#it does make a girl feel a little worse about feeling worse....

[rafecameronssl4t]

F1 driver!Rafe x Reader! As someone that loves watching F1, I'm so happy you're doing this, and damn fans can be vicious sometimes so it gave me an idea. Maybe Reader is getting hate online, with jelaousy comments, saying that ''she's not pretty enough, she's so basic looking, I don't understand what he sees in her, I guess anyone has a chance with Rafe,''. And gradually the words get to her, making her really self concious when she's around him in public, girls near him that are (in her opinion) prettier and eventuallys she tries to break up with him, but he does not let her (not in a toxic way, more so because he loves her and isn't going to let anyone come between them)

Public eye || F1 driver!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: So sorry this took awhile!!!!!! But thank you for the request it was sm fun to write :)

Warnings: angst, mental health struggles, bullying and online harassment, if theres anything else lmk!

Word count: 2, 946

MASTERLIST (F1 driver!Rafe x fem!reader au masterlist)

Your fingers hovered hesitantly over the comment section of the video, your heart beating just a little faster as you stared at the screen. The clip, a simple moment of you and Rafe walking into the paddock, was already gathering attention. He was beside you, his hand casually draped over your shoulder as you both made your way through the crowd, looking every bit like a power couple.

You could still hear the soft hiss of the shower jets from the bathroom, Rafe taking his time to wash off the stress of the race. You should have been doing something productive, but the pull of curiosity was too strong. Lately, your presence on social media had been growing—both the praise and the hate.

You’d never been one to look at the comments, always avoiding the spotlight, but today… something felt different. You clicked on the comment section, your thumb hovering nervously over the screen as you scrolled down. The first few comments were harmless, even flattering. “You two are perfect together,” one said. “Her smile is contagious,” said another.

Your lips curved into a faint smile as you read through them, the warmth of their compliments offering a brief comfort. For a moment, you forgot about the nagging feeling building in your chest. But then the tone shifted. You could feel your stomach tighten as the first negative comment appeared. “She looks so out of place with him,” one user wrote, followed by another comment: “She doesn’t belong in paddock.”

Your fingers trembled slightly, but you tried to push the discomfort aside. It was just one comment. You kept scrolling. More criticisms followed. Someone commented on your outfit: “Why does she dress like that? She looks like she’s trying too hard.” Another user posted, “She looks so stiff next to him. Does she even smile?” A sharp sting pierced your chest, and you tried to shake it off, but it wasn’t easy.

You’d spent so much time trying to dress right, trying to look the part, but now it felt like none of it mattered. “Her resting face is so rude,” one person said. Another added, “She looks miserable. Why does she always look so cold around Rafe?” You couldn’t help but feel your stomach drop. You knew you had a more serious expression, but it hurt to see it picked apart like this, as if your face wasn’t enough.

You quickly scrolled past more hurtful comments, but the damage had already been done. The video, which had once seemed like a simple moment between you and Rafe, now felt like an invasion of your privacy, like everyone was judging you. You glanced back at the bathroom door, where the sound of Rafe still hummed softly from the shower, completely unaware of the thoughts swirling in your head.

Your hands tightened around your phone, and you felt the familiar weight of insecurities settling in. You weren’t sure why this time felt worse than before. Maybe it was the fact that you were constantly being compared to Rafe’s world now, his fame, his fans, his life in the spotlight. It felt suffocating at times, and the negativity from strangers only made it worse.

You took a shaky breath, trying to pull yourself together. This wasn’t about you. It was about Rafe, and his world. You tried to convince yourself that you didn’t need their validation, but the ache in your chest remained. Before you could sink any deeper into the spiral of your thoughts, the bathroom door creaked open, and Rafe’s voice, still heavy with the sound of water dripping, called out to you.

“Hey, everything alright?” Rafe’s voice was soft as he stepped into the room, the steam from his shower trailing behind him. His towel hung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. His brows furrowed slightly when his eyes landed on you, the tension in your posture giving you away. You swallowed hard, quickly flipping your phone face-down on the bed as you forced a small, unconvincing smile.

“Yeah, just… tired. It’s been a long day.” Rafe didn’t seem entirely convinced. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he were debating whether to push further. Instead, he let it slide, disappearing into the closet to grab a pair of boxers. When he returned, his tone was casual, though there was an edge of curiosity in his voice.

“Did you want to walk in with me tomorrow?” he asked, tossing the towel into the hamper before slipping on boxers. He moved with practiced ease, his body language as relaxed as ever. It was a question you’d heard countless times before, something routine between the two of you, but tonight, it felt heavier. Different. You nibbled on your bottom lip, his question tugging you back to the comments you’d just read.

She looks out of place next to him… She doesn’t belong there. The words replayed in your head like a taunting echo. You hesitated before replying, your voice quieter than usual. Your fingers toyed with the edge of the duvet as you hesitated. “Uh, I think I’ll come a bit after,” you said finally, trying to sound casual, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. Rafe paused for a moment, his head tilting slightly as he considered your answer.

His brows furrowed just enough to show that he noticed the shift in your tone, but he didn’t push. Instead, he hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he climbed into bed. Once settled, he turned his attention back to you, his head propped on his hand as he studied your face. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his voice softer now, laced with genuine concern.

You nodded quickly, your smile brighter this time, though it still didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. I promise, I’m fine,” you said, hoping the words sounded convincing. But even as you said them, your mind was still swirling with doubt, the insecurities clawing at the edges of your composure. Rafe didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he let it slide for now. Instead, he reached out and tugged you gently toward him, his arms wrapping around your body in a warm, familiar embrace.

His lips brushed softly against your temple before trailing down to your shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, like an anchor. A shaky breath escaped your lips as you nestled into his chest, the comfort of his presence momentarily dulling the ache in your heart. “I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice almost trembling.

~

Walking into the paddock alongside Rafe’s PR manager, Mia, you couldn’t shake the weight of countless eyes on you. It felt suffocating, as though everyone’s gaze was dissecting your every move, every expression. The hum of chatter and camera shutters blended into an almost deafening background noise, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were saying—or thinking.

Were they silently judging you? Waiting for you to stumble, to make some minor misstep they could pounce on? The thought sent a sharp pang of anxiety through your chest. It wasn’t just paranoia; you’d seen how quickly narratives could form online, how a single bad photo could spiral into accusations and labels. If you weren’t smiling enough, they’d say you were cold, ungrateful. If you stood too close to Rafe, they’d call you clingy. Too far, and you’d seem distant, uninterested.

Your grip on your paddock pass tightened, glancing briefly at Mia, who was confidently walking ahead, her phone in hand, seemingly oblivious to the tension building inside you. She had a way of carrying herself that made it seem like none of this affected her—like the noise bounced off her shield of professionalism. You envied her for that. The click of a camera somewhere to your left made your heart skip a beat.

You didn’t dare look, afraid of what expression might’ve been caught. You straightened your posture instead, forcing a faint smile that felt unnatural, plastered on for the sake of appearances. The effort felt exhausting, but it was what you’d learned to do in this world—pretend you didn’t notice, pretend it didn’t hurt. As you walked, you could feel whispers trailing in your wake, the murmurs mingling with the mechanical hum of the paddock.

Were they talking about your outfit? Your hair? The fact that you weren't walking in with Rafe? It was a never-ending game of scrutiny, and you felt like a chess piece on a board you barely understood. "Hey, are you good?" Mia's voice pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts. Her tone was light, accompanied by a small chuckle as she caught the distant look in your eyes.

You blinked rapidly, turning to her with a startled expression. “Sorry, what?” you asked, your voice slightly shaky. She chuckled again, tilting her head curiously. “Are you okay? You seem nervous,” she repeated, her eyes scanning your face as the two of you approached the Ferrari area. “Yeah! Yeah—I’m fine, just jet lagged,” you replied quickly, your tone a little too chipper to be convincing. You added a casual shrug for good measure, hoping it would sell the lie.

