby begins to pick up her pace, fingers sliding in so easily. Your eyes roll back, mind going numb.

“Tight little cunt you got, swallowing my fucking fingers,” you try not to scream out, but her unrelenting pace at your hole was getting to be too much. The feeling of spilling over hitting you once again. Your screams are muffled by her meaty hands, but she can feel your pulse around her.

“You gonna come baby?” Abby coos, looking at you pitied and cruel. You shake what motion you still had left in your head.

“Be quiet so your daddy doesn’t hear what a whore his little girl is,” she laughs at how pathetic you are, all from just her fingers.

like that you’re set off, squirming under her heat as she fucks your pussy through it, watching you opened mouth panting as your head pushes into your plush pillows. Biting into the flesh of her palm cant block off the guttural scream you let out. She pushes down harder at your mouth but only pushes her fingers deeper. Every last drop she was going to get out of you.

Thats when you hear the ring of a jiggle on your locked doorknob.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

virgin sacrifice

a/n: you guys? hail satan.

summary: you didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

warnings: dark!steve harrington x reader x dark!eddie munson, dark content, noncon/dubcon, smut, summer camp au (they are all camp counsellors), slasher au, virgin!reader, very innocent!reader, final girl!reader, established relationship, violence, murder, weapons, blood, devil worship, predator/prey, bondage, knife kink, dirty talk, pussy inspection, oral, fingering, anal

word count: 1389

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It was the summer of 1986, right before you were supposed to go off to college and start your real life. It was also the summer when you worked as a counsellor at Camp Nebula, the very summer you fell in love for the first time. The summer when the most popular guy for some reason took notice of you and started calling you his girl. 

Now, he was a tad bit more experienced than you and wasn’t shy to show you in ways that you always snuffed out before they could grow into anything uncouth. That’s not how you’d been raised, to lose your virginity in a summer camp’s tool shed, however gobsmacked he made you feel, you just couldn’t take that step. 

No one had ever looked at you the way that he did, truly listened to you when you spoke, and even stood up for you, like whenever the camp’s freak would say things to you vulgar enough to render you speechless, your knight in shining armour would step in and save the day. 

It was the perfect summer. 

Was. 

Completely perfect right up till the murders began to happen. 

You didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

Lungs burning, you sprinted through the dark camp, a flicking lamppost above illuminating the path you raced down, the ground littered with sharp pine needles. 

When you made your way to the dining hall, the rotary phone inside, your plan of salvation, turned out to be just as dead as the summer friendships you’d thought would last a lifetime. 

“There’s nowhere left for you to run, little lamb!” the petrifying roar from just outside the hall’s walls caused you to jump and scurry into the kitchen, though when you did, your gaze should have been directed in front of you and not over your shoulder as you swiftly crashed into a figure. 

A blank mask stared down at you, one of the ones that the kids used for crafts, usually decorating them with an explosion of paint and beads. 

Chuckling softly at the way you stumbled back, he playfully uttered, “boo!” raising his hands up to scare you, retroactively flashing you the blade fast in his grip. Half-obscured eyes stilled glued to you, the killer shouted over his shoulder, “found her!” and held the weapon outstretched to keep you where you were. 

“Oh, good,” another masked murderer appeared as the back door was swung open, “well then let’s get this show on the road!”

“Please don’t kill me!” you cried as the one keeping you cornered grabbed you. 

“Kill you?” one of them laughed, “oh honey, we’re gonna do so much more than just kill you,” before he got out a bundle of rope and gestured to his partner, “get her up on the table.” 

Once they’d forced you down upon the cold steel surface and tied you up, they proceeded to reveal something to you that nearly caused your thumping heart to stop. 

“…Steve?” you scarcely breathed as one of them plucked off his mask and tossed it onto a counter. 

“Surprise,” your summer sweetheart flashed you a smile. 

“But–… I’ve been looking for you everywhere all night, you–… you did this?”

“Well, don’t give him all the credit,” the other one peeled off his mask as well. 

“Eddie?” you shuttered, “b-but you two hate each other.”

“That’s what we had to make you think so that no one would suspect a thing,” the long-haired rebel wiped some of the bloodstains on his blade clean on the hip of his jeans, “no one would ruin our plan.” 

“Y-your plan?”

“Might as well tell her,” Eddie nudged his partner who shifted his grip on the axe heavy in his grasp, “since she has such a big part to play in it.”

“Oh, what the hell, why not,” Steve grinned and pulled over a rickety stool, “you see, there are things, wishes, that both me and Eddie have,” the man you thought you’d loved began to explain, “ambitions that, try as we might, we can’t achieve on our own. So, Eddie here found this old book, this tome, that explained a ritual that could grant us our deepest desires...” he uttered dreamily, “it was really quite simple when it came down to it… first 40 lives and then you.”

“…me?” your voice trembled, “why me? I’m not anyone special, I'm just–”

“Oh no, Y/n, you sweet, sweet dumb girl,” Steve chuckled darkly, “you are the final piece to the puzzle,” he stared directly into your soul, “our perfect little virgin sacrifice.” 

Taking a step closer to your strapped-down form, Eddie’s stare danced down your frame, scrapes and dirt still tainting the uniform you’d freshly washed just this morning. 

“But you know, the funny thing is, our lord and saviour down in hell has a funny and pretty ancient definition of what a virgin is,” he teasingly ran the flat side of his blade up the length of your leg, smiling as you squirmed, “sure, some things are off limits, but not a lot…,” the tip of his knife dipped under your shorts and sliced them in two. With the configuration that they had bound you in, everything was already embarrassingly on show, though even more so now that all of your clothes were cut off your frame. Completely mesmerised as the last shred left your form, Eddie uttered softly, “oh, this is gonna be so much fun.”

“What are you doing?” you struggled against the robes as Steve rose from his seat. 

“It’s a real shame, baby,” his broad hands ran up your inner thigh, “I really did wanna pop your cherry myself, fuck I would have loved that, but I don’t deserve it as much as he does,” his thumbs, creeping up to either side of your core, extended out to wickedly spread you apart, “Satan may get to have your pussy,” you shuttered at the mortifyingly soppy sound that emanated as he briefly ran a finger though your folds, “but this little hole isn’t off limits,” his digit then swept down to draw a feathery circle over your rosebud. 

“Nor this one,” Eddie’s hand found your cheeks in a pinch and forced your lips to pucker, “but we might have to do a bit of convincing in order to be able to play up here,” your body stiffened up as the cold edge of his blade then pressed against your throat, “no teeth, or else we won’t make you feel good, won’t give you a little treat before you help us contact the man downstairs.” 

“How in the fuck do you think I’ll like any of this?” you spat back at him. 

“Uh!” they both laughed and shared a glance before Eddie noted, “I think that might have been the first time I’ve ever heard little miss goody two shoes swear! That’s so cute!”  

“Fuck you,” you wept, “you psycho–, oh!” a moan then ripped through your body and surprised you to the very core.

Glancing down between your legs, you saw that Steve was kissing you down there, his lips latched on to the little pearl that always seemed to throb in his presence. 

“What was that about you not enjoying this?” his sloppy peck detached in an obscene pop, “because you sure are soaked for someone who doesn’t think it feels good to be played with… we’re gonna make you feel good, so good, your virgin ass couldn’t even fucking dream about it…” the sensation of Eddie’s palm snaked down to squeeze your tit, while Steve brought his broad thumb up to bully your glistening clit, grinning at how your untouched hole clenched around nothing for him, “just look at how fucking messy you are for us… fucking leaking all over the place…” a groan then escaped him as one of his digits dipped down to slowly sink into your tight ass, simply testing the waters before the pair of them utterly obliterated you, “fuck… you almost make me wanna keep you forever and just find a different virgin to take your place…”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere deer Hybrid with a hunter darling.

Tw.Nsfw themes! Dead dove do not eat!

Kidnapping, death, Yandere, MDNI

He's so regal and princely, with auburn colored curls framing his face like ribbon would a doll. Ciervus is a proud one, and he doesn't shy away from it. He stands taller than his peers, and his winding horns only add to his already imposing stature. He's a catch by all means: strong and intimidating to the point where no predator would mess with him and his future doe.

No one except you at least.

Ciervus is absolutely fascinated. He knows you're not something he should trust, but you've got so many things about you that he just can't tear his eyes from. Your hands are rough from handling your rifle all day, everyday, and you've got this permanent frown on your grimed streaked face. How odd. He thinks you'd be a cute doe, if you weren't fully human that is. He can't blame you for that, but it is a bit frustrating. He has his pick of potential mates, and if you just had little fuzzy ears or shiny black hooves, then he's sure he could've had you squealing and under him a long time ago.

He stamps his feet in frustration as he watches you. There's something thrilling about watching you settled in the underbrush, pointing your weapon at those he would consider his people. Every few days or so, someone he grew up with, frolicking in the spring once long ago, would disappear with only a loud bang and a streak of blood to signal their fate.

He knows it's bad to even seek you out. He could die. You would have no reservations about killing him after all. But Ciervus can't help the way his loins grow warm when he catches your scent through the trees. Even when you've dragged off the body of another poor deer, he's crouched, pressing his nose into the earth where you had sat in wait only hours before. There's something primal in the way he huffs your lingering smell off of the scattered leaves and smushed grass.

He wishes that you would know he was here, so that he could woo you properly.

Ciervus approaches you one day, and in his hands are his shed horns.

You're apprehensive, to be certain, but you let him come close. He feels shivers run up his spine. He can feel your body heat as he leans in close and presses his gift into your hands. He doesn't know why for sure you hunt those like him, but he thinks the antlers might have to do with it. He doesn't care all that much. You can't shoot him from this angle, pressed up against your back with his teeth grazing over your skin. He can feel you freeze up, and he grins at the though that this might be the first time you've ever felt like prey out here in these woods.

He lets his hands wander, dipping down the curve of your waist. You smell like death, iron, and sulfur, like you're a devil haunting this place. He relishes your pounding heart, and his lips press into the thrumming pulse point. It's then he reaches back and presses his fallen antlers to you. He figures you should have them. They take a year to grow and fall off, and he's spent that time yearning for you. It's only fair that the human tangled in greenery is the one who gets it.

"You deserve these," He whispers and finally pulls back. You're too shocked to do anything but sit there with eyes almost as wide as his and watch as he disappears.

After that day Ciervus becomes more brazen. He starts to stalk after you. He knows that to you, he's just some weird fawn with a death wish. Maybe he is, but that doesn't mean he'll let you kill him so easily. He gives you so many reasons not to.

He knows that other deer trust him. He knows that to the other woodland critter, he's just an innocent face that is not to be messed with. In that sense, he knows he can be of use to you. For as much as he follows you, you now also follow him. It sends a thrill down his spine, knowing that the barrel of your rifle is trailed after him. If he was going to lose his life to anyone, he'd want it to be you and not some drooling, snarling creature that would tear his beautiful face into a bloody mess. But he wants more time with you, so he leads you to other hybrids.

A fox, a goose, a wolf, other deer, it doesn't matter. You learn quickly, and you know that where he goes, there's an easy catch.

You vanish into the dark tree line, a body dragged behind you, and each night he lets you leave. You always return for some reason or another, and he doesn't fear the lack of you. At least he doesn't until you're gone for over two weeks.

Ciervus is beside himself. It's the first time that he's been without you for this long, and he begins to wonder if you'll ever come back. He's especially volatile during then. He fights any other young buck that come near, his nostrils flaring and his little tail wagging in utter annoyance. He expands his territory in an attempt to see if you went anywhere else, if you finally decided you were done with him.

When you appear once more, face blank and unchanged, he decided he can no longer take it. You must think nothing of him. Truly what a little fool you are. You must learn. You have to understand how he feels, and that he will have you even if it kills him.

He doesn't lead you to another hybrid this time, and he feels his cock twitch when he sees the frustration on your face. Oh...you were looking for him. It's a gratifying notion, and he bites his plump lip in excitement. He lets you go about your normal routine, but this time when you start to take your hunt for the day and leave the woods, he follows.

He's never left the sanctity of the woods. Not once in his entire life. There's this twisted sort of pride that fills him knowing that he's doing this for you. And as he peers inside your little cabin nestled along the roadside, he knows that the only reason why he would be doing any of this is because you're going to be his mate.

Your home is filled with the smell of iron and chemicals that burn his nose, but he watches from your window as you wrap a stiffening body (A rabbit hybrid this time) in a tarp and wait for a rumbling truck to come and take it away. He can see you be vulnerable in a way you'd never been before. Your bulky hunting gear is off, and he can finally see just how little you are compared to him in all his hulking glory. His ears twitch. You really are just a little doe.

He waits for you to relax, sitting on your bed and yawning as you prepare to rest for the day. He strikes then, breaking your window and yanking you out with little regard for how the glass cuts into you on the way out. His lithe and bulging arms wrap tightly around your midriff and knock the air out of you. He smiled at the way you try to fight despite struggling to breathe. He croons and presses a kiss to your cheek. He suspected as much when he gave you his antlers, but you really aren't all that strong, are you? At least not enough to fight him off.

He shushes you and shoves two thick fingers into your mouth when you try to scream, and a wide, unnatural smile crosses his lovely face.

"Shhh, shh its okay- ow! Hnh, haha, I guess I deserved that. No more biting, okay little doe?" He murmurs as he pets your hair and drags you further into the forest. It's so dark, and he knows that your human eyes won't be able to see where he's taking you. He takes you to a little cave decorated all pretty with soft furs, flowers, and moss. He sets you down, thrashing and screeching, into a little nest he's made.

He knows you think you're strong, but he's going to make sure you know your place. You were never really meant to be a hunter, you were always meant to be the strong mate he deserved.

His large hand reaches down and finds your ankle, catching it from where you tried to kick his sides. His wide, dark eyes peer down at you, and he smiles. Oh he how he loves you, but you're far too stubborn. Even now you're clawing at his arms, and his face crinkles apologetically.