Mia’s gaze lingered for a moment, but she slowly nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Alright, if you say so. I’ve got to go organise Rafe for his interview. Will you be okay by yourself? I think Austin’s around here somewhere,” she said, glancing around the bustling paddock. “Yeah, of course, go ahead. I’ll look for him,” you assured her with a polite smile.

She nodded, giving you a quick wave before disappearing into the chaos, leaving you alone amidst the buzz of mechanics, media personnel, and fans. You continued walking, your eyes darting around in search of a familiar face. The usual hum of the paddock felt louder now, almost oppressive, as you noticed more phones and cameras turning in your direction. A knot tightened in your stomach.

Normally, you could brush it off, but today the weight of their stares was unbearable. Biting your bottom lip nervously, you quickened your pace, practically darting into the safety of the Ferrari garage. The moment you stepped inside, a voice called out to you, making you pause. “Y/n!” Relief flooded your chest as you spotted Austin waving you over from the balcony of the hospitality area.

“Hey!” you greeted him warmly, embracing him in a quick hug. “Rafe should be done with his interview pretty soon,” Austin said, glancing at his watch. You hummed in response, setting your things down on the table before joining him at the railing. The two of you leaned against it, looking down at the sea of people navigating the paddock below. “Yeah, Rafe and I were planning to head back to OBX for a week after—”

Your words trailed off as your eyes froze on a group of girls huddled together, their phones unmistakably aimed in your direction. Their whispering and laughter sent a chill through you, making your shoulders stiffen visibly. Noticing your silence, Austin followed your gaze. His brows furrowed in concern. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft but probing.

You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes away from the girls. “I-uh—I’ll just sit down for a bit,” you muttered, moving back toward the table. Austin watched you carefully, his confusion evident. “Do you know them?” You shook your head, avoiding his gaze. After a moment, he sighed, his tone shifting to something more knowing. “Have you been reading comments again?”

The question made your head snap up, your eyes meeting his. You didn’t respond, but your silence was enough. “Y/n,” he said gently, pulling out a chair across from you and sitting down. “You know those are just jealous people who wish they were in your position, right?” “I know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But they still hurt, Austin.”

“I know they do,” he admitted, leaning forward. “But think about it—what they’re saying about you… Is any of it true?” You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to your phone as you hesitated. “They’re not,” Austin continued firmly. “Because they don’t even know you. But we do. Rafe does. Don’t let them get to you. They’re just miserable people trying to make someone else miserable too.”

His words sunk in, easing some of the tightness in your chest. A small smile crept onto your lips, the warmth of his reassurance breaking through the cloud of doubt. “Thanks, Austin. I really appreciate it,” you said, your voice softer now but filled with genuine gratitude. He grinned back, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual confidence.

“Anytime. Now, let’s get you smiling again before Rafe gets back, or he’ll never let me hear the end of it.” You chuckled lightly, feeling just a little lighter as the weight of those comments began to fade, replaced by the comfort of a friend who truly understood.

~

The jets in the bathroom continued to hum, the sound blending into the background as you stared at your phone screen, your chest tightening with every cruel word you read. The image of you and Rafe walking into the paddock, so innocuous and routine, had somehow become the catalyst for a torrent of negativity.

Your throat constricted, and you bit down hard on your bottom lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. But it was too much. The weight of their words pressed on you, an avalanche of insecurities crashing down. You dropped your phone onto the bed as though it had burned you, standing there frozen for a moment, your hands trembling.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Rafe stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water clinging to his skin. His carefree, post-shower demeanour faltered the moment his eyes landed on you. “Hey,” he said cautiously, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?” You shook your head, quickly wiping at your cheeks, but the tears had already betrayed you. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone was firmer now, his blue eyes scanning your face for answers. He glanced at your phone lying facedown on the bed, and his expression hardened as he pieced it together. “Did you read the comments again?” The lump in your throat grew, and you couldn’t speak, your silence confirming his suspicion.

Rafe let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Y/n, why do you let them get to you? They’re just a bunch of—” “It’s not just them, Rafe!” you snapped, cutting him off. The words spilled out before you could stop them, sharp and heavy. “This is my life now—being constantly judged, criticised, compared. It’s exhausting. I can’t do this anymore.”

His brows furrowed in confusion and alarm. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I can’t be with you anymore,” you said, your voice breaking as the words left your lips. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Rafe’s face fell, his confident façade cracking in an instant. “What? No. No, that’s not happening.” “Rafe—”

“No!” He stepped closer, his voice low but desperate. “You’re not doing this because of a bunch of idiots online who don’t know anything about us.” “It’s not just them!” you cried, the dam of emotions finally breaking. “It’s everything! The constant attention, the pressure, the way people look at me like I’m not good enough for you. And maybe they’re right! Maybe I’m not!”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he interrupted, his voice rough with emotion. He reached for your hands, holding them tightly even as you tried to pull away. “You are good enough. You’re more than good enough, Y/n.” “I can’t keep living like this, Rafe,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I feel like I’m losing myself.

Rafe’s grip on your hands tightened as if letting go would make your words true. “I don’t care what they say. None of it matters to me. You matter. You’re the only thing that matters.” Your lips trembled as you looked into his eyes, the sincerity there almost too much to bear. “But what if I can’t handle it?” “Then I’ll help you handle it,” he said firmly, his voice softening as he pulled you closer.

“You’re not doing this alone. I love you, Y/n. I don’t care what those people think. They mean nothing to me—nothing.” You let out a shaky breath as his words washed over you, your resolve weakening under the weight of his conviction. Rafe cupped your face gently, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “Please don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “We’ll get through it together. I promise.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, your forehead resting against his as you tried to steady your breathing. The pain was still there, raw and jagged, but so was the love in his voice, in his touch. “I don’t know if I can be enough,” you whispered. “You already are,” he replied without hesitation. “You’ve always been enough for me.” And somehow, in his arms, the weight of the world felt just a little lighter.

[spirits-of-nature16]

It also got the Enchanted Lilies’ attention to watch Hook Hand’s musical number; their reactions were shocked by what he did to Hook Foot, his only brother, who can only dreamed of dancing, but due to how Hook Hand remarked to be lame. Lucius felt bad for Hook Foot, and Louisiana finds it kind of entertaining

“unbelievable, right? I mean, that’s not the Hook Hand we all know anymore” Bella joined in with Rapunzel and Hook Foot, the rest of the Lilies agreed that Hook Hand had become the big shot “I know, we’ve been famous adventurous performers and we’ve never been that selfish” Skyler shook her head in agreement

“hey! Big brother! I got a bone to pick with you” Hook Foot pulled his pants up and walk over, the girls and Lucius watches Hook Foot be direct towards Hook Hand “I never liked that nickname ‘Razzle Dazzle’, and another thing, I don’t like the way you made fun of my talents and interest growing up! and you know what else? I demand an apology!” Hook Foot continued

“Apologize? To you?” Hook Hand scoffed before he turned away from the reflection from his mirror and turned to his younger brother “get over it, Razzle Dazzle, it’s ancient history” it made Hook Foot feel worse before walking out the door and slammed it shut “if he wants to act like a baby, let him” Hook Hand shrugged and walked back to his mirror “I got a show to do and my patron does not like to be kept waiting, he can be a real jerk”

“I couldn’t agree more, Louisiana!” Lucius shouted at his twin sister after what just happened between the Hook Brothers “if calling me ‘Baby Brother’ is what you’ll always keep on doing over the years, even as adults, then how’d you like it if I can keep calling you ‘Little Mommy’ too, is that what you’ll be wanting to hear? Hm?” He finally told her off, but not waiting for her response, he now followed behind and found Hook Foot out the door “I’m in, Hook Foot, what’s the revenge plan?” Lucius grimaced

Louisiana just stood in the carriage, feeling shellshocked after how he spoke to her, because now finally seeing how Hook Hand making Hook Foot feel worse after, she frowned with a realization; it’s not just about how he borrowings her things, she doesn’t want feel more embarrassed to be his small parent if she keeps embarrassing her twin brother forever, not even as grown adults if it keeps going on

Continued from here

the next day in the kingdom of Corona, it was a typical normal day, until it ended when the stranger ran passed through the wanted poster that says 'Silent Striker'

"he went this way!" Stan shouted when he and Pete went after him, Mirage and Bella are being prepared to catch him too, the guard captain and the other guard got him surrounded

@muses-of-the-memory

[crimsonmochi]

Intimate ― S. Gojo

Synopsis. Part 2 to "Personal" | Pornstar!Satoru is used to fucking for money's sake. It's something he does often and something he does really fucking well. When he is requested to guest you, however, it shocks everyone to see an immediate energy shift.

Pairing. Satoru Gojo x fem!reader

Content. MDNI, fem! pornstar! reader, chubby! reader implied, gender neutral pronouns used for reader, but use of "girl" about twice, no use of "y/n", smut, p in v, fingering, creampie, sweet sex, some semblance of onlyfans, pussydrunk! gojo, gojo is left handed canon, still a little bit pathetic, still a little nasty, probable breaches of work boundaries, drinking mentioned, no beta

Word Count. 6.1k

Parts. part 1 | part 2

A/N. thank you so much for the love on part 1! sorry for taking so long with this one, i was a bit busy for the holidays. part 3 and final part hopefully coming soon in a theater near u

Seventeen times. And a half.

Since the tape came out on his page, Satoru Gojo had jerked off to it seventeen times. He only counts the half because he technically had finished that one time, but it was too humiliatingly early to even fully count.

It worried him at first. Sure, he was aware of his high sex drive, but never had a single video—a single person—managed to have him this worked up. He even had it downloaded to his phone, and downloading porn had never been a thing Satoru envisioned himself doing, ever, even if it was his own.

Every now and then, his mind would go blank and remind him of how you looked, how you sounded, how you smelled and how you felt. He remembered how you looked at each other, the burns your eyes had permanently left on his soul. He remembered making out with you on the studio bed after you had sucked on his fingers, a primal urge to taste you consistently and refusing to stop even to breathe. And he remembered your smile against his lips and how embarrassingly giddy it had him feeling.

Satoru hadn't turned the cameras off right away. He stayed with you in bed, and you didn't seem to mind, chatting it up rather normally while he laid on top of your body, heavy as a rock and as your fingers brushed through his hair. He had never spent over a minute with his co-stars after filming before. You were different. And he liked that you were different.

What he did not like was what came with you being different, the unknown.

Satoru was used to one-night stands, situations, and things that could have become something more but ended after one conversation about what he did for a living. Connections ending abruptly, accounts unfollowed, numbers deleted. It never shook him emotionally; he would be at most bummed out for the afternoon because, damn, she was hot or fuck, I liked her voice. Never anything serious.

And sure, whatever he had with you might have started as pure sexual attraction, but you weren't just a pretty face and a hot body.

He had explained it to Suguru as having a box full of your favourite chocolates and one flavour never tasted before. He liked all the other chocolates because they were his favourites, but once he tasted the unknown flavour, the other ones started to be dull to the senses―to which Suguru responded by calling him an idiot, of course.

It hadn't helped that you two started calling shortly after the video went live, your sweet voice and soft waves of laughter making his situation exponentially worse. Satoru put a lot of effort into being as casual and kind as he could be, careful not to scare you off and desperate to keep you around if only just milliseconds longer.

To your surprise, Satoru turned out to be a great listener—a little too great, at times, when you wondered if he was still listening after long monologues. He was attentive, remembered details you wouldn't even expect your closest friends to remember, which made your lips curl and your heart feel a little warm.

You had confessed on a particularly inebriated that you only got into the industry to pay off your education and some of your parents' debt and that it was supposed to be temporary. You explained that you were actually qualified for very high-profile jobs, but since you now had a "questionable internet history" that employers kept bringing up at interviews, you had given up on that, which took some coming to terms with on your part. And Satoru listened to that story, heart clenching when you thanked him for the opportunity he gave you to make a little bit more money this month.

Weird how you conveniently found a deposit in your bank account the next morning. He swore up and down he did not know the first thing about it, but even if it had come from him, he would not want you to take it as a gift of pity but rather a late bonus for your hard work. But it definitely wasn't him, sweet thing.

The gifts didn't stop after the money incident. Now that Satoru understood you better and that small gestures were the way to go rather than an exceedingly ridiculous amount of money to gift someone, he went with that. He ordered flowers to your home with no cards, trinkets and stickers he found at those seemingly breaking down records shops Suguru would drag him into.

Satoru never left any indication that it was his doing, and you had never brought it up to him. But he knew that you knew, and that was all he needed.

All your assistant ever heard these days was "Satoru this" and "Satoru that." Your constant gushing had made it abundantly clear that your relationship was a little bit more than professional and even transcended that of a friendship.

"Seems like you've really... taken a liking to that guy," she once said in the passenger seat of your car.

"I'm telling you, Sammy, he's nothing like he seems in his content. You'd like him," you had responded, pausing to contemplate your next words. "Plus, we're just, like, friends..."

"Friends who want to fuck each other bad, from what I heard."

"But friends nonetheless."

Silence fell at a red light, the hum of the tires rolling against the pavement dissipating.

"Plus, I don't think he's... he wouldn't go for me, is all I'm gonna say," you mumbled, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

Sammy scoffed, a tiny smirk at the corner of her lips.

"Yeah right."

For the most part, you were happy to have Satoru around, and he was happy to stay. But the satisfaction devolved into wanting, neither of you being brave enough to make the first move. Although Satoru was fine with even just having you in the picture, he wished he could film with you again, see you again. Touch you again.

And even if you both didn't truly know what you were, what you wanted from each other, it was peaceful to have another's presence the way you and Satoru did.

That lasted until about a month later when a studio approached Satoru, intending to remake the magic of your and him's video, with big money involved.

"You see, your uhm... tape, so to speak, I'm sure you're aware of the numbers it did," blabbed some man in a blue stained shirt and a moustache that didn't exactly connect.

"'Course," mumbled Satoru, slumped on an office chair, his eyes fixated on that moustache that barely qualified as one.

"Well, it seems that our female demographic these days is into that sort of played-up intimacy, you know. We're placing our big bets on your ability to do that."

This guy—Itsuki, as Satoru recalled—was a director for this falling pornography production studio. He knew what he was talking about for the most part, yet was still hiding the fact that this was a last-stretch attempt at keeping the business alive. "Big bets" was an understatement; nobody offered the amount of money they did if they weren't desperate.

God, he really, really hated studios.

"Played up?" Satoru questioned, shaking his head. "That wasn't played up I just..."

"Listen kid, you're the industry big shot," Itsuki grumbled.

"I am?"

Satoru's numbers had been high, but he had never considered himself to be anything other than just another attractive guy who happened to be good at sex as well. Calling him a "big shot" only cringed him out.

"Oh yeah, trust me, you're talked about a lot. It's a good thing. Ya got the X factor. You're versatile, people love you," the man continued, turning in his chair like a tall child, "And we just, uh... need a bit of your talent right now."

Satoru sighed, contemplating his options. On the one side, it was something he hated; being directed and ordered around like a show dog really was not his style, and he'd rather chew on a dirty tire than deal with that energy for even just one day.

But on the other hand, this would allow him to do something for you. Something he had been thinking about doing for a little while.

He really, really, really hated studios.

"Alright. I'll do it. Let me call my girl—" mumbled Satoru, reaching for his phone.

Itsuki raised his hand dismissively, earning a puzzled look from Satoru.

"Oh, sorry, you've misunderstood. We're gonna bring in one of our own actors for this job. Your girl, they're not exactly what we're, uh, looking for, if ya know what I mean," Itsuki chuckled, raising his pen to his lips, an amused look on his face.

"I don't know what you mean."

Satoru's tone had turned icy, blue eyes piercing through Itsuki's soul with disgust. Satoru had a pretty good idea of what he was arguing. His body tensed at the prospect.