"Little doe, this is for your own good," He says with a firm tone. You part your lips to argue, but a sickening crunch reverberates throughout the cold, stone walls of the cave. You let out a bloodcurdling scream as your leg twitches in pain. He releases your now broken ankle, and he wipes away your tears as he puts extra padding around your wounded foot.

"There there, don't cry. Shhh, shhh you're okay. I'll take care of you," He soothes and presses you down. You're a little heap of sobs, and his heart squeezes painfully. "Don't worry, little doe. I'll be a good mate. I'll wait until you're allllllll better before I start trying to get you used to me down here," He says softly as he presses his hand to your clothed crotch. He feels you flinch away, and Cervius can only chuckle.

"I know, I know, we won't do that until you feel better," He assures you and presses his palm over your mouth to muffle the insults and screams that were trying to escape that pretty mouth of yours. He waits until you pass you before he finally relaxes and snuggles up against you.

He's finally caught you. His little doe. His prey.

Continuation here

[fadeintosatoru]

Roommate Plus one

‧₊˚ cw┊suggestive

A/N: im having the worst writers block rn so Pt 4 for gojo is on hold. pls dont hesitate to send requests :)

───────────୨ৎ───────────

You desperately needed an out. Like, really badly. Your parents were controlling every little aspect of your life, and you’d finally had enough.

So, when your friend offered for you to move in with his roommate, you were hesitant—of course you were. You didn’t even know the guy. But you were desperate, and you said yes.

Your parents were furious.

if she knew you were heating up dino-shaped nuggets for a kid that wasn’t even yours, shed lose it.

Oh, right—should probably mention: Toji has a five-year-old son who loves his dinosaur nuggets.

If someone had told Toji that he’d end up living with a twenty-year-old girl, he wouldn’t have believed it. Honestly, it almost feels inappropriate—or it would if he told you how badly he wanted you.

How much he loves it when you call him to reach things on the top shelf (he puts them up there on purpose, of course) and your shirt rides up just enough to make his head spin.

Or when you flash those pretty eyes at him to get what you want—like when you’re in the mood for a cheesy rom-com and he says no at first, but you always know how to make him give in.

God, he loves it when people mistake the three of you for a little family when you’re out with him and Megumi. The way your cheeks flush is so adorable it drives him insane.

But most of all, he loves the way you crouch down to Megumi’s height to hand him his lunch bag, wrapping him in a hug you don’t let go of until Megumi does.

And then Megumi surprises you with a kiss on the cheek.

Oh, how Toji wishes he were the one giving you that kiss.

Toji’s been working extra shifts lately. Not because he needs to—he’s fine on money—but because he wants to treat you to something special. Just the two of you. He calls them “dinner dates,” though he knows better than to say it out loud.

Sometimes, though, he doesn’t want to work. Sometimes he wants you.

He’ll fake being sick, just to see the way you fuss over him. He feels guilty—well, a little. But you’re so cute making him soup, insisting he rest, and crawling into bed next to him to cuddle because, “Body heat helps!”

That’s normal... you think

But Toji knows it’s not normal. Not really.

Because no matter how much he tries to convince himself it’s just a roommate thing, he can’t ignore the way his heart races when you wrap your arms around him, murmuring soft reassurances about how he’ll feel better soon. He can’t ignore how badly he wants to keep you there, curled against him, for just a little longer.

And then there are the moments that aren’t so innocent—the ones that make him feel like a selfish bastard.

Like when he catches you fresh out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but that fluffy towel, your damp hair sticking to your skin.

You’ll flash him that casual smile and say something simple, like, “The bathroom’s free!” But all Toji can think about is how easily that towel could slip.

It doesn’t help that you’re completely oblivious to the effect you have on him.

You’ll wander into the living room late at night wearing one of those tiny sleep sets that’s barely enough fabric to be called pajamas, curling up next to him on the couch to watch a movie. Your legs tuck underneath you, your head eventually resting on his shoulder as you drift off.

And he’ll sit there, frozen, every muscle tense because if he moves—if he so much as breathes wrong—he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you closer.

But the worst part? You trust him. Completely.

You trust him to be a good guy, to keep the boundaries clear, to treat you like just a roommate. You trust him with Megumi, who adores you so much it makes Toji’s chest ache.

It’s killing him.

Because as much as he wants to be good, as much as he wants to keep things simple, he can’t stop the fantasies. He can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to close the distance between you two. To lean in while you’re looking up at him with those big, trusting eyes and finally taste the lips he’s been dreaming about since you moved in.

But he can’t do that. Not to you. Not to Megumi.

So, he keeps pretending. Pretending he’s fine with being just roommates. Pretending he doesn’t notice the way his heart skips when you laugh. Pretending the little moments don’t mean everything to him.

But Toji’s not sure how much longer he can keep it up. Because every time you call him for something—every time you look at him like that—it feels less and less like pretending. And more like a quiet kind of torture.

And the thing is… he’s starting to think you don’t see him as just a roommate either.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐄𝖝𝖊𝖈𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖗 | Teaser

When second chances are wasted, there's only one thing left to do.

Tags/Warnings: Dystopian AU, Werewolf AU, Alpha!Jungkook, Omega!Reader, Angst, Some fluff, romance but he's a bit weird about it pls let him cook he's awkward okay, Violence, crime and.. bad stuff.

-> Masterlist

There is no taglist for this fic.

A/N: oh look another werewolf fic oops. BTW if you do not like any of the tags or the trailer doesnt vibe with you, don't read the story. I literally have tons of other content for you instead. Thanks.

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“Do you think that people can change?”

No. Jungkook does not believe that people have the ability to shed their dark desires once they've shown their ugly faces to the world. Once someone has lost control over themselves and their inner demons even just once, it’s over. A wolf's inner beast set free won’t be tamed again, by anyone. There is no coming back from that- and a crime committed has to be punished, especially when there’s not even any effort put into areas trying to redeem one’s self. second chances should always be valued highly if given-

Because everyone has to face judgement for their actions, and if those second chances are wasted, he is the man who will execute the fitting punishment.

Jungkook doesn't believe in second chances.

A man who’s laid his hand on his wife will never truly change his mind and put the shackles onto himself after the line has been crossed. A cheating spouse will not suddenly become loyal as a dog again just because they realize the hurt they’ve caused. A murderer can’t give back the life they’ve taken even if they desperately want to. A young wolf lost to a frenzy can’t gain back their sanity with the snap of a finger.

He is part of the new world’s law.

Violence is the punishment put on people who can’t seem to keep themselves in check even after second chances. Violence is the final answer to the worst of the worst, the people who will never change.

Violence is the thing that changes people- from being alive to no longer being a threat to anyone ever again.

To Jungkook, these people are like maggots, infesting the cities and homes of families who just want to exist and live. Jungkook is the pest control, he removes those insects, cleans out the infestations.

Saves potential victims.

“I didn’t do anything!” the man slurs a little, alcohol in his veins causing him to visibly struggle with his bodily functions, even if he wants to desperately be sober in this moment. You’re sitting in the corner still, watching, well aware not to interfere with a man sent by the people in charge of the wolf’s law to carry out the final judgement.

“Evasion. Armed robbery, twice. Domestic abuse, twice. Attempted kidnap of a child while intoxicated.” Jungkook lists, having memorized what this person is being accused of- or rather yet, has already been judged for in the past. “You’ve shown that you do not aim to change.” He says, not even looking at you once. Instead, he just walks closer, like a predator, staring down his prey. “And now, keeping an omega hostage? Not exactly the actions of a man innocent.”

“I-“ the man tries, but he doesn’t get far with his words. “-There’s- nothing happened- Tell him! Nothing happened, right-?” He asks you, who’s staring him down.

Jungkook looks at you as well now, awaiting your answer.

You’ve got a life in your hands.

Your lips part, but you can’t speak- when suddenly, the man moves again, lifts his hand as he steps towards you, ready to intimidate you into answering if needed- but Jungkook is faster, having seen enough. Even if nothing happened- yet- surely if he was to leave, you’d be another body found. “Where- where are you taking me?” the man begs to know, unable to really go against the hand that holds the back of his head by the hair, fingers tightly dug into the locks to have a secure hold on him as he drags him into a corner or the small, run down house.

In this moment, Jungkook looks like a different person to you. There’s no trace of the man who just wants to help others. The hands that force this stranger to his knees aren’t the same that helped you stand earlier that day, hold gentle and without any intention to hurt. Those eyes are dark as coal, like two black voids swallowing any reflection whole.

“I'll take you straight to hell, where you belong.” Jungkook simply answers the man, before he lets go-

And takes out his gun, to fire the first shot of many.

[themareverine]

Top Eight | worst!Logan x namelessfem!OC

warnings: mentions of sex, body insecurity, weightloss, confidence issues, domestic bliss and fluff, namelessOC has blue eyes.

a/n: in celebration of me discovering I've dropped eleven frickin' pounds off the BMI chart, I decided to share the news with Logan, and yourself. please enjoy my domestic fantasy. this really isn’t a drabble but I’m classifying it as such.

There’s little better God has created in the world than coming home to a house alive with music, laughs, and the thick swirl of joy chasing the air. Fall hangs out the window in a tapestry of orange leaves, skittering to the ground on chill winds, cluttering the sidewalk like ill-fitting, everyone’s-a-little-different puzzle pieces.

Blankets of fog have hung in the air every morning. Leaves and grass are wet, burdened with thick, cold mud that stings—the type of cold that sinks all the way down to bone, should you be standing between it. And Logan tries to remember a time when, as a child, he didn’t care about the frigid mud between his toes—didn’t mind the mess, innocence of childhood wrapped up in exploration and whimsy.

Simpler times. Suburban life greets him at the door of what, at one point in his life, would be knife’s edge unfathomable—a duplex. Butter yellow with little white trim around the windows. Big oaks in the front and back yard, primly divided by white privacy fences so tall they challenge heaven. Summer had proudly boasted a colorful troop of flowers in that window box facing the street, the one that allows for the smallest peek into his small kingdom, if you looked hard enough. Prepared for winter, adirondack chairs have been swept away into the garage, all traces of outside living shut up for the Goliath of winter that looms with each passing day. 

The corner of his mouth tips up at the arrangement proudly displayed on the front door. It’s Fall Y’all! hangs in his face, all domesticity. Glitter and pumpkins, a cute little red-and-white-pickup. Evidence of a woman’s touch, more and more. Bearing down on his life like Egyptians chariots forcing Moses against the sea, every day he approaches the house— there’s a little more charm. A little more whimsy, order. More color and life and more her, all things he never in his longest, maddest dreams would begin thinking were missing from him. But now they are so familiar, such welcome soldiers to his little army of living, that he can’t imagine going without. 

And Logan will never not love the fact he doesn’t have to knock on this door. He opens it, twisting the knob that’s cool against the thick callouse of his hand. Jacket heavily draped over his arm, habit knocks his boots against the doorframe, adding to the collection of scuffs already there from the hundred other times he’s done this same thing. And it is the same come-home routine, but he doesn’t mind. Shake his head at whatever seasonal decor greets him on the door. Slip in, knock his boots. Hang his jacket on the hook behind the door, with his keys–next to hers. Because she’s been home all day, working on that frickin’ computer, making her little creative world run in the little ways she does that he’ll never understand. 

About to shed his vest, Logan pauses. Claws on wooden floors from the 50s flick his attention down, to his feet. The ménage à trois of three scampering sets of paws tip up the corner of his mouth into a small smirk, watching the troop of hair, wagging tail and slobber all bull rushing him like cannonballs. And they are not small creatures, by any stretch—a bloodhound. St. Bernard. Doberman, all looking at him with bright eyes as if he’s the best thing they’ve seen all day. 

Which is the farthest thing from true, because she’s been here. Locked up in his Fort Knox all hours of sunshine, doing all the things he’d give his right arm to spend his days doing with her. Domestic bliss. It’s sick, really—kinda insane. For a man who has prided himself the last 200 years on destruction, a man who has traveled through time to claim a world that isn’t his, it’s disturbing that this idea of life is so…saccharine. Perfect. Eden. 

Scratching behind each set of ears, movement in the heart of the house triggers his gaze up. Down the corridor to the kitchen, where he cal all but taste what’s for dinner. It floods him with a warmth he can’t quite put a finger on, rousts something in his guts that is good. Fire that’s delicious, heat that promises. Standing, he manages off his boots, all three canines looking at him. Expressions cocked, they wait. Expectantly. 

“Where is she, fellas? Mama ‘round somewhere, huh?” A flick of his hand beyond them sends the troop off like a shot—slipping and sliding on the pretty rugs she’s laid out in the foyer, sending them against the walls in fat piles of fabric that makes his eyes roll. On socked feet, he fixes them. She likes them pretty and neat, and if she likes it, well—whatever his girlie wants, she gets. 

About to call for her, he doesn’t expect the slingshot of curl that attacks him from the front room, “Hi, babe!” Out the french doors like a racehorse, her girlish smile and bright eyes assault him less than seriously, bouncing laughter loud and fresh and strong, like mountains on an open-sky day. Very suddenly the events of his day are improved, work all but forgotten as she wraps her arms around his middle. Rests her chin against his chest, looking up at him with the full weight of the universe hanging in her eyes. In heartbeats, she manages to change another Thursday into the Thursday—the Thursday to challenge all others even known to his existence.  

And since he’s known her, that’s what she is–changing. A fresh wind, moving clouds and rearranging the sky. Rivers that carry him away to faraway lands, anywhere that isn’t the onyx abyss of his memories, which are so black and white and unalive without her. His hand moves to run fingers through curl, which are still damp from a late-afternoon shower. Color that lingers on her cheeks matches that barely-there smattering of that vanilla protein powder she loves on her lips when he kisses her. Means one thing, his favorite thing—the thing they’d been doing for nearly six months. 

Greeting her with a smile and a, “Hey, baby,” will never tire to infinity. Leaning back against his arms cradled around her midsection, pressing her close, Logan all but craves the sparkle of sapphire hanging out in her eyes. They catch his, holding him hostage—every day he has to rediscover how to breathe. Think, move past the ache in his cock that she somehow manages to produce at a subliminally level just by existing. 

And his lips part to ask her about her day, another part of this thing they call life. Until she reaches around to the back pocket of her jeans, her favorites, the one’s she won’t stop wearing and has at least three extras squirreled-away to that spot in the closet they don’t speak of. That spot next to the neon-colored heels he knows she thrifted but hasn’t ever shared, the lingerie she’s holding onto that’s been driving him itchin’ mad since he’d peeked at it. And while he adores everything about her, her ability to wait for just the right moment to share things she’s excited about has to be one of his favorite things on the planet. 

“So, before you speak,” her finger comes to press against the seal of his lips, other hand proudly producing a folded square of paperwork between her index and middle finger, “I have amazing news. The biggest news–the best news of the whole week.” Her brows bounce, emphasizing her excitement as her low lip curls in. Logan watches her bite the inside of her cheek, thinks it’s just about the sexiest thing in the world aside from the little scrunch of her nose, how her glasses sit a little lopsided from where she’s rested her forehead against his chest. 

Really all he could use right now is another taste of her to make his week, but, he plays the adjective game. “Oh yeah?” A chuckle rattles the adamantium of his ribs as she steps out of his arms, takes his hand to guide him into the kitchen. She releases him only when her socked feet hit the wooden floor, making a show of sliding to a stop opposite the island from him. 

Babytalking the dogs at her feet, his sweet little thing of a girl backs up against the sink, her tongue teasing the front of her bottom teeth as she unfolds the paper. It’s like magnetism, the way he wants her–he’s drawn, like creatures to fire, around the island. To her side. Touching her, breathing in her closeness. And he prays to God it will always be like this—he’ll always want her, she’ll always look at him like he has been carved from bronze. That this little life in Hoboken, New Jersey, never says die. 

“I had a doctor’s appointment today,” the little lilt in her tone is so clear, they’d hear it from Mars if anyone had the brains to listen, “and, I just have to say this, Logan—really. This has to be like, a top eight life moment for me, what I’m about to tell you.” Playing with a dog-eared corner of the paper, her eyes flick up to hold his in limbo, again. Smiling eyes have all but chiseled away any remaining stone of his heart, and he’d gladly carve whatever may remain out of his own ribs and give it to her, should she ask, “And I’ll say this as a warning. If you aren’t nearly as excited about this as me, well—I’ll be forced to divorce you and move in with Wade and Althea.” 

And he laughs at her. His single favorite quality of life since running into what’s-his-face-pool and saving this realm has been the rediscovery of laughing, of feeling beyond the numbness. She made him laugh the day he found her, discovered her like some fool digging around the dirt of the everyday, and she hadn’t stopped. And Logan Howlett has never taken pride in being a hardass, but—his ass is a little less hard, these days. How could it be. Her standing there, looking like she does? Wanting him, seeking him? Him? The damn Wolverine—the worst Wolverine. 

His brow pops to attention. “Is that right?” His finger crooks one of her belthoops, tugging her hip against his gently, “a little harsh, but, I accept your terms, taskmaster.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling and his chin gestures to the paper. After a second of weighing her words, he snags her chin between his fingers and gives her a Really? expression. “Hold the fuckin’ phone—a top eight? You have a top eight list of life events?” He snorts, “And I didn’t know about it?” 

Her eyes flash with brazen darkness enough to shame the witching hour. A firm nod, even between his fingers. Her hip pops out, just a little. “Mhm, eight.” Still holding the paper, she offers a blatantly over dramatic look of desire, her head tipping back just a little as she brushes close. Done-up nails gently graze through his facial hair, before she flashes him eight—a palm, thumb and index finger somehow still managing to hold the paper keeping him in suspense. 

Beginning to tick off fingers, he listens with amusement. Driver’s license, college. Her first publication as a freelancer. Her first car payment. Paying off her student debt, meeting her idol, Charles Xavier, a man who’s work on mutant and human coalitions she’d been devouring since forever. Meeting him, marrying him and buying a house. Technically that was nine, but, she explained—a bunch of life events landed under the Logan tab, which made him chuckle and shake his head. 

“Finished?” He nods to the paper again. “You gonna tell me this life changing, top-eight news or what?” For a second his heart does an all-stop as she nods, the corner of her lip tucking in under her teeth.

From here Logan can taste the adrenaline in her blood, the joy—the buzz of something pumping through her like a pistoning locomotive, charting new territories. And before he can think, before he can bridle his own wagging tongue, “You pregnant, darlin’?” punches off his tongue like a cage fighter.  

Two things he should’ve known off the shot—pregnancy announcements usually involved a piss stick, not paper. Two, that something so mountainous would not have waited for him to breeze through the door. Not her style, not by a country mile—she’d stopped off at his job site with lunch just to announce the last payment on her student debt, complete with cheesecake and those cute little pocket bottles of Jack Daniels. She made a big deal out of everything, and he wouldn’t have –could not survive– it any other damn way. 

Slackjaw, for a second he thinks the hinge of her jaw might start swinging before she hauls off to slap his shoulder, the rings on her fingers passing by in a blur of turquoises, yellows, oranges and silvers as a squealing, “Logan!” shoots out of her like the fountain of youth—makes him laugh, again, as he grabs her hand in his and hauls to his lips. Presses a kiss to the heel of her palm, “No, Wolvie—haven’t managed to knocked me up quite yet, thanking you.” And that name—it punches the wind right out of his lungs, sends every ounce of mutant fucking blood right to his cock, all at once. 

It’s not a serious thanks, he knows. Been off-the-cuff talking about getting pregant for a handful of months, tossing the idea back and forth. It was the reason behind the duplex, family planning—and he hadn’t fought the idea of redoing the spare room. Shoving her office into the corner of their suite. It’d been a year, she was thirty, now, had been ringing off these walls like a canyon echo. Biological clock ticking off the walls of her womb, apparently, even though she didn’t fucking age—thanks to mutation, his mutation left behind in her blood a lifetime ago. 

Source of one too many arguments back and forth, they hadn’t quite decided to make an effort not to get pregnant. An ugly IUD hung between them like unscalable Mount Olympus. Hands up in surrender, he tries not to chuckle as she plants the paper in between them, in both hands. Sapphire blues cast down to it, triggering his attention downward as well. A heartbeat before her head pops back up, all smiles and piglet pink cheeks. 

“Guess who just knocked eleven points off the BMI chart?” And there it is.

Certainly a different tone of subject than the one before, Logan can’t help the look of surprise that smacks across his face—she is all but giddy. Pressing the paper to her chest, she rising on toes and begins to bounce, like a rabbit, up and down in a way that springs her hair every direction. Her shrieks of excitement are loud enough to wake the dead, but, he’d have a better time freezing hell over, if he’d wanted to. Spinning in a exuberant circle, the ruckus sends all three of their dogs into the kitchen, bouncing around her like she’s deserving of worship. A goddess. His goddess. 

She’d only been killing herself in their garage gym since they’d bought the place a little over a year ago. Plagued with one of those New Year’s resolutions, she’d committed to exercise like a duck commits to water—and Logan hadn’t ever seen someone try to hard, not in a long time. Never one really faced with the issue of having to maintain physical maintenance, thanks to genetic mutation, a workout regiment hadn’t really ever crossed his mind—natural circumstances kept him lean. He’d been alive for 200 years, could abuse his body any way he wanted, and it just–was. A lucky son of a bitch, but, he’d never paused to consider that it wasn’t that way for everyone else. 

So when she’d all but pleaded for a home gym, he’d folded fast. Like a bad hand. Her body had certainly never been an issue between them—he worshiped every curve, could build monuments how often his mind drifted to just fucking her within an inch of sanity. Each scar, every single solitary divot, right down to the pores on her face. Not magazine beautiful or classically Hollywood, her own admission had almost gutted him. 

A girl-next-door, down-to-earth pretty sent him to pieces in ways that Logan would sooner carve out his open spine than share—she ravaged him. Like a dog, licking at the marrow of his bones. The weight of her eyes alone, cutting through his misgivings, trailblazing his insecurities as a man. She was perfect in every phenomena, every realm and bend of time. Designed for him, by Christ Himself—the most gorgeous fucking thing on two legs, he didn’t need billboards or Vogue or the silver screen to set standard yet untenable to the majority. Determined long ago that there’d never be another for him, that he could never love any other soul–worship anatomy—quite like he did her. 

He’d never complained. Hell thrived with such foolishness. He bought the gym equipment, though, mostly because he knew in the long run, it would be better. If not for him, then for her—he was happy. HEr happiness may as well have been the air his body craved. He’d set up the gym on a weekend, learned to park his Jeep outside. Had learned to help her bandage injuries and balance proteins and carbs, listened to her cry over numbers on a tiny scale that didn’t really matter. But, never complained. 

And Logan had noticed the change about her anatomy—the little definitions of curve, the way she moved. She didn’t always, but he knew—when he held her close, made love to her. Difference, even in its smallest form, was still changing. Lighter on her feet, stronger when it came to helping do whatever it was she determined to assist with. Her clothes fit a little differently, the line of her jaw a little sharper. But, skies above that was her confidence. 

Always had opposed his reserved and calculated stoicism, a spicy little firecracker of a thing that took what she wanted and could talk to fenceposts. But, she’d always sparkled differently. It was like weighing the moon against the sun—she just sparkled better. Moved a little sexier, blazes a little hotter. Not quite the North Star, but a close second—somewhere in his guts he feared she’d wake up one morning, realize she was hot as sin, and leave his ass for what’s-his-face from the Greatest Showman or someone on television. 

Her fingers curl into his arms as she bounces a little more on her toes, pride all but beaming from the pink dusting across the bridge of her nose. “Me, it’s me!” Childlike laughter bubbles out of her like a brook, hot and alive, and he can’t help the swell of pride. “After eight fricking months, it’s me,” she blows out a breath, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, “y’know, honestly, I didn’t think any of it was actually doing all that much—i’ve only dropped thirty pounds on the scale, which doesn’t seem like a lot in eight months, but–you were right, Lo! It turned to muscle, you were right!” 

He nods, smile growing to a painful wide that he isn’t sure is amusement, or pride. “‘Course I was right,” he stresses, his tone low as he dips his head to brush his nose against the end of hers. Smiling into the kiss she presses to his mouth, he lifts an arm into flex before grabbing her chin between his fingers and taking her full attention, “Don’t get definition like this not knowin’ what you’re talking about, baby.” Lies. Teasing lies. He hadn’t so much as thought of a fucking dumbbell since that time before some God-forsaken war. 

Pouty lips pull her eyes back to his, and he can see the muscle in her jaw tick with the effort not to grin. Heartbeats, and his arms snake around her middle again, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt. “I’m proud of you, kid,” and he hasn’t called her that since God knew, likes the way it darkens the little flush on her cheeks. “Guess I’d better work a little harder keeping you close to home. Can’t have you skippin’ out on this whole little domestic thing we’ve got going,” he shrugs a shoulder, “what would the dogs do without you?”

Giggling again, her shoulders pop up and down in a little happy shift, he takes her arms and guides them around his neck, “The dogs, huh? Is that right?” Her nose scrunches up again, eyes snapping to life as she steps onto his toes, enough for him to shuffle them out of the kitchen, towards the living space, “You think I’d leave you just because I get sexy?” It’s not a serious question, the flutter of low lashes testifies as he stops them in the middle of the living room, toes curling into the plush carpet as her head cants to the side, like a curious puppy. “And lose my bet with Wade? Don’t know me at all, do you, Wolverine?” 

God only wishes. He knew parts of her the world would never. And he smiles, snorting a little at the thought of their entire relationship hinging on a bet with Wilson, the fucking idiot he is. That feels like a lifetime ago, riding life out in a dingy apartment. Blind Al as company, Wilson as a fucking landlord. If he counted back every red cent he’d paid in rent, it wouldn’t be enough for a grocery run—small mercies. Lifting a hand between them, he crooks a finger, chuckling as she eyeballs it for a second, weighing her options. 

“I like to think I do,” and he does. She’s given him everything. And if she hasn’t—well. He can fix that. “You don’t got any secrets left, do you, darlin’? You’ve already seen my soul—only fair you let me see yours.” Tipping her chin up, he kisses her slowly. Angles his head for whatever depth he can pull her from, keens a little when her breathy moan chases the heat lighting up his adamantium skeleton like an inferno. Tasting the trace of that fucking protein mess on her tongue nearly brings him to his knees, fingers carding through her hair for as much purchase and possession he can find. 

“I do have one,” she manages, a little breathless between nipping at his bottom lip and fighting with the buckle of his belt. With a Jezebel shove of her hand, she sends him down to the cushions of the couch—it protests, accepting his weight.

From beneath low lashes, her ocean blues trace the details of his face as she knees onto the couch, swings a leg over him. Pelvis to pelvis, her weight is divine. Lights him up like a damn electric wire. He can feel heat in his chest chasing after the adrenaline in his blood, can taste her, even from here. 

Grabbing the front of her t-shirt between two fingers, he tugs her a little closer. 

“What’s that?” 

She chuckles, shifting a flirty shoulder. “My IUD? Gone,” she snaps her fingers, biting the corner of her lower lip. Eyes cutting to his mouth, she doesn’t hesitate–a heartbeat and she’s kissing him deeply, milking every little ache and moan creeping up the back of his throat. She sighs a little when his hand presses against her womb, thumb tracing the gentle spot beneath her belly button. “How’s that make you feel, Wolvie honey?” A light, flustered chuckle as he tucks hair behind her ear, rubs a curl between his fingers.

“Think you can handle a mini you making a mess of the world?” 

Knocking his head back over the edge of the couch, his hands find her waist. Stills her before he closes his eyes, relishes the way she lathes her tongue along his pulse. And he’ll never know how it really makes him feel, because feeling is all but a rush of adrenaline when it comes to her—everything and nothing, a floating abyss of pleasure and home that, from the beginning of time, man has tried to describe. It’s all wrapped up in limbo, though–limbo and his ribs, jeans and a pretty face. 