"They're not exactly the, uh... body type we're lookin' for, y'know?"

"Yeah, no thanks, deal's off," Satoru groaned, rolling his eyes as he got up, already halfway across the room before Itsuki reserved the audacity to keep speaking.

"We'll throw in an extra few thousand."

Satoru found himself in a break room, reading the dumbest script of his whole career, with a girl with a stupid stage name and Itsuki. Any attempts made to change something in the script were quickly shut down by 'Honey Suckle,' the tall blonde clinging to his arm like he was her life force. He barely even glanced at her when she spoke; he didn't need to. Her voice was irritating enough.

He could not get his brain to shut off for even two seconds, thoughts racing. He kept forgetting the script, rolling his eyes at the dumb dialogue, and most importantly, for the first time in his entire life, he couldn't get it up for what seemed like an hour.

Until that is, he thought about you. The soft sound of your laughter, your eyes on him, your pussy sweet and tight around him, shit, that did the trick.

Honey didn't make the task an easy one. Satoru was lucky to be blessed with an adequate set of acting skills and a talent for pleasing women, this time for the sake of finishing this ordeal early and getting out of there with the money he was promised.

Just when he thought he was free, walking back to his makeshift dressing room—which had peeling paint that crumbled and left a white dust on his clothing and a cracked ceiling, adding to the desolate atmosphere of this sorry establishment—to get ready to leave, Honey ambushed him, demanding his number with an attitude that lacked class and bridged into spoiled brat territory.

Satoru was not surprised to learn that she was the one who orchestrated everything from the script to the over-the-top romantic set in the first place.

Reaching his front door after that day felt like reaching the gates of heaven. Satoru wasted no time hopping in the shower until his anxiety melted away and until he felt safe from the claws of that Honey girl, nearly scorching hot water cascading down from his head to his feet. A thick fog of condensation stuck to the glass and the mirror, shielding him from the emptiness of the room, perhaps.

With his leaned against the cold tiles, his hand reached out to grasp the soap bottle, and finally, a moment to himself, Satoru could not stop the reoccurring daydreams of you in this very place. Your thighs around his waist, your digits in his locks. Your bodies warm to the touch, skin sliding against skin. He could picture his hands on your chest, using the excuse of washing your body to touch, to feel. Taking you against the wall, the glass, leaving handprints that would linger for a few hours later.

And then, maybe, switch from the shower to the bathtub. Your body leaning on his chest, his lips against the nape of your neck, just gently holding you close. His fingers would prune up, and his head would rest on your shoulder, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. Maybe you would tell him it was dangerous to sleep in water, and he'd mumble something about not even being tired.

Despite the thought putting his mind at ease, he recognized the distant fear of vulnerability within himself. But it was dimming with every time he spoke to you; he was changing and seemingly adapting to the way you made him feel.

Satoru called you that same night, a little bit later than usual, unsure if you would even pick up when he glanced over at the clock on the wall, ticking amongst the silence. You answered, your usual quiet "hey" emerging from his phone's speaker, but it was... off to Satoru.

You sounded tired, distant even. He asked, pressed to understand if something was wrong, yet all he received in exchange were non-reassuring two-word sentences and mumbles of affirmations.

He didn't feel good about hanging up that night.

And he felt worse when he didn't hear from you in the next few days.

Satoru simply could not take the silence. It physically pained him to no end, like a sickness bubbling at the pit of his stomach. He was afraid that if he let it bubble enough, it would reach his throat to choke him out and make him perish.

When he wanted to treat you as a retired distraction, a mere phase of his life, the emotions came back to haunt him tenfold, the whiplash causing his usually already short temper to be microscopic.

He stalked your page almost every night, once finding a new upload of you taking it from the back, some random guy he had never heard of clumsily thrusting at an uneven pace. Satoru was almost certain you didn't even finish. Actually pathetic.

Before he knew it, Satoru was typing in the comment section, writing something along the lines of "He didn't even make you cum lol, you look bored as fuck, he's such a loser," before giving up on pressing the post button when he realized how unhinged he would come across.

Things were almost back to the way they were before he met you. And he absolutely hated it.

Satoru nearly punched Suguru when he had the gall to invite him to a wedding―a distant relative of the Geto family that Suguru insisted he had to attend the wedding of―because he thought it would be "good for him" and would "help him figure out what he wants."

Suguru may have had to drag Satoru to the event, but he did attend and stayed until after the ceremony, only for the drinks. And he drank, not until he was drunk, but enough to keep his emotions at bay for a little while.

Satoru walked outside the venue to get some air while Suguru talked to his second cousin. Standing in front of the busy street, Satoru took a deep breath and admired the lights of the cars passing by, street lights, windows and traffic signs, all coming together forming a multicoloured mosaic. The cool air hit his face and made him shiver, turning his head slightly to the left.

The street he was on happened to be the street you lived on. Satoru blinked once, twice; maybe he was imagining things. He knew your address by heart from ordering so much shit to your place, and he knew he wasn't blind either.

Sooner than he could even rationalize it, his feet were taking him down the street, looking closely at the numbers. He roughly estimated being about two blocks away from your apartment complex.

His mind started working overtime, giving him reasons to turn back, like, what if you had company over? What if there was another man there, in your bed, right now―and if anything, it only encouraged his body to move forward.

Satoru crossed the street, looking at the number at least six times before entering the entryway call box, his fingers hovering on the keypad, wondering if he should ring you or just a random person. A stranger would be 50/50 at this hour, but he was almost assured that if he picked you, his chances were near zero, given how you had ignored his calls in the past week.

He went with the stranger, dialling some random four digits and crossing his fingers. Hopefully, they wouldn't answer and ask questions―

"Hello? Is this Domino's?" a male voice, probably late 20's, answered after a few rings.

"Uhm... yeah?" Satoru squeaked. Whatever happens next will be the pizza delivery guy's problem.

The guy buzzed Satoru in without another question, leaving Satoru concerned about security in the establishment if it was this easy for him to get in.

6th floor, 683.

The anxiety started to set in only in the elevator on the way up. He hadn't planned this; in fact, he hadn't planned anything. He didn't even know what to say. He didn't even know why he was doing this. Why you, of all people. Why you, of all people, reserved the ability to reduce him to this, naked and vulnerable for you.

Or why he hoped, deep in his gut, that he could do the same to you.

Satoru almost wished that the walk from the elevator to your apartment was longer as he stood there. He nearly moved to look through the peephole, but nah, that'd be creepy.

He listened in instead from where he was standing, discerning from the silence that there was no one with you.

And so, he raised his fist.

And knocked.

You froze in your living room, whirling your head towards the doorway, cautious not to make a noise. You hadn't ordered anything, and a girl living by herself was probably better off not answering the door from an unknown visitor at 10 in the evening.

Satoru shut his eyes, cringing at himself in a moment of realization, though he did not leave. He leaned his forehead against your door, his palm over the frame above his head.

"You there?" he asked.

You knew that voice.

You moved quietly to stand in the doorway, careful to land your feet softly on the floor.

Satoru reopened his eyes and glanced down, seeing that the light was peeking through the bottom of the door and that a shadow was moving through.

"I know you're here, sweet thing," Satoru said, firm yet soft. "You can―" he sighed, "You can tell me to go away, and I will, but I just... I don't know what I'm here for, actually. Jus' wanna see you, is all."

His voice sounded like a whine, picking away at your resolve. He waited there for a minute in silence, giving you time to make your choice.

But he was silently begging you to choose him.

Satoru should have felt relieved when he heard your door lock and saw the handle turn, though it instead stuck his breath in his lungs.

It hadn't helped that he saw you standing in a pretty pastel nightgown, with a face devoid of makeup and mismatched socks. Such a beautiful, natural state that made his heart stop and his dick twitch with interest. He was trying not to let his eyes linger on your chest, your thighs, your everything that wasn't your face for too long.

What a sight for sore eyes.