 “Not sure,” his hand tucks behind her head and he flips them, forcing her into the couch before she can protest—before she and her eleven-points-off-the-chart can challenge any idea other than what he’s about to do to her.

“”Think we should find out, darlin’.”

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[thatnonameuser]

MC 🤝 Vil

Sabotaged by platonic yans

At least they'll have something to relate about in quiet moments during the VDC breaks; "you get type cast a lot? But it's always with this one other person? Nah. In this world? No such coincidences, he wants you so bad." ~ MC after being hardened by being in yanverse for too long.

Being a celebrity IS hard. In our world, you already have to deal with so much.. but in a world where obsession is normal? How crazy does it get? Vil would have so many platonic yanderes and even delusional yanderes that believes him to be their soulmate even if he's not a darling. (Same as Neige) So how would he (Vil )or you (author) go about this in the story? (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

Fame comes with a heavy price. All the prestige and wealth comes with terrible prices to pay. If you think darlings have it bad, they have it so much worse. They never, ever have privacy, there’s always someone watching even if you’re at the edge of the earth. 

Fans are deluded, either you’re the perfect angel that should never be hurt or you’re their one true love. 

The parasocial relationships are ramped up by a thousand. Every one screen “I love you” is printed out and placed in a shrine, recorded into asmr for them to fall asleep to and hear over and over till they meet face to face. 

Instead of seeking riches, paparazzi seek pictures for their shrines. To capture the famous in their cameras lenses, and then kiss, love and adore the photographs. They also steal what little they can take, strands of hair, anything their lips or fingers touch. 

Going in public without bodyguards or something to protect yourself is a terrible risk. So many celebrities are nearly kidnapped, some actually kidnapped, so the deluded can live out their fantasies. Of wedding arches, of families being born and made….

Word to the wise, never read or open your fan mail. Sometimes it’s something sweet like letters or poetry. But there’s also hearts carved from flesh, sometimes animals, sometimes human. Explosives, meant to kill the people whoever tries to steal the eye of their favored one.

Celebrity feuds usually shed blood. If they were bad in our world, smear campaigns and cancellation attempts grow to near murders and torture in the yandereverse. All news is good news doesn’t apply here. All bad news could lead to the most devoted and obsessed killing the celeb in their sadism and delusion. 

Every mildly invasive thing turns into something so much worse. 

If you’re a darling celebrity….then you’re loved all the more. Such innocence, such fragility. Meant to be loved and protected. And stolen away to be set on a pedestal. Their fans are extremely protective, willing to attack and kill whoever their romantic partner is, yandere or not, to protect that sweet innocence. 

Yandere celebrities have the luxury of more freedom. Their fans want to be snatched up, to be tormented and degraded, willing to do anything if it means they're with them. They’re completely obsessive, worshiping the ground the yanderes walk on. They stuck on the attachment, believing the yandere has an equal obsession for them, platonically or romantically.

(Vil has an entourage of incredibly obsessive followers. Rook is a primary example. They would gut themselves for the chance to meet eyes with him. Vil doesn't respond to anyone of his fanbase but Rook, mostly because he enjoys their friendship.)

And if they were a yandere once considered to be a darling, well that innocence is maintained and protective and obsessive mixes together. They’re protective over their innocence, and obsessed with their existence. What makes the good bad? What makes the fairy tale a real life fantasy? That’s the thought process that goes through the fans’ minds. It’s what enraptures them.

(Neige’s fans adore his innocence and are obsessed with his life. And, his fans would die for him. His interaction with them purposely stokes the fire. Only a fool would ever do that, but Neige isn’t a fool. It benefits him after all.)

Vil is used to his fan base. His father’s a famous actor, he’s seen the people in wedding dresses outside his house trying to marry his father. Then the frankly, unsettling gifts his security team went through when he was starting out. He avoids them almost at all cost, never goes out in public alone and if he does it’s disguised.

Neige. in the opposite end of the spectrum, doesn’t do what Vil does. With the exception of the disguises, because sometimes he wants some privacy. He answers every letter, hugs every fan. He doesn’t need to go out in public with protection because his fans practically kill anyone who touches him. 

Either way, both don't have the luxury of privacy. It's just their school's protections that let them live in relative peace for a while.

What a world celebrities live in…

[edenmemes]

baldur's gate 3 starters (part 2)

part 2 / ? .

❝ i’m also worried about me, but i somehow seem to be worried about you more. ❞ ❝ you put the stars to shame. let’s sit here a little while - i want to drink you in. ❞ ❝ i’d tell you not to get in trouble, but i suspect it will find you whether you like it or not. ❞ ❝ well, this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on. ❞ ❝ i just….need some air…clear my head. ❞ ❝ it’s been a long time since i shed a tear. i don’t even know how long. ❞ ❝ i had a feeling you’d show up. it’s sort of our thing. like it’s fate or something. ❞ ❝ i do appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's try to restrain ourselves a little. ❞ ❝ if that was an attempt at flirting, i should let you know i prefer the strong, silent type. ❞ ❝ no matter how far you come, you’re still on the road to ruin. ❞ ❝ i thought you a hunter. wrong. you’re prey - small. snivelling. pathetic. ❞ ❝ and what am i owed? what about the injustices i’ve suffered - am i not entitled to anything? ❞ ❝ i can’t help but feel the strangest twinge of disgust as i look upon you. ❞ ❝ i trust that you will continue to remember who is really on your side. ❞ ❝ better a short life built on truth than immortality woven of lies. ❞ ❝ i won’t make excuses. i can’t make amends. but i want to help, if you’ll let me. ❞ ❝ gods, it’s horrifying…and a touch fascinating. ❞ ❝ there are many names for you --- and all of them inspire dread. ❞ ❝ destiny is at your door; won’t you at least twitch the curtain? ❞ ❝ the gravest crimes committed in this world are committed for love. a hunger crueller than bloodlust. ❞ ❝ you’ve got a backbone, and the makings of a leader. ❞ ❝ revenge sounds so sweet until you’ve taken it. then all you have is…no one left to blame. ❞ ❝ some mistakes can’t be resolved with an apology. some mistakes, you have to carry with you, forever. ❞ ❝ you’re plotting something, aren’t you? come on then - out with it. ❞ ❝ this is not good, if i may state the obvious. ❞ ❝ think of all we’ve been through just to get to this moment. that wasn’t luck. that was us. ❞ ❝ feel like i should laugh but i’m just too godsdamned tired. ❞ ❝ there is something i lost…no, had taken from me. i want it all back. ❞ ❝ careful - you’re in very real danger of hurting my feelings. ❞ ❝ one thing i’ve learned - real saviours never label themselves as such. ❞ ❝ less thinking of bad thoughts, and more breaking of bad bones. ❞ ❝ i rather like interfering. it’s kind of my thing. ❞ ❝ evil is evil, even if it once was innocent. ❞ ❝ you know, i've been catching myself smiling more lately. i think that's your fault.. ❞ ❝ oh, i’m no innocent. but evil? you tell me. ❞ ❝ i still want to believe you’re better than that. but even i am having my doubts. ❞ ❝ i can’t afford to lose my nerve. safer to just not think, and keep forging ahead. ❞ ❝ when all this is over, will you stay with me? for good? ❞ ❝ this is not good, if i may state the obvious. ❞ ❝ is there a reason you're always such an utter drip? do you have some sort of condition? honestly, it's like you hate good news. ❞ ❝ all of nature’s beauty pales in comparison to you. ❞ ❝ i can’t save you from yourself. it hurts terribly, but i can’t. ❞ ❝ if i seem suddenly flush with hope and soft feeling, you have only yourself to blame. ❞ ❝ is there good and evil within us all? ❞

❝ i’ve been watching you fight. your skills are improving. ❞ ❝ you know, for all the sense of dread and horror seeping through this place, i really feel quite at home here. ❞ ❝ and you? you’re wholly without vice or sin or the occasional lapse in judgement? ❞ ❝ i wager you don’t even know how extraordinary you truly are. but i do. ❞ ❝ one might say you’re paragon of luck. i’ll be there when it runs out. ❞ ❝ i've always had a soft spot for the confident ones…they always disappoint though. ❞ ❝ i concealed nothing from you. i simply left out the details that were not pertinent. ❞ ❝ you’re an odd friend. but, i suppose, a friend still. ❞ ❝ i won’t let you do this. i won’t let you win. ❞ ❝ you are my puppet. make no mistake. without me, you have no value. ❞ ❝ well, this seems like a lovely little spot. the sense of impending doom aside. ❞ ❝ whoever your enemies are, they have good reason to fear you. ❞ ❝ this place is astonishing, a bard’s tale made real. ❞ ❝ i may not regret my actions, but i do regret that they were necessary. ❞ ❝ experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things look, there’s always hope. ❞ ❝ if this adventure has taught me anything, it’s that there are things in this world more valuable than power. ❞ ❝ a wise man learns from his mistakes, and strives not to repeat them. ❞ ❝ no more hiding things from me. agreed? ❞ ❝ my friend. my companion. i adore you. ❞ ❝ your face is sour. by all means leave, if i am so distasteful. ❞ ❝ careful, it’s dark around here. would be a terrible shame to lose you forever. ❞ ❝ you startled me. i…i was miles away. ❞ ❝ you have to know who i was. you have to know who i really am. ❞ ❝ nothing special, of course. you’re only the first person who i truly care for. ❞ ❝ you’ve got a backbone, and the makings of a leader. ❞ ❝ anything you ask, i’ll answer as honestly as i can. ❞

[ephemeral--dreams]

blood and grenadine

Scar/Reader

Word count: 1,531

Rating: M

Warnings: Scar is his own warning...!

Notes: feral cat reader who cannot accept affection is very important to me thanks. anyway I haven't stopped thinking about scar for a month. get him out of my head

☆ ☾ ☆ ──────────────────

You grit your teeth. It's getting tiring, the way he kept doing this. No, it is stressful. The way he goes around taking people you care about or causing mass destruction to get your attention. You worry that he's going to end up killing someone before you ever get there to confront him. Someone could get hurt, and it'll be your fault, because he's only targeting them because of his obsession with you. You wish he'd just come after you directly instead of doing all this. You don't like these little games he plays.

It's a typical but no less frustrating sight to show up to fire everywhere and screaming and him waiting for you expectantly. His head tilts. “What a coincidence. I've been expecting you.”

“Don't call it a coincidence when you did this on purpose,” it comes out scathing, sharp. He only smiles pleasantly.

“Why stop doing something that brings results? You should stop giving me what I want by showing up. You're conditioning me~”

“You can't-” you look away, trying not to simmer in your own guilt. It's stupid. You know it. He'd caused chaos before you and he'd do it whether you came or not. But you still feel as if it's your fault. If you could manage to stop him then these things wouldn't keep happening, but he always seems to get away after he has his fun. “What do I have to do to make you stop, then?”

It's worth a try. Maybe there's something he wants. Something you can get for him or… you don't know. Anything.

“Stop?” he laughs, as if the very idea is absolutely hilarious to him. Some thin thread inside of you snaps. You can't do this anymore. This cycle of violence. Innocent people getting hurt. The feeling of being helpless against it all.

“This is about me, isn't it? Then come after me. You want to fight? Then I will fight you. You want to hurt someone? Hurt me. Leave out the extra steps to get my attention. You don't need to involve anyone else.”

He's silent for a long moment as he stares at you. It's unusual for him to stop talking. But there's some sort of interest. That's what you're betting on. 

“Do you have any idea what you're offering?”

“I'm offering whatever you want.”

The expression that spreads across his face sends a shiver down your spine, his grin razorblade sharp conflicting with the strange infatuation in his eyes as he steps closer, heat radiating as he steps into your space. You resist the urge to step back. “You. Be mine for the night, and everyone here gets to run free! Isn't it a fair deal?”

There's all kinds of implications there that you don't like. God only knows what exactly he plans to do. Giving him free reign over you for even a night is a terrible, terrible idea. But does your safety really matter in comparison to that of others?

It doesn't. 

“...Fine. It's a deal.”

“You've made an excellent choice, little lamb. Let's not waste time,” the portal opens before you are given even a single chance to second guess, a hand on your shoulder coaxing you through. “Come, come. We'll have a good time, I promise. You'll want to join me when I'm done with you~”

☆

You're so tense. You always are. It's one of the easiest things to notice about you. Though it's rather troublesome when what he needs from you is for you to trust him, let him get into your head. 

“...What do you want me to do,” you ask the moment you're both through the portal, not even a moment to get your bearings. Straight to business. 

"Patience, dearest," Scar murmurs, hand still wrapped around yours in a one-sided grip as he leads you through the maze of halls. "First, we must prepare. Sometimes in order to experience the best in life, you have to shed the old.”

Your silence is uneasy, terse. You're waiting for the other shoe to drop, he can tell. It's like you think he's going to do something awful! As if he would, now that he's finally gotten a chance to get his hands on you in a way that isn't a mere fight. You simply don't appreciate how much effort he goes to just to get you to look at him. You act as if he's always out to torment you for the sake of it. 

Which he's not. His intentions are so clear! How haven't you realized it yet? The obliviousness is as endearing as it is frustrating. It's because you don't think of anything but the weight of the world. Stupid, overly self sacrificial little lamb. Not tonight.

He tugs you through his bedroom to the connecting bathroom. You stand in the corner watching warily as he sets the faucet on the tub running, debating which of the oils he wants to put in. What would you like? He knows so much about you but not such simple things. If only you weren't so resistant. He puts in what reminds him most of your perfume after a long moment of contemplation. Then he moved to light some candles. Too dark in here. Scar paid attention to every detail, setting the mood for the evening.

The water steams as he shuts off the stream. He turns to you expectantly, then moves to guide you over himself when you don't come over. “Well?” If you're not going to undress yourself he has no issue helping you along. 

You look at him. You look at the water. You look back. Suspicious. Hmph. You think a simple bath is an attempt to drown you, is that it? What a warped imagination. He's never met someone so overly cautious. “Little lamb, it's just a bath. You've got ash on you from all that chaos earlier, hm? Get in, come on.”

You look no less defensive over it, movements stiff as you obey regardless, clothing neatly folded as it is removed before you sink into the water with the kind of hesitance that feels entirely out of place for what is supposed to be a moment of relaxation. That's all it is. He just wants to ease the tension. That's it! 

He thinks that it's a good thing the tub is big enough for two, as he strips and slips in behind you. 

"Little lamb, relax," Scar's voice is quiet, his hands on your shoulders, kneading them. All the while, you remain stiff, a contrast to the warmth of the water. You really think he's going to harm you, don't you? Skittish. Perhaps that's not so surprising, but.. He lets out a soft sigh. Adorable, but so difficult. “Enjoy it. I’m not the grasping hand all the time, dearest.”

“You're a violent maniac,” is all you say in response.

“And you're too tense,” He feels a bit like he's coaxing a feral cat into accepting affection. It's as endearing as it is pitiful. Do you even know how to relax, he wonders? With how much you burden yourself with things he wouldn't be surprised if the answer was no. You almost seem more distressed when he's here being gentle with you than when he tries to attack you. As if it's all a complete and utter shock to your system. “It would do you good to let go of things. You can't can't carry so much weight forever, you know.”

You let out a quiet huff, but are otherwise silent. Is the idea really so preposterous to you? 

A little of the tension starts to ease from your body under his attention eventually, though. The slightest bit. But it is a step in the right direction. He's got his work cut out for him if he ever wants to get you to love him back, now doesn't he?

“This isn't a battlefield. I don't intend to hurt you tonight. Alright? I just wanted some alone time with you. You can calm down. You've got to give me a chance, dear~”

You tilt your head to look back at him balefully. “Maybe if you stopped causing me stress…”

“Poor little lamb,” he coos, hands still rubbing over your back. “Does it upset you that much?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Then I'll break into your house next time I want to see you. Then you can't complain. Yes?” Let it not be said that he can't compromise. 

“I- fine. Whatever. Just don't attack anyone. Please.”

“Please? Are we pleading now? How cute. But alright,” Scar leans down to kiss the top of your head. You tense again. “Shh, shh, let it happen~ Don't go all stiff again now.”

“What do you want.”

“I want you to be mine, of course. But I'll accept it if you stop acting like I'm going to stab you in the back every time I touch you, for now.”

“...A tall order.”

“We have all night.”

You sigh. “Try your best, then,” it's all the acquiescence you will offer to his intent. But Scar will take it.

He has you in his grasp now. It's only a matter of time before he gets your heart. 

[luvzxr]

Little Pougie

I'm gonna try to make this a little more formatted but I also enjoy writing these little notes for the chapter so I can interact with people!

Summery; In which fem!reader is the little sister to John B Routledge. Sweet, gentle and innocent. The complete opposite to JJ Maybank but he finds himself falling for her and he can't stop himself doing so.

Pairing; Fem!reader x JJ Maybank

Word Count; 2,473

Masterlist to find previous chapters all together or previous to read chapter 3!

Next chapter.

04. Safe and Sound

"He didn't hurt you, right (Y/n/n)?"

JJ didn't want to seem too obsessive for his own good. He didn't want to confuse the poor girl as to why he was suddenly so frantic- she just went through what he could only imagine was pure hell and here he was causing more stress for her. But he couldn't help it; that was what he was turning into.

He needed to know that she was okay. That was his priority. He didn't know how long this had been going on before he walked in or if the scumbag had ever touched her way before the previous events.

JJ just beat the man senseless for simply having (Y/n) in his grasp. He should have killed him, no one would miss scum like that. He almost scoffed at the thought he let the man off easy, but he couldn't commit murder in the middle of Mr. Carrera's restaurant.

All (Y/n) could do was nod lightly.

He lost control- Right in front of her. The violence he condemned inside of him was now all out on the table and he could see just by how soft her voice was, the way she refused to look him in the eye, or the way she couldn't say a word to him that she was terrified.

He gulped, murmuring lowly, "come with me, Pougie. Please?" placing his hand on her arms, holding them firmly. His eyes bored into her own.

She seemed hesitant. She wanted to leave and be anywhere but here- she wanted to go home, but going home with JJ is what currently caused a mental battle between herself. The boy had just let lose years' worth of rage out onto the poor bastard who made the first attempt to scramble to his feet after a brutal beating, and Sophie practically saved his life from ending.

"Princess," JJ softly spoke, bringing his index finger to lift up her chin, "I would never hurt you."

"I know," her voice was small. She had no reason to fear JJ- he was protecting her, just like he always had and she knew that.

"Come on."

JJ's home was roughly the same size as her own; small but it would do. She found comfort in the mess inside considering she had to deal with it at her own home, so it hadn't made much of a difference.

She had been to his place countless times with John B but had never stayed the night due to the simple fact that JJ preferred to stay with them, for obvious reasons- That being back when his father was still on the Island, of course. As for now, (Y/n) wasn't too sure why he still chose to stay with her and JB- not that she didn't mind- but, he had the place all to himself now.

Empty glass bottles and aluminum cans littered the place, not a single spot wasn't covered by an empty bottle or can that once was filled to the brim with a certain beverage. The place looked completely discarded, which made sense- he didn't necessarily live here, he'd just stop by to pick up whatever he may have needed and leave again.

(Y/n) hadn't forgotten about the numerous altercations she'd witnessed over the years. The beatings JJ had taken right in front of her eyes. And she hadn't forgotten about the hundreds of bruises that formed all over his body afterward.

Over time, the girl slowly grew to despise the older man.

Perhaps 'despise' wasn't a strong enough word to use. She felt she wasn't being cynical enough. His father had no clue just how special his son was- he never gave JJ the chance to show his full potential.

JJ was a quick-tempered and erratic man, hell would break loose around him. Punches would be thrown, blood would be shed and, someone would be twitching and writhing on the floor. That was just part of who JJ was which often seemed to be the only part of him that others noticed, But he had another side to him. The side where he'd take liability for someone else's mistake, and he'd take the downfall because he felt he'd end up in jail sometime down the line, anyways.

He had an overwhelming amount of loyalty to the ones he loved. He'd take the dodged bullet without a single second thought. He'd fight for the things he felt closest to because that's all he had left to fight for. He had nothing to lose.

JJ also held onto the part of him where he knew how to make a bad situation something worth celebrating. He knew how to have a good time, and he knew how to make sure others had just as much of a good time. He was a goofball, something that (Y/n) took an immediate interest in.

"Sorry the place is a wreck," JJ apologized. He didn't know what else to really say because a part of him felt embarrassed. The place looked like the inside of a dumpster- smell and all. He didn't have the time to clean up beforehand because he didn't think they'd have to be staying at his place for the night.

He threw what he could away at the last minute into a large trash bag, wiping his arm smoothly across the coffee table- bottles and cans tipping over and tumbling into the bag. Eventually, he discarded the bag in the kitchen before returning back to the living area.

(Y/n) was placed on the couch, knees tucked to her chest. She was still quite shaken up from the previous encounter she had at her work with the creepy, old man. If JJ hadn't shown up a second later than he did, she wasn't sure if she'd safely be in his care or if she would have been dragged off the property in the grasp of the other man.

"(Y/n)?" JJ's voice was low, jaw clenched in order to bite back a more harsh, but natural sound. It wasn't his fault that his voice was much more deeper and intimidating. He didn't want to make the girl more timid than she probably already felt. His hand was placed gently on her shoulder.

"Hm?"

"Are you... okay?"

He wasn't too sure if this was a bad time to ask, for it was only moments ago she was put in a situation that no woman should ever be put in. He wanted her to open up, and maybe he could get her to. Or maybe he'd get the cold shoulder just like he would do himself whenever someone tried to get him to open up. And in hindsight, he didn't know (Y/n) and she didn't know him. Not properly, that is.

And even though he was the very person who defended her, he wasn't going to take that as an invitation to push past her boundaries.

(Y/n) shook her head no, turning to look at him, and rested her cheek against his hand that still rested promptly on her shoulder.

He shook his head before all together letting it drop and hang. feeling hopeless.

He failed her. He failed John B. That promise he made to protect the girl when John B could not. Over the years he made an internal promise to himself that he'd watch over the girl as long as she was on the Island and he wouldn't let a single soul handle her the way she was handled tonight, and he failed.

"I'm so sorry, Pougie. I... I should have been there sooner. If I had been there sooner then none of this would of happened and you'd be okay," He took careful steps around the couch toward her small figure. Guilt was evident but oblivious to how to express it.

"JJ-"

"I could of prevented it altogether," He gulped, taking his seat next to her. His head shook side to side endlessly.

"JJ-"

"You would of been okay,"

"JayJ-"

"I shouldn't have been so careless-"

He felt soft, gentle hands cup his face, "JJ! For once in your life; don't blame yourself."

JJ's head shot up, shoulders relaxing once his gaze landed on the soft smile of the girl sat in front of him. Sometimes he wondered how she could be so happy after traumatic situations.

"You saved me, and for that, I'm very grateful,"

JJ found his disheartened expression slipping into a small smile. She was so soft and gentle with not only her words; but her touch as well. She knew all the right ways to ease his racing mind.

They had yet to find out more about one another, yet here he had the girl sitting in his horribly trashed living room; feeling at ease from her touch and words- trying desperately to study her face, her emotions, her expressions. Trying to figure out why his heart was racing, and why he felt like if he didn't slow down he'd only crash and burn. Which, at the time, he felt completely okay with doing.

He was protective over the girl, but rightfully so. She'd done so much in his life he hasn't had the chance to thank her for. He wanted to give back, he just needed to figure out the right ways to do so.

But he shook his head. He stood up, giving her a small smile.

The girl had seen him at the lowest points in his life. The days when his father had beaten him so badly he was practically in shambles on the ground- she was petrified but she always would put him before herself because that was just the type of person she was. She was delicate- it was enough to break her if you truly wanted to, but she was kind.  JJ has never experienced the type of care Sophie has given by anyone else and if he was honest- he didn't want to.

"Where are you going?" he could hear (Y/n)'s soft voice as he stood from the couch, reaching for the garbage bag he left slouched against the wooden doors of the lower cabinets on the floor an hour or two prior.

"I'm gonna take this out and then head to bed," he looked over his shoulder, bright blue eyes glinting in her direction.

"Already?" she frowned, "We just got here a little bit ago,"

"I just wanted you to get some good sleep before I take you back tomorrow," JJ replied calmly, though he unknowingly began to make his way back toward her again.

"But I don't feel like sleeping right now," she reached for him, indicating she wanted him to sit again. He undoubtfully took the invitation.

"No?" Puzzlement growing, eyes fixated on the small girl sitting before him.

"No." she confirmed.

"Well... I don't have to go right now," She immediately perked up.

"Great!" She squeaked, arms flung around his neck, "Cause I have an entire show to watch, and no one to watch it with. But now I do!"

"Oh, I see," JJ gave a slight nod, unable to control the small, slightly uneasy chuckle that fell from his lips, "We're gonna watch an entire TV show tonight?"

"Of course. What else would we do on a Friday night?"

"Actually It's Saturday because it's midnight,"

"Whatever," she crinkled her nose, looking at him as if it was so obvious, "I get to show you the wonderful world of TV,"

TV. That was something JJ didn't exactly have familiarity with, for anymore he chose surfing or partying rather throwing himself up on the sofa and flicking through channels to find something appealing.

"Please?" She was back to being her shy self again, pouting and practically begging him to stay inside for the night, "Netflix would work too, that way we can start something new that maybe you'd like,"

He frowned nonetheless, "I don't have Netflix Princess,"

"That's okay, I'll sign in to my account," She grinned, turning the current network off and switching it to the Netflix program.

"Okay," he nodded, and she just smiled softly.

JJ watched as she selected a program with the title 'American Horror Story' and switched on the Pilot episode. Leaning over and leaving the remote on the coffee table in front of them.

She laid back, her prior position with her arms around his neck was now with her back pressed against the soft cushion

She then looked over at him, expression changing at the hesitant way he was perched up on the couch.

"JJ, come here," she reached her arms out, faking a grab at him with her fingers.

He shook his head, "No, I can't,"

"Yes you can," she nodded, once more making a grabbing motion with her fingers.

"No, I really can't,"

"I know I'm probably not as comfortable as most girls you slee-"

"No, that's not it," his answer was quick, "I just shouldn't lie down."

"Why?"

"Because Pougie," he frowned, trying desperately to dodge her tiny grabs, "I'll fall asleep on you." JJ warned.

"So fall asleep," (Y/n) shrugged, grinning with triumph once he finally sighed and gave in. She held her arms out, moving ever so slightly to give out some more room to him. He removed his snapback, leaning back- to which his head hit her forearm gently.

His tired eyes soon began to flutter shut, ready to fully drown out every possible noise; Including the voices of characters in front of them.

JJ couldn't comprehend the bizarre situation at hand; he was laying down with (Y/n), at his house, and she was voluntarily letting him rest against her. He was breathing in her light scent, listening to a show he assumed was one of her favorites, spending the night with the one person who agitated him the most- and he was enjoying every minute of it.

Something changed. Not enormously, For it was roughly hard to get through to JJ because of the skeptical side of him that refused to let anyone care for him. But the change was significant compared to what most accomplished. He no longer found the way he had to swoop into her rescue irritating. He didn't mind how she questioned everything he's done because in reality; she was curious and nothing was wrong with that.

This situation with (Y/n) was nothing more than a girl caring for a friend who, no doubt, needed the affection but was too stubborn to admit it.

JJ could only envision the small, gentle smile covering her features, imprinting her skin and burning a mark in his mind. He imagined her face as she pressed the tip of her nose against the back of his neck, small arms wrapped around his torso carefully.

He felt himself tense up. He's never felt such a delicate touch before- at least not ones that hadn't led to more than just a chill night on the couch. No, those situations almost always turned into more- to which JJ himself usually initiated.

But this was different because he didn't want more. He wanted to stay right where he was; In (Y/n)'s arms, wrapped up on the couch, drifting off into a much-needed peaceful sleep. And that's exactly what he was doing.