That isn't to say Satoru was not a pretty view himself, his tie halfway undone around his neck, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to right above his elbows, hair messy, eyes tired, and cheeks rosy―partly from the alcohol, partly from the cold, and partly because he felt like he had just been struck by a deity in the sky just looking at you―all while leaning on your doorframe and staring like he had been starved of something while away from you. Which he had, in his perspective.

"Y'don't answer your phone anymore, sweetheart?" asked Satoru rhetorically, words dripping in sarcasm.

"You show up to people's apartments uninvited now?" you retorted, employing the same tone.

"Would you cut the bullshit for a second? I'm being serious."

"Didn't sound like it."

Satoru was surprised to find you had bite, talking back to him with a little sass. He liked it. And maybe he'll fuck the attitude straight out of you later.

"That little radio silence thing you're on? Can't stand it," he went on, keeping the soft edge to his tone.

"I've been busy, you shrugged.

"Not too busy to get your back blown out by a guy who couldn't last two minutes."

"What, are you jealous?"

"Of what? His performance? Amongst the worst I've seen."

"That he got to blow my back out."

"Not jealous. Just pissed."

"Mh."

Satoru took a step closer, hand leaving the door frame to land on the wall above you as you crossed your arms, staring at the man towering over you with the same intensity he had in his blue eyes.

"Why are you ignoring me, love?" Satoru mumbled, letting insecurity and vulnerability peer through his voice.

"Because I don't know what you want. And I don't want to end up being just... another girl, y'know?" you admitted, dropping your gaze to his crinkled and half-open shirt.

Satoru's eyes softened, stepping too close to close the door behind him. You caught the scent of his cologne before he stepped back once more, and fuck, you needed him.

"There was this... other woman who posted on social media about how she was your girlfriend and all that," you went on, playing with your fingers as a distraction. "And then when I checked her out there was a video of you two in this whole like, romantic setting thing so... and like, I totally get it, I'm―I just didn't know what to do. Or what to think."

Oh, hell no.

"She's not my girlfriend," Satoru nearly interrupted. "I can swear that on my life, we just filmed together. I don't know why she's posting that, but I can promise you that I barely even tolerated her. She's not the one I want."

That authoritative voice nearly made you forget the conversation you both were having.

"Matter of fact, I'm a bit offended that you would think that we had any chemistry whatsoever; I had to work my ass off to even make it look remotely believable," he scoffed, a grin returning to his lips.

Satoru was desperate to see that smile on your face again.

"Well, I didn't know what to think, I mean, she seemed like she could be your type," you replied sheepishly.

"If you think that's my type, sweetheart, I've still got lots to teach you," he purred, voice low.

Satoru reached his palm to your face, feeling the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingertips. He snaked his hold to the nape of your neck, pulling you forward towards him, his neck craned to meet your figure with his. His nose and lips brushed against yours teasingly, putting on a show.

"Come on, tell me to leave. Tell me I can't be yours."

Toying with a strand of your hair and looking through his long white lashes, he was unwilling to make the first move. Or rather, Satoru wanted you to tame the uncertainty bellowing from the pit of his stomach. Fearing rejection was unfamiliar to his heart, but knowing it to be a testament to your importance mellowed the burn.

"Tell me that I can't have you."

Satoru was only merely surprised by your arms wrapping around his neck to bring his lips to yours, adapting quick and shutting his eyelids, languid movements of your tongue against his, sobering him up completely to get him drunk on a different type of substance.

His hand left the wall to come softly grip your thigh, moving to its underside to encourage you to jump.

"But what if I'm―" your voice came out breathless.

"Don't offend me right now, sweet thing."

You jumped, trusting him to catch you―and he did, without so much as a grunt, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, supporting you with his forearms under your thighs.

"See? No need to doubt me," Satoru mumbled against your lips.

The kiss was slow yet messy, sloppily reverberating passion and a twinge of desperation. Within a break for oxygen―which he could have gone without if up to him―Satoru asked for the directions to your bedroom, kicking his shoes off somewhere between the entryway and the hallway.

Satoru was thrilled to see the room he had seen on Facetime with you a few times; it was perfectly tailored and personal to you. It was one thing to see, but it was another to be in your space with you.

He set you down on your bed carefully, keeping your legs to the sides of his waist as he crawled above you.

"You're just too good, y'know that? Fuck, you made it so hard to focus," said Satoru, admiring the sight before him.

"I wasn't even there."

"You were everywhere. Couldn't... couldn't think straight... couldn't stop..."

His voice trailed off as his eyes dropped lower to your hips, your thighs. Satoru traced an imaginary line on the inner side of them, agonizingly slow, your nightgown pooling and lifting at his wrist. He ran his finger on a small patch of your underwear where your arousal had soaked through the fabric, a stupid smirk on his face.

"Can I keep these after?"

He chuckled softly when you rolled your eyes and turned your head to the side, flustered. How cute.

Satoru began to take your panties off, shifting on top of you to make the task possible, bunching up the fabric in his hands and shoving them in his pocket with a wink.

He dipped two of his fingers between your slit, avoiding your clit on purpose, smiling down at you when you frowned at him.

"What? Tell me what you want. Big girl words, come on."

No script, no pre-determined routes, just genuineness.

"Just touch me, Satoru..." you mumbled, unsure.

"Where?"

Oh my god, this asshole.

You gasped as his fingers ghosted over your clit, begging him to touch there.

"Right here?" Satoru questioned, fake innocence etched onto his face as he stroked the sensitive nub slowly.

"Mhm," you sighed out.

The pace he had set was too slow, but he was aware of that. He did not want to make you cum, at least not right then, he simply wanted to drive you insane, give you a taste of your own medicine―so to speak.

Satoru replaced his fingers with his thumb, digits reaching over to your entrance, circling the opening.

"You have no fucking clue, do you? How mad you can turn a man. How long I would wait, what I would give up just to be yours. You don't even realize―"

He pushed his fingers in with one deep thrust, letting you whine and mewl at him before resuming his sentence, moving his index and middle in and out of you.

"You don't even realize how unhinged you make me―fuck, look at that, already soaking my hand, shiiit, and you're so tight..."

Satoru's eyelids were half closed, focused on the soft squelches of your pussy and the sight of it, ignoring his erection begging to be released from those tight black pants.

"And then you go out and fuck some guy who can't even make you cum? Who doesn't even take his fucking time to learn your body to fucking treat you like the deity you are. Now that's bullshit, and you know it, sweetheart. I know you're smart."

He sped up the pace, hitting your spot with deliberate and merciless movements, high on your moans and the way your back arched for him, mind stuck on his objective.

"Should've called me, I would've eaten that pussy for hours, would've done it for free. For less than free. Fuck, would've paid you for it."

Satoru's incessant speaking drove you up the wall, your fingers tightly gripping the sheets, his motions precisely designed to satisfy you but never quite send you over the edge.

"Satoru," you panted, sweat beading on your body.

"Yes?"

"Want more... please..."

"Anything you want, pretty."

He timed the thrusts of his fingers with the circling of your clit, increasing the pace while keeping a delicacy to his endeavours, capturing your lips in a small, shallow kiss before leaning his forehead on yours.

Right when Satoru felt your thighs start to tense at his sides, your breath quicken on his face, your walls fluttering, and the urgency in your voice, he...

Stopped.

Pulled his fingers out and licked them right in front of you, making sure your eyes were on him.

"I was so close―this is the second time you've done this," you whined, eyes closing as you felt the pure need coursing through your veins like a spreading disease.

"First time doesn't count; it was on camera," Satoru shrugged. "Come on, don't make that face. Besides, I'm punishing myself too. Watching you cum is the hottest thing ever."

With a groan, you pushed Satoru to his back and lifted yourself onto him in one move.

Satoru didn't know if he was in love before, but this certainly did it.

"My, my, woman. Didn't know you had that in you."

Even under you, the man had to stay smug, an arrogant smile on display just for you. You pouted and started undoing the buttons of his shirt without a word, which he did not move to fight, simply observing your meticulous work with his forearms under his head.