"Goodnight JayJ."

[howdoyousleep3]

Prompt: Sex with a Stranger

Pairing: Shrunkyclunks (Modern Bucky Barnes/Captain America Steve Rogers) Word Count: ~6K Tags: shrunkyclunks, strangers to lovers, awkward flirting, stranger sex, public sex, car sex, blow jobs, anal sex, unprotected sex, clothed sex, porn with little plot, dirty talk, come as lube, size kink, feminization, multiple orgasms, coming untouched, Author's Note: I was truly planning on throwing my whole ass into Kinktober, but life totally and completely dragged me down lol. Hopefully I can contribute more because I have all the plans to, but I don't want to jinx myself. For now, here is a prompt I've been working on for years that hopped in my inbox a few years ago. This is for you, nonnie. 😉 Read here on Ao3

“I think this might end up being one of the greatest moments of my life, Cap…”

It was just supposed to be coffee. 

It was a simple and innocent enough request on Tony’s part, a cheerful inquiry about how Steve’s morning was going, how productive his run through the city at dawn was, which led to an invite for coffee. And coffee sounded damn good, as did the time spent away from the Tower, spent away from himself. 

Tony offered to drive, and although Steve barely fit into the passenger seat of the vehicle Tony chose to take— “They didn’t build this thing with your shoulder span in mind, buddy…”—  it seemed like a lovely way to spend an hour of his morning. 

But then Tony started talking about bikinis and broads and Steve had to stop and clarify—

“You asked me to go get coffee with you, Tony. Not...not a place with nudity or—” 

“Oh, my dearest Steven. You’re about to have the best coffee of your too-long life.” 

Steve goes through what he knows, filters through the limited 21st Century knowledge he carries and builds upon each day. 

He’s been to a few local places, ones that are open late at night that he has popped into when sleep doesn’t claim him. He is aware that Starbucks is incredibly popular. He’ll never get the sizing correct and has been told it is somehow both the best and the worst, but he thinks they have pretty decent coffee. Then again, he’s from a time where coffee’s intended purpose was to stimulate you enough to keep you awake for long working hours. 

Coffee is viewed very differently now.

Steve is about to tell Tony to turn around, to pull over and let him walk home because he really isn’t in the mood for any shenanigans, when Steve sees the sign— 

Java Juggs.

And then another sign of—

Bikini Baristas.

“Tony…” Steve warns, voice stern but it’s no match for Tony’s charming smile, his feigned innocence with a light, “Yes, Steve?” 

“Surely you are not taking me to a coffee shop where the women serving patrons their coffee are dressed in only their bikinis.” 

Tony nods his head, continues driving and follows the arrows painted onto the pavement of the parking lot that guide cars in the direction they should be driving, surely necessary only here given the...distractions. 

“Right, of course. Why would I do that?” Tony asks, tone serious, but when Steve takes one look out towards the incredibly small, standalone building merely the size of a shed, he has his answer. 

“Goddamnit, Tony.”

The women are indeed clad in bikinis. Steve has absolutely no idea how this business is legal, but he’s found out a lot of shit about the 21st Century is unexplainable and this must be one of those things. Steve is aware that a normal drive-thru window is small, coming up to most people’s chests, mid-torso, but these windows are much larger, dropping easily down to hip level. 

That has to be because of the baristas and their attire. 

There are only three baristas in the establishment that Steve can make note of. As they wait for the car in front of them to receive their coffee, Steve finds himself respectfully managing to take their appearance in while also not gawking. He will admit— these women have every reason to show their bodies off in the way they are choosing. They’re voluptuous and curvy, of varying shapes, two choosing to indeed wear a bikini. 

The redhead has chosen a white ensemble, complete with a bikini and a wrap of sorts around her lower half that makes it look more like a skirt, one that hugs her hips. The curvier brunette opted for a black bikini, also simple, and not a skirt per se, but Steve assumes it gets the job done. It looks like fishnets, hugs her lower half, stops right below the curve of her bottom. Steve can’t see the third barista but he can only assume she is dressed in the same kind of attire. 

“This is the best place in the city to come and get coffee,” Tony explains, and Steve is quick to furrow his brow. 

“Really?”

Tony scoffs. “Absolutely not. Come on, Cap.” 

Steve should just get out of the car and start walking home. 

“It isn’t terrible but, come on— it’s allowed to be shit. Look at ‘em!” 

Steve reaches for the door handle as Tony rolls the car forward, approaching the window, and that’s when he sees the third barista. 

Oh.

“Well look what the cat dragged in. Girls, your fave— Tony’s here.” 

“Hello to you too, Buckaroo. How are my favorite baristas doing, hmm?” 

Oh God.

Buckaroo is gorgeous. 

Since coming back to this life, Steve has not once been struck by someone’s beauty so suddenly as he is with the man at the window. 

It hits him in the very center of his being, feels like every inch of his skin is electrified where he sits cramped in this car. The man’s beauty punches him right in the dick, and he almost makes a noise, one Tony would surely hear given the compactness of this goddamn car.  He gets so hard so fast it knocks the air out of his chest but this is something more, something deeper.  

Where Steve was respectful with his eyes towards the two female baristas, he is anything but as he drinks in this other beauty. 

This man is young, his chocolate hair pulled up into an artful bun, the skin of his neck, of his entire body, making Steve need to damn near sink his teeth into his own fist to calm down. Steve just knows he’s soft, knows his skin has to be the most tender thing to press his fingertips into. And that thought makes him ache to touch this man. 

How inappropriate of him to have these filthy thoughts about a stranger.

But Steve can’t help it, damn him. 

He too is wearing a bikini, but his is crocheted into the pattern of two small, crimson stars that cover his nipples and are brought together by mere strings. His jean shorts are tiny, sit on his full hips low enough that the matching strings of the bottoms of the bikini sit high up on his hips. 

Steve finds himself wanting to bury both of his hands down the back of those shorts, to get two handfuls of what’s sure to be a ripe peach of an ass. The kid has to have an ass that matches the rest of him, one that Steve imagines himself sinking his teeth into even though he’s not once done that to anyone. 

Steve’s lewd and feral reaction brings a flush to his cheeks. He digs his fingers into the denim of his jeans. Is he sweating?

The stranger seems to be tall from where Steve is looking up and over at him, lithe and graceful and supple, and when he ducks his head, bends and rests his elbows on the windowsill, he knocks Steve out with one curl of his plush lips and a smack of his bubblegum.

“Who’d you bring along with you, Tony?” 

Steve feels his flush creep down his neck, one that is pronounced and intense. He adjusts where he sits, wiggles even. 

“Oh, right of course. This here is Steve! Told him I’d show him where to get the best cup of coffee in the city. Steve, Bucky. Bucky, Steve.”

“Oh yeah? Mr. Captain America himself? And you brought him here?” Bucky teases with a wink tossed easily in Steve’s direction before he purrs, “Heya, Stevie.” 

Steve is in love. 

He’s so in love he trips over his words, feels his blush darken impossible further and he makes an unexplainable gesture with his hand that he thinks will pass as a wave. He isn’t even sure if the words he uses are English, are ones Bucky can understand, but whatever he ends up saying makes Bucky giggle, face lighting up in a way that narrows all of Steve’s focus down to the way Bucky’s nose crinkles up cutely as he does so. 

Steve is really in love. 

“You want your regular, Tony?” one of the women within the stand asks with a holler and Tony nods, turning his curious gaze away from Steve to confirm his order. 

“Yeah, sweetheart— ten shots of espresso and then your Rainbow Unicorn blended drink.” 

Jesus. Steve doesn’t have enough time to be horrified before Bucky is speaking to him.

“What’ll you have, Mr. Captain?” Bucky asks, and Steve didn’t know it was possible for someone’s voice to sound like sex. In another life, one where Tony wasn’t mere inches from him and one where he had more instances of human interaction since coming out of the ice, he’d have a flirtatious response, one that would make it crystal clear for Bucky the direction of Steve’s thoughts. 

“I’ll uhh...do you guys have...have lattes?” is what he stumbles through instead. Tony immediately giggles, scoffs, but Bucky just smiles at Steve sweetly. 

“Yeah, big guy. We’ve got lattes. You want something sweet in that?” 

You. 

One word, just one word, that’s all he needs to say. Steve nods. 

“I’ll uhh...I’ll let you decide.” 

So close.

But Bucky hums, bites his lip, doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Too bad I can’t put a little bit’a me in your cup, huh?”  

Oh Christ.

Steve gulps, cheeks immediately flaring red, but he’s tired of fumbling over himself and his words, his wants. He ducks his head and looks right back at Bucky, mustering up just enough confidence to give him a solid once over before replying, “Yeah, that’s too bad.” 

Steve chooses to ignore Tony’s squawk and instead focuses on the way Bucky grins, the way Steve swears he sees Bucky’s cheeks glow pink. His stomach twists up pleasantly, butterflies joining in alongside the curl of heat. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt such validation before, especially that in the form of flirting. 

He floats through the rest of their interaction, eyes tracking Bucky as much as he can. He wishes to burn the various sexy images of Bucky into his brain, wants to pull them up later when he has time to himself with his fist and his cock. He doesn’t feel like as much as a pervert as he did minutes before, not with the way Bucky’s eyes meet his at every turn, a constant onslaught of further validation. 

He isn’t sure why he doesn’t ask for Bucky’s number before they drive off. He later blames it on the haze and heaviness of such an intense interaction, how he felt like he was wading through molasses in his mind as he watched Bucky wink at him as they drove away, still trying to memorize anything and everything he could about the brunette. 

He barely heard Tony’s chiding, his boisterous words that surely consisted of shit-talking him into the ground for his embarrassing behavior. He had no energy to dish it back, to stand up for himself in any way, especially when Tony mentions Bucky usually works tomorrow’s morning shift as well. 

“We’ll come back tomorrow morning and try that again because that was pitiful. Not only am I shocked you swing that way, I’m shocked at your absolute lack of flirting skills. I mean, could you not have at least…” 

Tomorrow morning. 

He’ll come back tomorrow morning, without Tony and with a clear head, all lack of self-confidence and pathetic attempts at flirting washed down the drain alongside his cum. Because there’s no way he’s spending the rest of the day doing anything but jerking off to images, thoughts, and scenarios of Bucky. 

Bucky, the curvy barista with the tiny red bikini and pinkest lips, the one who insinuated he wished Steve could eat him for breakfast. 

Fuck. 

Steve isn’t even ashamed in the slightest as he pulls into the drive thru the next morning, steady rain and darkened sky and all. 

After a day spent sitting on the shower floor alone with his hand and his dick, he spent too much of his night tossing and turning thinking about the way Bucky would feel under his hands to have any sort of shame this morning. Yes, he’s here to see Bucky; of course he is. Does it matter what kind of coffee he’s going to order? It does not. Is he going to ask Bucky out on a date or get his number? He absolutely is. 

He’s here without Tony, is alone without any added pressure, he’s thought of what he’s going to say— 

He’s going to do this. 

His planned out words are forgotten the moment it’s his turn to pull up to the window and he sees Bucky’s smile, bright enough to threaten to push all the rain out of the forecast.

He looks as ethereal as he did yesterday, glowing and angelic and delicious. Today he’s sporting a football jersey that is quite short, cropped and sits just below his chest, another g-string high on his hips that stands out because of his tiny denim shorts. 

Steve’s mouth waters at the same rate his dick turns to stone. He has to busy himself with putting the car in park so he doesn’t reach out his window and grab for Bucky right away, especially after Bucky purrs, “Heya, Stevie. Just had to come back and see me?” 

Steve takes a deep breath. He’s gotta start off strong. 

“Of course I did. How are you, Bucky?” 

His voice is perfectly confident. It’s strong and sturdy and smooth as he leans as casually as he can on his rolled-down window. Bucky meets him in the middle with his own lean against the open drive-thru window, cocking his hip and tucking his chin. 

“I’m good now that you’re here. My latte was that good, Captain?” 

Steve hums. He doesn’t even recall drinking the coffee Bucky made for him the morning before, but he knows it was perfect. He is more than intentional with the way his eyes wander before he answers quietly. 

“It was delicious, doll.” 

It’s the forwardness he was wanting from himself and the exact reaction he was wishing to get from Bucky. The tension between them finally snaps into place with strength that is so startling to Steve it has his heart hammering against his chest. He would be worried, would be backtracking and reeling himself in if it weren’t for the molten and seductive look Bucky is sending his way. 

“You want the same thing? Or do you want somethin’ a little different today?” 

Go in for the kill, Rogers. 

“Think I might want something even sweeter this time around,” he starts, pausing momentarily to watch Bucky’s tongue run along his bottom lip distractedly. “When is your shift over? How about I take you somewhere to grab something to eat?” 

That’s what people do, right? That’s not weird at nine in the morning? 

Bucky barely reacts to his proposition, but Steve can see it, the excitement of his words behind Bucky’s gaze and cool facade. He doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t pull his eyes away from Steve’s when he raises his voice to speak over his shoulder. 

“Darcy! Can I take off early? You owe me.” 

Steve should have known Bucky was going to surprise him, to one-up him. He doesn’t hear what Darcy says in response, is far too focused on the way Bucky’s ass fills out his shorts as he gets quite the eyeful when Bucky turns around. He wants to take the strings of Bucky’s underwear that are resting on his delicious hips and suck them between his teeth. Steve hopes Bucky can tell where his eyes have been as he turns back around with a grin on his face that Steve can’t quite decipher. 

“I’ve got a hankering for somethin’ that isn’t food, big guy.” 

Steve doesn’t know what that means but has a sneaking suspicion it is alluding to something extremely sexual. He hopes it is. Steve’s mouth dries right up when Bucky hops up onto the window, throws a leg over it and straddles the window ledge with unbelievable grace. Steve doesn’t even respond before Bucky is peeking into Steve’s own window, looking into his car. 

“How big is your backseat, Captain Rogers?” 

Steve has ascended. 

He has once again left this life and instead of plummeting into frigid ice, he has been swept up into a flaming inferno. 

He thinks it’s all worth it now. Every shitty and bizarre thing that has happened to him in his life, both of them, has now been deemed worth it as he looks down between his spread thighs and watches Bucky suck down his dick like it’s the best gift he’s ever been given. 

Steve could have never guessed this is how his morning would go, that he’d end up in this random parking lot with Bucky pulling him into the backseat of his car and sitting himself right in Steve’s lap. Don’t get him wrong, it’s the ideal situation, everything Steve eventually wanted, but he thought this is what he’d get after a few dates, after some sort of courting. 

“I’m sure I’ll have some sort of appetite after I bounce myself in your lap the way I’ve been thinkin’ about for twenty-four hours now.” 

Steve had no objections whatsoever. Whatever Bucky wanted. 

“Knew I was gonna love suckin’ on your cock,” Bucky murmurs, voice like sex, dripping in arousal as he mouths at Steve’s cockhead before holding onto the base and smacking Steve against the flat of his tongue, then his cheek. “This isn’t a dick though— this is a cock. Look how big you are, Steve. Just big and pretty all over, aren’t you?” 

Steve’s intended scoff comes out as much more of a garbled whine than a huffed noise. “Right. M’not sure I’m the pretty one, kid.” 

Steve is reminded that he has never seen someone so beautiful in his life actually. He knew it after pulling up to that godforsaken coffee joint, but his realization is driven home in this moment, in watching Bucky suck him off like it’s a privilege, like it’s his only purpose. Even in this vulnerable, subservient position where he is threatening to suck the soul out of Steve’s dick, he’s breathtaking. 

Bucky’s eyelids are heavy with arousal, the curl of his mouth is the most sinful thing Steve has been witness to, and when said mouth is full to the absolute brim of Steve, he moans, makes the sweetest of noises like he’s lost in it. 

Steve almost wishes he could draw Bucky like this and he hasn’t felt compelled to draw with his heart in months.

 Maybe another time. 

“Don’t flatter me, Captain,” Bucky murmurs with a grin, flicking his tongue and mouthing at the crown of Steve’s cock in a way that has Steve’s vision swimming. 

“Steve,” he hears himself breathe, hand coming down to messily stroke a few fingers across Bucky’s cheek. “No Captain, not here. Not with you.” 

Steve’s insides feel all sorts of rearranged with the way Bucky looks up at him, with the seemingly nonstop stream of eye contact he gifts Steve with. He watches as Bucky’s eyelids flutter as he moans, dips his chin and wraps his lips around Steve, sucks. 

“Steve,” Bucky husks out sweetly before he’s swallowing Steve down again, letting him feel the back of Bucky’s throat. 

Bucky sucks cock like he’s a professional, like he’s an expert and he damn well knows it. He’s noisy with it, that perfect edge of sloppy yet succinct, complete with filthy wet noises that go right to Steve’s balls. Bucky moans around his mouthful, throatful, moves his hand in time with his mouth as he does so, slipping together so beautifully Steve has no choice but to drop his head back as he groans. 

The pounding of the rain on the hood of his car barely drowns out his noises. 

This kid doesn’t care that his chin is covered in spit, that his hand is coated in it as well, isn’t afraid to pull off and dive down to mouth at Steve’s sac, first one ball and then the other. Two seconds after Steve lifts his head up to look down at Bucky, he’s right back to dropping it back again, the feeling of Bucky’s tongue slipping behind his balls enough to make him damn near shout towards the roof of the car. Bucky huffs, whines as if he’s on the verge of a climax simply from making Steve feel pleasure he’s never once felt in his life. 

“I wanna make you come, wanna swallow your big load, Steve,” Bucky pouts, voice nasally and desperate in a way that has Steve gritting his teeth. It’s like he can’t bear the thought of pulling his mouth away from Steve’s dick, rubs his cheek against it, moans open-mouthed as he kisses at it between words. “But I want you to come inside of me more, wanna feel this fat cock fill my ass up.” 

Steve gasps, brings his hand down to Bucky’s head once more, this time with an edge of eagerness. He nods his head feverishly as he cards his fingers through Bucky’s chestnut hair, messing up his picture perfect bun as he guides Bucky to wrapping his lips back around his cock. Bucky obliges so gorgeously and eagerly Steve can’t help but moan appreciatively.

“Can...can come more than once. Can stay hard,”  Steve bites out, and he isn’t halfway through his choppy explanation before Bucky is moaning happily, damn near squealing around his mouthful. “You want both, Buck?”

He doesn’t need a verbal answer— Bucky gratefully sputtering and gagging on his dick is enough. 

It takes Bucky but sixty more seconds to make Steve come, embarrassing for him but something Bucky should most definitely take pride in. He sends Steve to the back of his throat, slide after slide, opening his mouth to not muffle the wet and filthy noises of his mouth working Steve over. 

When he comes, he feels his orgasm in his core, pleasure so sharp that it immediately leaves him struggling to take air into his lungs. He forces himself to not shove Bucky’s head down, to not take what little air Bucky has in his own lungs away from him. He fights through waves of his orgasm as he watches on as Bucky drinks him down, as he moans and swallows, moans and sucks, moans and bobs. 

Steve thinks he’s part of some sort of erotic show when Bucky spits bubbles of his mouthful of hot cum back onto Steve’s still- hard cock, whining pitifully when he goes to suck it off again, but Steve is beginning to think this is just Bucky. 

Bucky likes sex. 

Steve likes Bucky. 

Steve thinks he likes sex if it’s with Bucky.

His cock is still covered in his own cum when Bucky moves with pointed determination and a wet mouth from his spot on Steve’s floorboard. To say Steve is surprised even though he knows what’s happening is an understatement. He shakes his head uselessly. 

“It’s…do we…do you have a—” 

“No,” Bucky mumbles with a smile as he fumbles with his shorts. “No condom. I want you raw. I wanna feel you. I promise I’m clean, Stevie. Lemme feel you bare. If I get one chance with Steve Rogers; I want him bare.”

Steve is too overcome with the force of newfound arousal, a wave hot like fire, to reassure Bucky this will not be the last time they see one another. 

He manages to nod his head though, watching through hazy vision as Bucky moves to straddle him, reaching back to pull his excuse for underwear to the side. 

“Know you probably want me to keep my panties on, the way you’ve been eyein’ them. I’ll let you take them home when we’re done here. How ‘bout that?” 

Steve can’t stop his groan as it tumbles from his lips, and all he can think to say is, “But it’s…I’m messy,” as he feels about the cum still coating his erection.

Bucky moans, reaching behind for Steve’s cock, cum-covered and all. “It is messy, baby. But that’s the way I like it.”

Steve reaches another level of ascension when he hears those words, when he feels Bucky press the tip of his cock against his hole, when Bucky doesn’t so much as flinch as he begins to sit on him. 

Maybe it’s because he’s drunk on sex, maybe it’s because he can’t remember what sex felt like before this, but he feels the urge to confess his love for Bucky right there, back seat of a car in the pouring rain and all. He feels like he’s under a spell as he looks up at Bucky, as he takes in his flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, as he watches Bucky get lost in the sensation of being speared open by Steve’s cock. 

“Oh my god,” he hears himself slur, voice dripping in awe, and Bucky smiles— smiles— as he nods his head and lowers himself further onto Steve’s dick. 

It’s impossible for Steve to not reach for Bucky then, for him to not sit up with Bucky in tow and wrap an arm around his tiny middle. It brings their faces impossible close, forces Bucky's hands to come out and scramble for any kind of purchase as he continues to slide down onto Steve’s cock. When they land on his shoulders and then his face, his arms winding themselves around Steve’s neck, the intimacy nearly cuts off Steve’s air supply.

“Oh my god, sit on it.” 

“Steve…!” 

  “Oh baby, c’mon. C’mon…” 

They work in tandem to settle Bucky fully onto his cock, to make him as comfortable as possible with being split open. With the way Bucky bounces and sinks himself into Steve’s lap, it’s clear that he is experienced with sex. But there’s no doubt that Steve is incredibly well-endowed. In fact, Bucky tells him so, to Steve’s utter disbelief. 

“Steve,” he whines into Steve’s open mouth, voice so sweet it makes Steve’s bones ache. “Steve, you feel so big.” 

“I am big, baby— I am. But you can take it, right? Oh, you can take it.” 

He’s not once been one to talk dirty, not once been vocal in any past sexual encounter, but it feels natural with Bucky in his lap. 

Bucky nods his head frantically, wide eyes locked onto Steve’s as if hypnotized. “I can take it.” 

The fingers of his free hand come up to squeeze at the meat of Bucky’s ass cheek, smacking at it when Bucky all but squeals, encouraging him when words become hard and his vision blurs yet again. 

When Bucky’s ass settles flush against Steve’s lap, when he’s left gasping with how hot and tight and wet of a grip his cock is fully wrapped up in, they both share a set of moans, lips smearing messily against one another’s in an excuse for a set of kisses. 

Steve doesn’t even hesitate when he tastes himself on Bucky’s mouth. In fact, his cock pulses at the taste coupled with the reminder images of how Steve’s cum got into Bucky’s mouth in the first place. 

He’s coming to find he enjoys messy if it involves Bucky. 

What he expects to happen next is for the two of them to need to get used to the feeling of Steve inside of Bucky, for Bucky to need to wiggle and roll his hips to adjust to Steve’s size. 

He should know better by now that Bucky is set on surprising Steve at every turn. 

Because what Steve doesn’t expect is for Bucky to moan and press himself fully into Steve’s lap, chest to chest, , to spread his legs around him further and to pout, “Oh, my pussy’s gonna be feeling you for days, Stevie. Stretch it out so good.” 

Holy fuck. 

He lifts himself up in Steve’s grip, an arm around his waist and hand on his ass, and begins to give Steve the best ride he’ll ever have in his life, this one or any cursed one that comes after this. 

The way Bucky sucks cock is nothing compared to the way he rides one. His hips move like water, smooth but with ferocity that can only be compared to hunger, bouncing and rocking in a dizzying tandem. Steve gasps when Bucky adjusts and rises up on his knees, pulling his cock out of his ass and sliding back down onto it, repeating the motion with a guttural and cheerful moan. 

Between bouncing and rocking, Steve isn’t sure if he’ll make it out of this backseat alive. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby. Does it feel good? Does my pussy feel good?” 

Yeah— they’re going to have to carry him out of here on a stretcher. 

Steve’s thighs shake with the force of Bucky’s bounces, the sensation of the car swaying underneath them adding to the eroticism of the moment. He grits his teeth in an attempt to ground himself, yet all he can hear are the lewd noises of his cum slicking up Bucky’s pussy, easing his bounces and making it easier for Bucky to fuck himself down into Steve’s lap and onto his cock. 

He knows his grip on Bucky’s body has to be too tight, knows that if he isn’t actively thinking about his strength it can get away from him and cause great harm. 

But Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, not with how loud and how eagerly he fucks. The way his body moves, the way it bounces and jiggles in his lap and in said grip, warrants a tight hold. Bucky squeals against Steve’s mouth as he rocks his hips back and forth in Steve’s lap forcefully, finding his rhythm and that sweet spot deep inside of him. 

“Steve,” he all but begs, gasping and tugging at the hair at the back of Steve’s head. “Does my pussy feel good?” 

Validation. Bucky wants validation. Steve can do that. Moving to dig his fingers into the skin of Bucky’s hips, relishing in the shock and pain of Bucky tugging on his hair while his ass squeezes the life out of his cock, he growls through gritted teeth. 

“Pussy feels so goddamn good, Buck. Sweetest pussy v’ever fucked.” 

Bucky’s moan is different this time, more frantic, more emotional. It tugs at Steve’s balls. 

He wants more of that. 

He grabs a hold of Bucky’s ass cheeks this time, two overflowing handfuls that he spreads and spurs on, using his strength for good as Bucky shows more and more signs of his own climax. 

“You like how much my cock stretches your pussy out? You like bein’ stretched out like that?” 

Bucky’s movements become messier, less expertised, as if he’s been waiting for Steve to take over in order to feel. With Steve holding onto him the way he is and with him able to use his strength to fuck Bucky in his lap, Bucky winds an arm back around Steve’s neck, burying his face into the opposite side of it. 

“I love it,” Steve barely hears Bucky slur out. “I fucking love it.” 

“You love the stretch of me or you love hearin’ me talk about it?”

“Both. Both,” Bucky moans, messily sucking on the side of Steve’s neck as he continues to use Bucky’s body, his hole, like a toy. 

That’s all he needs to hear to push past his insecurities of being inexperienced. He lets the words flow, presses them right into Bucky’s jaw.

“Pussy’s so tight, Buck. Fuck. Never had a pussy as good as this. Squeezin’ the hell outta me. Bet it’s so pretty too. You didn’t even show it to me.” 

Bucky’s noises sound like garbled hiccups. Steve is hotter than hell for them. 

“That’s alright though— you can show it to me after this. Bet it’s even prettier all swollen and full’a my cum. Bet it’ll taste even better.” 

Bucky sobs.

“You filthy, bastard. I’m gonna come. Make me come, fuck me harder.” 

Yes. 

He picks Bucky up by the ass and pushes him back down onto his cock faster than humanly possible yet with ease, over and over again until Bucky’s noises are a constant stream, garbled and nonsensical. Being able to use his strength, the vice-like grip Bucky’s pussy chokes him in, the sweet noises Bucky lets out now into his mouth; it sends him all but sailing into his climax. 

“Come in my pussy. Use it for what it’s made for, Steve. Come in it, come in it. Come in my pussy. Fill it up and—” 

Steve blacks out. He isn’t sure if the ringing in his ears is from how hard he comes or from how loud Bucky’s fucked-out noises are, but the first spurt of his second orgasm has him blacking out. 

When he comes to, Bucky is writhing in his lap, wiggling against his front and in his grip, whining about his sweet pussy as he makes a mess of them both between their stomachs. Even through a seemingly watery haze Bucky is beautiful when he comes, free of touch and from Steve’s cock alone. Flushed cheeks, flushed neck, half-lidded eyes and a wet mouth; Steve’s never seen anything more bewitching. 