"Just like that, use me, sweetheart; you deserve it."

You couldn't ignore how Satoru's voice made your core drip, the stain of slick you had inadvertently left on the lower part of his dress shirt, or the comment he made about never washing that shirt again.

"You're nasty."

"You love it."

When you reached his pants, having shimmied further to gain access to it, you hesitated.

"Don't tell me you're shy now," Satoru taunted.

"You can't―you can't blame me. I haven't had sex for real in a while," you retorted, a small smile forming on your lips, catching his gaze.

"It felt pretty real last time."

There was a certain sincerity in his voice, contrastingly different from just a moment ago, vulnerable. You could see it in his eyes, the way in which they conveyed everything he had ever felt, giving and sharing strands of thought and emotion.

"That was different," you mused, moving to take his pants off.

Satoru lifted his hips to help you, silent as for your words. He did not want to push and ruin this by digging, searching to understand every inch of your soul, of your experience with him. Although it was tempting.

He moved to sit up against your headboard, biceps flexing. He took his boxers off, cock standing tall and proud, achingly hard. Satoru took your forearm in his hand to pull you closer until you were straddling him, his length slipping between your slit.

"Use me," repeated Satoru, murmuring. "I'm all yours. Take what you want."

He moved his hand to your face, thumb sliding over your cheekbone. Satoru gazed up at you with a glint of devotion in those deep blue eyes, devoid of any uncertainty or hesitation, pretty white brows furrowed lightly with gut-wrenching warmth. Fondness was too shallow of a word to describe it. A little pathetic was surface level.

A second hand left your forearm to rest on your hip, imprinted nicely on your flesh. Satoru helped you lift yourself to sit back down on his cock, drinking your little mewls and gasps, groaning when he was fully seethed in your tight heat, as if it were his home.

"Mph, fuck, the wait was so worth it," he exhaled, both of his palms migrating to your waist. "Want some help, beautiful?"

You nodded yes, busy with the feeling of the wind being knocked out of your lungs. Satoru smiled and helped you lift yourself, length dragging out of your sopping cunt, to help you back down. He moaned shakily as you set a slower pace than what he was used to, losing himself in the feeling of your cunt around him.

"Y'know I... I watched our v-video so many fucking times. Started to―fuck, so fucking tight around me..."

"Started t-to what?" you whimpered, letting your head drop to his shoulder, panting quietly against his skin.

"Started to feel guilty f-for doing it, fuckin' jerking off to you... after you'd just told me some fuckin' innocent shit about your day or something... Oh my god... missed this, s'much."

Satoru moved one of his hands to lift your head off his shoulder, holding your face to force eye contact. His lips were parted, shameless with the endless grunts and groans of satisfaction your body forced out of him. He just about lost it when he felt your pretty hands on his chest, desperate for something to touch, to grab.

"Angle your hips that way, sweetheart," Satoru murmured, hand at your side moving you.

His thick tip hit your spot with a particularly harsh bounce, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. Your thighs twitched around him, and your eyes rolled back as he whined at the lewd sounds of your skin slapping against his, the wet noise of his cock dripping and enveloping with your essence.

"I think I'm gonna cum," you breathed out.

"I know, I know pretty... I can tell by the way you squeeze around me, shitttt..."

Satoru felt like the world around him was spinning, listening to your voice, your pretty face, your body. The way your hands tightened around his pec inadvertently, the subtle sheen of sweat on your skin, your concentrated expression, so fucking adorable.

He pulled you in to connect your lips, trapping you in a searing, sincere kiss, swallowing your breaths, taking from your air. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight but not enough to hurt. His nose brushed against yours as he turned his head for better access, pressing his face against yours as if he were scared you would evaporate beneath his fingers.

Satoru bit your lower lip and lightly dragged it away with his front teeth when he felt he was finally satisfied, although he had to force every muscle in his body to just let you breathe.

"'M gonna take care of ya... gonna fuckin'―fuck―gonna give you everything, promise... I swear, e-everyday I'll prove I'm good e-enough for you, every fuckin' day 'til I die, holy fuck."

Until my body gives out to the stars.

Your thighs started to give out, the strain making your movements less fluid and more scattered. Satoru started to meet you halfway with a thrust of his hips, sliding a hand down to toy with your clit, just like he'd seen you do before.

"Satoru," you breathed, tone wanton and desperate.

"Fuck, d-don't say my name l-like that unless you wanna make me―"

Satoru's ears started to ring, and his vision went blurry as he spilled himself deep inside your willing cunt, little whimpers contrasting the deep groans from earlier. His head fell back on your headboard, Adam's apple bobbing while his eyes got teary.

"S-So good, so pretty f'me, fuck..." Satoru squeaked out.

He continued his finger's assault on your cunt, flicking and rubbing at a faster pace. He just needed to see you cum. Needed to see you cream on his cock, just like you deserved.

Satoru looked at you as if you had hung the stars in the sky, watching you convulse, pant, do anything to brace yourself with this impending orgasm, finally sending over the edge with a sharp pinch of your clit.

And he didn't just stop at that; when he had regained his ability to speak, he offered to clean you up, take you to the bathroom, run you a bath, dumb shit that he thought you'd appreciate that he wanted to do for you. Didn't even recognize himself anymore.

You accepted the first two offers but not the last, seeing as it was late and you were tired, not only from the day but riding his dick, losing yourself in his arms.

Satoru found a cloth in your bathroom and warmed it up with tap water. He made sure it wasn't too hot to the touch before he climbed back in bed, gently cleaning your thighs, your mound, anywhere he thought leaving dirty would be uncomfortable.

Although seeing your hole nicely filled with his seed almost made him ask for a second round.

"I do care about you. Wanna do right by you, if you're okay with that," Satoru murmured.

"I'll keep you around," you responded.

Parts. part 1 | part 2

[deathofpeaceofmiiind]

Kill my time // Quinn Hughes

In a city full of lonely people, I just want you all to myself

summary: birthday celebrations causing jealousy while struggling to turn a certain age

warnings: drinking, clubbing, smut (18+)

── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──

“I can’t believe I’m going to a bar like I’m in my early twenties again.”

I smoothed my dress down, picking apart everything wrong with me as I looked in the mirror. Turning thirty felt like my world was about to collapse, and what made it worse was knowing my boyfriend was only turning twenty five just two days after me.

“Not to mention with a bunch of guys who are twenty one.” My roommate added as she fixed us a couple of drinks. I saw her bring out a bottle of tequila, knowing I was going to be in for a long night.

“Ugh, what did I get myself into?”

“Girl, it’s fine! Quinn doesn’t care about your age so why should you?” She asks, passing me whatever concoction she made. A took a small sip, realizing it was tequila and soda…more like tequila with a splash of soda.

Deep down I knew she was right, because when I told Quinn I was older than him it didn’t phase him at all, I completely expected him to run. He told me the idea of being with someone older was a big turn on for him, something he didn’t discover until he met me. As for me, it didn’t matter what age the men were I dated, they were all extremely immature. I knew it was a risk with Quinn but he definitely didn’t act like men his age. After all he was the captain of an NHL team, he had to have a strong head on his shoulders.

An hour later I was making my way through a busy drunken crowd, holding onto Quinn’s hand for dear life. For whatever reason, his teammates chose this club to celebrate his birthday tonight. Wouldn’t have been my first choice, and I don’t think Quinn was thrilled on it either but he was too quiet to say anything. We always made the best of a bad situation and I knew tonight wouldn’t be any different. House music and lights were bouncing off the walls, making it hard to focus on where we were going. We finally got into our booth and a heavy sigh left me, I definitely wasn’t drunk enough for this.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Quinn’s velvet voice echoed in my ear, calming my nerves. His eyes were bright green, almost enchanting as they peered into mine. My face grew hot, wondering how it was humanly possible for someone to be this gorgeous.

“Yeah it’s just been a while.” I wasn’t lying either. I spent most of my time in breweries with my friends since most of us were over going to clubs. Quinn likes to tell me he doesn’t like going out, but give him a few drinks and he makes a liar out of himself.

He pulled me closer to him, so close I could feel his stubble on my neck. “I won’t leave your side at all, I promise.”

“Okay.” I nodded before he gently brushed his lips over mine. I got lost in our own little world, the music melted away and I forgot we were in the middle of a busy club surrounded by strangers.

“Let’s celebrate, it’s your birthday after all.”

I rolled my eyes, “it’s also yours in two days.”

“Yeah, but …” his words trail off as he runs the pad of his thumb over my lip, “today brought me you.”

“How does it feel to be with a thirty year old?” The words falling last my lips causing my eyes to roll again. That number just didn’t sit right with me. “I’m officially an old lady.”

“Thirty has never looked better.” He mused, his hand running up my hip and pressing me closer to him. I pulled him into another kiss, his cologne hit me like a tidal wave causing butterflies in my stomach. His hand ran up my neck and gripped me tighter while his tongue begged to enter my mouth. We stayed like that, blissfully unaware of reality until his teammates came over with trays of various shots.

“Okay lover boy that’s enough. Let’s get you drunk.”

One thing about partying with hockey players is all of them have no limits when it comes to spending. I had to finally stop accepting every shot they brought around after the room began to spin. Best part of the night though was that the Devils were in town, so Jack and Luke, Quinn’s brothers were here to celebrate with everyone. This was only my second time meeting them but they were extremely welcoming and treated me like I was their sister. Jack at one point asked me to go dance with him and I couldn’t help but say yes.

“So how does it feel to be thirty?” Jack yelled into my ear as we danced to one of my favourite John Summit songs.

“Terrible. I’m almost a decade older than you!”

“You make thirty look so good though.” He smirks as Luke came behind me and picked me up, causing me to scream at him to put me down. As much as I fought he kept me over his shoulder.

“I just want you to know we fucking love you and you make my brother so happy.” Luke added as he finally put me down, the room was still spinning so I had to brace myself against him to make it stop.

“Thanks buddy.” I jumped a little, feeling Quinn’s hand on my back. His face was flushed, telling me he was taking shots without me.

“Can I have my girlfriend back now?”

“Sorry bro!” Luke kissed the top of my head before him and Jack ran off to grab more drinks.

“You okay?” I asked Quinn as I turned to him, he smelt like whiskey and honey as he brought his lips to my neck.

“I will be.” He mumbles, burrowing his face into my neck. “I’m glad my brothers like you, but you’re my girlfriend. Not theirs.”

“Do you think they’re gonna steal me?” I clasped my mouth, trying to hold in my laughter because I know he was being serious. It was downright adorable.

“Maybe.”

“But I’m yours” I assured him, pressing closer to his body. My hands teaching behind his neck, slipping stands of his hair between my fingers. “No one will ever steal me from you.”

“Prove it.” He replied with such confidence, not taking his eyes off my lips. His hands reached up to my hips, pressing me even closer to him. I gasped as I felt his erection brush up against my leg, “come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.” He mumbled, his eyes glazed with desire and whatever was in his system. I grabbed his hand, not knowing where he was taking me.

Quinn guided me into a private bathroom and locked the door. His hand brushed gently over my chest, hooking his finger under the strap of my dress. I watched him with intent, my heart pounding so fast I was surprised he didn’t feel it.

“You belong to me.” He whispered, slowly bringing me closer to him. My hands braced onto his chest as he captured my mouth into a kiss that started off sweet but grew sloppy.

“Let’s not wait then, birthday boy.”

He smirked so devilishly that I felt something more than butterflies in my stomach. Our kisses were met with biting of lower lips and Quinn grabbed my dress so tight I thought it was going to split. I wasted no time and began to unbutton his pants, dropping to my knees in the process. His dick sprung out of his boxers, dripping with pre-cum as my eyes widened.

“Stick your tongue out baby.”

My exposed tongue was met with his tip as he gently circled over my taste buds. I could taste him already, it was making my mouth salivate and run down my chin.

“Such a good girl.” He breathed as his free hand tugged on my hair. “Open your mouth for me.”

I did as I was told and Quinn slowly slid his erection into my mouth, inch by inch until his tip hit the back of my throat. He bit his lip as I began to slide my mouth up and down, his grip on my hair getting tighter.

“Fuck, baby this feels so good.” He deeply moaned, making me feel it in the back of my throat. “Such a good girl taking my whole dick in that pretty little mouth of yours.”

I could tell he was getting close with how laboured his breathing became. I removed my mouth from him and began to lick his tip that was glistening with my spit. He looked down at me with pleading eyes, as if me mouth fucking him was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Come in my mouth Quinn, I know what you want to.”

“Not yet.” His voice sounded so husky as he motioned for me to stand up. I wiped my mouth, taking a long look at him. “Your turn birthday girl.”

I couldn’t help but giggle as he picked me up and sat me on the bathroom counter. My back rested against the mirror as he spread my legs, situating himself between them. When our eyes met my heart felt like it was going to explode, I’ve never seen him like this before.

“How bad do you need me right now?” He asked, slowly taking my lip between his teeth again.

“I need you so fucking badly.”

He makes his home between my thighs and begins to tease me with his tip. I regretted wearing underwear tonight but feeling his pre cum soak the lace was the sweetest form of torture, and he knew it.


“Tell me again…how bad do you need me?” I couldn’t get a word out. His laugh was dark as he fluttered his somber eyes at me, “use your words sweetheart, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I want you.”

“That’s a good start.” He muses, applying pressure on my thighs with his thumbs, “where do you want me?”

No words were leaving me as I gasped for air. Quinn began to run his mouth over my jaw, down to my collarbone, nipping slightly at the skin. I grabbed his hand and guided it between my thighs, his thumb instantly pressing onto my underwear.

“Right there?” He asks, slowly moving my underwear to the side. A small gasp in satisfaction left him as he felt how soaked I was for him. I just nodded, whimpering already from his touch. “Tell me how much you wish this was my dick instead?”

“Quinn, I need you please … I’m yours.”

“That’s my girl.” He replied so proudly, pushing his tip inside of me slowly. His head falls back once he’s fully inside me and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Fuck you feel so good, so fucking good.”

Quinn started off slowly, teasing my clit simultaneously with each stroke. He leaned into my ear, continuously praising me as his strokes became faster and harder. Sweat rolled down me as the building started up in my stomach, that familiar flutter began to take over and I knew I was done for. My nails dug into his back as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder as my orgasm left my body.

“Fuck I’m gonna -“

It only took a few seconds before he spilled into me. His hands gently found my face, guiding me to look at him. My legs were still shaking as he kissed me so softly. I was in a complete haze as we broke apart, that one unruly strand of hair fell in front of his face as he studied me. He was so beautiful, there were no other words to describe him.

“Happy birthday, baby.” He mused, gently kissing all the tattoos on my arm. Funny thing,

I never thought he’d go for a girl with a full sleeve and dark hair like me. He struck me as someone who went for blonde Instagram models but, once again he proved me wrong.

“You definitely just gave me the best birthday present ever.” I lightly laughed.

He titled his head to the side, cupping my cheek, “I don’t think anything will be beat the gift you gave me.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

[xhazzz]

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Rain Kisses

warning: none, just kissing.

a/n: ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LENGUAGE, so feel free to correct me if there’s anything wrong :)

masterlist || request’s are open

READERS’S POV:

“So… you’ve been going out with Hangman”, Penny teased me while we were getting ready for the bar to open on a few hours.

“In my defense, he’s proven he’s not like the others,” I said, laughing like a fool as memories of our last dates came flooding back.

“And what does your dad think about all this?” she asked with a sly grin.

“Come on, Pen,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “I’m an adult now. I don’t need my dad’s permission to date whoever I want.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she said, laughing. “Your dad can’t really complain, considering he used to sneak into my room through the window back in the day.”

We both burst out laughing.