He can hear himself groaning, can feel the noise of it against the skin of Bucky’s neck when he pulls him close again, sliding his hands up and under Bucky’s cropped jersey. His skin is impossibly warm, impossibly soft. He turns and lets his teeth sink into the skin of his flushed neck, following through with his wish to do so when he first saw Bucky in the drive thru window.

Once he begins to touch Bucky, he can’t stop himself, his hands wandering and rubbing wherever he can, stopping briefly to play with the strings of Bucky’s g-string. 

He breaks the silence by clearing his throat and whispering gruffly. “I do think I want to take this home with me.” 

Bucky’s giggle is immediate and joyful. He pulls his head back, the effort of the movement obvious and sparking a deep sense of satisfaction in Steve. 

“I’m so happy you’re a freak too,” Bucky mumbles, voice raspy and fucked-out. “I was worried I would scare you away.” 

Steve slides his hands back down to Bucky’s ass, kneading at it and moaning at the still pleasurable feel of being inside of someone. 

“To be fair, I didn’t really know I was a freak. You brought it out of me.” 

Bucky purrs happily, squeezing at Steve’s chest and kissing his clean jaw. 

“Good. We can capitalize on that. Hopefully.” 

Steve’s heart soars happily, butterflies such a foreign feeling to him. He squeezes at Bucky further, getting another happy moan out of him. 

“We absolutely can.” 

To Steve’s pleasant surprise, Bucky seems to be in no rush to move from their entangled spot or from Steve’s car. With the exhaustion from using their bodies and the patter of rain falling from the dark sky, it becomes obvious to Steve that they could easily fall asleep here. 

And then Steve can’t help but recognize that he hasn’t felt this at ease with someone, this safe, with someone else since he rejoined this world. 

His grip on Bucky tightens at that thought. He’s unable to stop himself from turning his face and pressing his lips to Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky hums, rocking himself slowly in his lap. 

“Can you come more than twice in a row or…? How long between rounds?” 

Oh yeah— Steve likes sex and Steve likes Bucky.

[forthechubbies]

Love Thy Husband

Kingpin's Son!San x Innocent yet spicy! Chubby! Wife

You arrived adorned in luxurious fabric bought with their bloody wealth. You are not just a gift, but a treasure...a plaything acquired for the pleasure of the rightful heir to the Choi dynasty.

Choi San.

II: Bring Me Home ♡ *New*

⚠️ Language, forced marriage, San is a good boy with bad habits, Yn conceals her face with a veil....and San is feral for your modest dressing style. No peep show for San 🙃⚠️

The purpose of a wedding photograph is to immortalize the beauty of that specific moment. Yet, when you stumble upon your own image, it triggers memories of your past yet your in laws so proudly display pictures all over their home. She was abducted by the man she now calls father to settle a overdue debt owed by her birth father.

You shed a tear, remembering your grim past.

As their son finally arrived at the mansion, he discovered his hidden surprise - a gift waiting for him. Despite the mysterious ivory veil that concealed her face, he agreed to accept her without hesitation. Little did he know, the veil was a humble plea from your father, who wished to shield his princess from the dark and dangerous world of the mafia.

The day unfolded before your eyes, obscured by the delicate ivory lace that draped over your face. Gripping the bouquet of baby's breath tightly, your heart pounded as the groom tenderly lifted the veil, allowing it to hover just above your trembling lips.

San's name escaped his lips in a hushed tone, barely audible against the backdrop of your rouge painted lips. Instead of forcefully pulling you towards him, he leaned in, delicately pressing his lips against yours. In the midst of this tender moment, he unintentionally crushed the bouquet.

The kiss, though seemingly pleasant, bore a resemblance to the innocence of toddlers exchanging affectionate pecks. He delicately pressed his lips against your flushed ones, refraining from any further advances. Despite his family now viewing you as his possession, San even restrained himself from touching you.

From that moment on, the vibrant world outside became a distant memory, The majority of your existence now revolves around the presence of your husband, consuming your every waking moment.. Who frankly you couldn't wrap your head around! One moment he’s stern and hostile the next, he’s a sweetheart gentlemen.

Speaking up the devil, There he is, Your phone icon alarmed you of husband’s incoming call. You rolled your eyes before answering. “Hello, San-"

"Omo..you sound like your about to die or worse." San complained under his breath. " You realize I'm your husband and not the grim reaper, yeah?" You could hear his blood simmering.

"Oh, you really had me fooled," you sarcastically remarked. Suddenly, you gasped, gripping your phone tightly, only to berate yourself for your own foolishness right away.

San’s brow involuntarily twitched, disturbed by the sass that escaped your cheeky lips. "What was that?... My dearest," he uttered with a tone that never ceases to send chills down your spine.

You carefully approached him, using his nickname in a soothing tone, "San..nie?" hoping to ease his anger. "My dear husband,” You’re cheeks reddening in embarrassment for actually fearing your husband’s wrath…some would say it should the other way around.

The phone went quiet briefly, only for your man to let out a chuckle that stirs up your fury, playing with you effortlessly. "Impressive, Sannie?.." He arches his eyebrows, making you squeal as he exhales his rugged accent over the line. "Sweetheart, I had no idea you could be this adorable." He taunts you in your mother language.

You are completely oblivious to the depths of your husband's affection for you. His love for you knows no bounds and shines brightly in every aspect of your life.

Especially your body....of what you allow him to see.

You feel safer when concealed from the sun, the man's wild gaze fixated on your delicate ankles and soft hands, pretending to be strong against his threats. You resist him so feebly, he longs to tear off your veil, granting you the illusion of courage to sass him, walk away mid-conversation, and disregard his presence as if he's not a menacing figure linked to the Atz, with his father just a phone call away from silencing your weak father permanently.

"I adore you, Mrs. Choi!!!" Wooyoung's voice echoed through the air, a mix of excitement and mischief. He sprinted towards San, seeking refuge behind him. "That asshole busted my lip," he growled, feeling the sting of his bloody lower lip. But despite the pain, he couldn't help but flash a mischievous smile at his friend, casually draping his arm over his shoulder. "So, how's the lovely wife doing?"

San sound shocked. “ How did you know I was-“

Wooyoung simply grins and nods. "You're adorable when you talk to her," he says with a mischievous smile, teasing his embarrassed friend.

The next thing you know you hear Wooyoung wince in pain, you assumed San hit him like usual followed by "Arghhh!!" Wooyoung biting him as a response.

"Don't fucking bite me, ya little bastard!" San's accent made you flinch, your Korean is far from perfect, and most of the time his words go unnoticed or you simply stare at his lips out of sheer cluelessness. But hey, it's not your fault. You were forcefully taken away from your family and thrown into this marriage with just weeks later.

"Ya! Who are you cursing at, cunt!?!” Wooyoung yelled in response, only to be met with a menacing voice hurling threats at them..

San's eyes gleamed with mischief as he glanced at the towering goon. "Hey, Woo, is this your buddy?" he asked, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Sorry, Honey, gotta go," he said, his voice dripping with allure as he abruptly ended the call. The unmistakable sound of San ruthlessly overpowering the goon echoed in the background.

Overwhelmed by the harsh truth, you found yourself standing in complete silence, consumed by the weight of this new reality.

[caeslxys]

Something I think is extremely interesting thematically when it comes to connecting what Downfall and the ideas it tackled to the overarching narrative of campaign three is that the things Downfall made a point to showcase of Aeor—Cassida, Hallis, the visual of an aeormaton proposing to her partner, the specific and intentional decision to shed light on a far from insignificant amount of the population being civilians or refugees—is that it plays in perfect parallel across from what is happening (and, really, has been happening) to the ruidusborn on Exandria in present.

Bear with me for a moment. Aeor is ultimately a city that was collectively punished for the decisions of its leadership. We could (and, judging by the amount of discourse around this particular topic already, probably will) argue about what the Gods’ motivation for all of this was—whether it be that they could not, in the end, bear to kill their siblings or that they were terrified at the prospect of mortality—for me it is a very healthy dose of both—but for this I am much more interested in the latter. They were scared. That, really, is the driving force behind both this arc and their role in c3 as a whole.

Why I point this out is: It is far more interesting to me, especially as we go back to Bells Hells this week, to dissect the Gods and their decisions not purely on sympathetic motivation alone but as beings in the highest seat of power in the highest social class in Exandria.

So, having established that the Gods (in relation to mortals) are more a higher social class than anything we could compare to our real life understanding of divinity and that Aeor was eviscerated largely because of their fear—what is the difference between those innocents in Aeor caught in the trappings of their autocratic government leadership and a divine war on the ground, and those of the ruidusborn being manipulated both by Ludinus and by the very thing that inspired such visceral fear in the Gods to start with. I would argue very little.

I think of Cassida, doing what she genuinely thought was right and good and would save people, her son, and the object of her worship—and how that did not matter enough to any of them to spare her because of the fear they held at the very concept of mortality. I think of Liliana and Imogen, one of which we know begged for the gods to help her or send her a sign for years on years, and how every single one of their largest struggles could have been avoided had the gods loved them, their supposed children, as much as they feared what they could be. I think of how the thing that did save Imogen, in the end, was a woman who herself existed in direct defiance of the gods will. I think of that young boy, sixteen years old, that Laudna exalted on Ruidus.

I think it’s completely fair to judge Aeor’s overall society as deeply corrupt—it was!—but its leadership and police force are not a reflection of every one of its citizens. Similarly, it is fair to judge the Ruby Vanguard as corrupt—it is!—but its multiple heads of leadership and even the god-eater further are not a reflection of every one of its members.

Notably, and what I think the Hells will latch onto, this did not matter to the Gods. It did not matter that Cassida was trying to help. She was still too much of a risk. Will it matter, what Imogen does? Will it matter, if that young boy is in the blast radius when they decide to take no further chances?

I’ve seen a lot of people say that the Hells will side with the gods and I don’t think I agree. Especially as Imogen has been scolded and villainized over and over for daring to try and save her mother—who herself has been seen by some as an irredeemable evil in spite of her drive being the exact same—her family—but when it’s the Gods it’s justified? When it’s the Gods, it’s sympathetic? Too sympathetic to criticize further than “they’re family”?

I obviously do not think the Gods should die or be eaten or what have you, and I certainly don’t agree with Ludinus (though I find him much more compelling than just a variation of hubris wizard), but when talking about the Gods in Aeor and in present it isn’t really at all about their motivation or their family. It can’t be. Too many people, including our active protagonists, lives have been effected for it to be as cut and dry as “they’re family”. These are your children. They are your family, too.

[thoughtfulchaos773]

Neil Fak- The simple, innocent man Carmy once was.

Since Carmy is back home, he's outgrowing his naviety

What caught my attention is that Carmy and Fak are interested in flowers. However, Carmy loses hope and gets rid of the flowers in season 3. We can associate flowers with joy, innocence, love, and sentiments, which are all absent in Carmy's life in season 3. But he desires that innocence again something Fak carries. But there's both pros and cons to this way of life.

Fak is who Carmy would have become if he had stayed in Chicago and continued to be around Richie and Mikey. He would have immersed himself in the ballbreaker game, trying to win and ultimately losing his potential.

Did you notice that Fak isn't introduced to the story until Sydney is introduced? When season 1 begins, life is now too complicated for Carmy to understand, and a mind like Fak's can only narrate it simply.

In some way Fak is a version of Carmy. The innocent version.

Fak and Carmy - we're told they're best friends or butt buddies as Richie puts it.

Fak's adolescent mind - naivety thinks everyone is his best friend.

Since Carmy has gotten older, he realizes he carries more scars and wonders what a best friend is. He even questions if Mikey is his best friend.

As the series progresses, Carmy is coming to terms with the fact that relationships are complicated and not as simple as he initially thought. It's easy for him to resort to anger and violence like the Ballbreaker game when things become too complicated to understand. However, Carmy needs to mature in order to be the person his family needs. Being naive about relationships, people, and emotions won't help him.

I want to acknowledge @outmakingmoonshine for this outstanding, detailed meta on whether or not Syd and Carmy were planned. I re-read the script where Fak is introduced. In so many words, Carmy is saying that a sappy love story won't save the characters this time. Fak is raising the stakes, making winning at life a more significant risk. He gives Claire Carmy's number, adding more risk to the love story between Sydney and Carmy.

This subtext is a prediction- Sydney and Carmy's relationship is heading towards difficult feelings, and it becomes even more complex as they grow. Calling in Fak can hopefully help Carmy navigate, allowing him to somehow narrate an easier story than what's about to be told.

From Fak's innocent perspective, the game "Ball Breaker," known for its violence, is just too difficult because there's more to it. From Fak's perspective, the game or story (life) is too confusing to beat. Fak is the one who's raising plays to a dollar. A higher risk for a story about manhood and ball busting. Love.

Ballbreaker Game is gone. Now Fak is left to play Cupid.

Season 2 Ball breaker is over, and we're left with the game of who's in love with you—who could be dating who—with both Richie and Fak playing the game of cupid.

Fak sees it simply. Marcus and Sydney should hook up because they like each other. And carmy is in love with claire. Why shouldn't they get together?

He's not paying attention to syd and carmy's part. It's too difficult of a part of the game or story to navigate.

We need to take Fak's input on love with a grain of salt because he insists that Carmy is his best friend, just like everyone else.

It's just too difficult

Think of the upcoming sydcarmy scenes. 2x09 Carmy grows up a bit realizes that he has to be the guy his family expects him to be- the man where everyone can rely on him. This moment of growth has carmy wanting to fix the table or relationship with Sydney without faks help or naivety coming to mend it. The same as 3x04 when Sydney is ready to talk to Carmy about his consistent miscommunication Fak is pushed away.

Because this is a story about manhood, Carmy's growth involves shedding naivety, embracing complex emotions, and becoming the man his family needs.

But he is still wondering how he can find the balance to embrace his innocence and where he can stop and smell the roses while still growing up.

Tagging: @currymanganese @moodyeucalyptus @vacationship @whenmemorydies @brokenwinebox @fresaton