“Oh, God, Penny, I don’t want to imagine my dad like that,” I groaned, covering my eyes. “I just hope Hangman doesn’t open his big mouth and say something stupid that’ll get him grounded—or worse, punched by Rooster.”

—————————————-

JAKE’S POV

It had been two days since I last saw Y/N because of work, and I realized something: damn, I missed her. This girl was special.

“Excited to see your girl tonight, Romeo?” Coyote teased as we changed in the locker room.

“More than you know,” I admitted, sounding like some high school kid with his first crush.

“So it’s true, Hangman?” Phoenix chimed in, joining the conversation. “You’ve got the guts to date the boss’s daughter, even with Rooster as her big brother?”

“For God’s sake, it’s not like I’m scared of Chicken,” I said, laughing as I stuffed my dirty clothes into my duffel bag.

“And what does the boss think about all this?” Bob added, sitting on the bench.

“Come on, Bob, we’re not in high school anymore,” Coyote interjected. “I’ll just say it: Hangman hit the jackpot.”

Coyote and Fanboy started clapping like the idiots they were.

“So, how is she, you know, in…?” Fanboy began, smirking like a teenager.

“Watch your mouth, Seresin,” Rooster shouted from across the locker room.

“Relax, Tiger,” Phoenix said quickly. “If she’s Maverick’s daughter, there’s no way she’d let some guy like Bagman get in her pants.”

“I haven’t even kissed her yet,” I admitted with a sigh, slamming my locker shut.

“No way,” Rooster laughed, crossing his arms. “That’s my girl.”

“Not your girl, Chicken,” I corrected. “She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

——————————————

READER’S POV

Friday night, the Hard Deck was packed. I was a little disappointed that the Dagger Squad hadn’t shown up yet. I kept busy serving drinks and passing out bottles of beer when someone called out to me from behind.

“Hey, Y/N,” it was Rooster with his ridiculous mustache.

“Hey, Roo,” I said, stepping out from behind the bar to hug him. “I missed you. Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“That’s because you’ve been busy with Bagman,” he teased, playfully nudging my shoulder. “I don’t know what you did, but you’ve got that idiot wrapped around your finger.”

“I hope you’re talking about me,” said a voice behind Rooster. “Because I hope I’m the only one you’re dating”

“Oh my God, Bagman, that’s the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard,” Rooster groaned, wrinkling his nose. “Let me know if he gets out of line, Y/N.”

“I will, Roo, don’t worry.” Bradley kissed my forehead before heading off to join the rest of the pilots.

“I hope you and Bradley are telling the truth and there’s nothing more between you two,” Jake said, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles—a gesture he was starting to make a habit.

“Ew, never,” I quickly said, ducking back behind the bar and handing him a beer. “Bradley’s not my type. Besides, I’m more into blondes.”

I leaned on the bar and winked at him.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said, grinning as he took a sip of his beer. “What time does your shift end?”

“Too bad for you, handsome, I’m staying late tonight.”

“No problem. I’ll wait,” he said charmingly, walking over to the pool table.

The rest of the night, I could feel his eyes on me, and every time I caught him staring, he’d smile like an idiot. But eventually, I lost sight of him. Past midnight, Penny let me off since the bar had started to clear out. I grabbed my things and, not seeing Jake or the rest of the Daggers, assumed they’d left. The night was cool, and it looked like it might rain. Great—no jacket or umbrella.

“Hey, you,” Jake’s voice came from where he was leaning against his truck. I jumped, startled, and he chuckled softly.

“God, you scared me,” I said, relieved. “I thought you’d left.”

“I told you I’d wait,” he said, draping his jacket over my shoulders. It smelled like his cologne. “Need a ride?”

“Are you my knight in shining armor?” I teased, looping my arm through his.

“Your carriage awaits, my princess,” he said with an exaggerated bow, opening the door for me—just in time, as the rain started to drizzle.

By the time we reached my house, it was pouring. I was definitely going to get soaked just stepping out of the truck.

“Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant,” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek as I opened the door.

“Wait!” he said, quickly getting out and running around to my side.

“You’re going to get wet!” I laughed as he grabbed his jacket and held it over us. He took my hand, and we walked to the door, getting drenched anyway.

I slipped on a puddle near the steps, but Jake’s arm shot out, catching me around the waist. We both laughed, soaked to the bone. His hands stayed on my waist, and I wrapped mine around his neck. His eyes locked on mine, and then they dropped to my lips.

“Still want that goodnight kiss?” I asked, biting my lip.

“Hell, yeah,” he breathed.

Without hesitation, I pulled him down to me. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of beer, and fit perfectly against mine. One of his hands moved from my waist to cradle my neck, deepening the kiss.

We pulled apart for air, but he dove back in, kissing me more passionately this time. God, I really liked this man.

“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” came a voice from behind us. My dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Goodnight, sir,” Jake said quickly, stepping back and grabbing his jacket to drape it over me again.

“Hi, Dad. We were just…” I stammered, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking in.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see anything, but we’re having a serious conversation tomorrow, Seresin,” my dad said before going back inside.

“Should I be worried?” Jake asked nervously.

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” I said, smiling like a fool.

I pulled him down for another kiss, his hands gently resting on my hips.

“Goodnight, handsome.”

“Sleep well, beautiful.”

He gave me a quick peck before heading back to his truck. I stayed at the door until he drove off, leaning against it with a ridiculous smile on my face.

“He’d better treat you right, kid,” my dad called from the kitchen.

“Here we go…” I sighed. I knew I was in for a lecture, but Jake—handsome, charming Hangman—was definitely worth it.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

Hello my beautiful friend! I am SO ready to dive back into this series!

Right off the bat, the sexual tension with the gambling 👌🏻. I don't know what it is, but I always love in movies or shows or books when they have a poker game/card game between two people who are obviously into each other. I don't think it's a trope, but- the sexy smiles over the cards, the bluffing, the flirting, the teasing, just OH GOODNESS 😮‍💨

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too? You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

I'm not going to lie, I would have thought this to myself if I was in her situation. At the same time I feel bad for her because she has all this bottled inside and it's probably even worse that she's in close counters with him, just second guessing everything. BUT I also love that you've given us these wonderful domestic moments between the two of them. ❤️

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says. Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

DANG IT DEAN STOP HIDING FROM YOUR FEELINGS! Man really out there chopping wood trying to forget all his problems and relieve some tension 👀, while the reader is inside trying to educate herself🤣

The way you integrated John's journal into this chapter was so good! It adds on to the lore of the story. I'd never read through the official "John's Journal" merch so it was nice to see those little details and honestly made me feel more connected to the reader, because it was the first time that I was reading the entries too!

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

Girl it's okay we can cry together- DEAN WAS IN THE CRIB WITH SAM. Nothing is okay. I am made of tears. INCONSOLABLE 😭

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—” “Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating. “The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

No, NO, No. Dean NO.

Bad Dean!

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

AND he knows that she is supposed to be HIS. For the love of rice krispy treats! SHE HAS A BROKEN ANKLE DEAN. Don't let her leave!!!

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life.  Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate? You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Sweetie he's a grumpy old onion, you gotta peel him back one gorgeous layer at a time. 🤣

This bit is also so heartbreaking, because it's literally her meeting her mate and her believing that he doesn't want her, when it's probably all he does. There's something so raw about that. The idea of finding someone who was literally made for you and believing that they want no part of you. Oh goodness my fragile heart😭

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

I'm not going to lie, I wasn't expecting it to be a Bear. I literally thought this was going to turn into Dean saving her from a Wendigo- because of the allusions to her dad being killed by one, but this was such a (un)pleasant surprise LOL

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester: For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach. Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

I LOVE this insight into his head, just a little piece but enough for the readers to see that Dean does in fact care and that he does feel something for her! Not to mention again... HE PICKS HER UP. I've read Dean in so many fics doing that but each time it just makes me *swoon*.

And oh my word, him finally sitting down with her on the couch and allowing himself to let down some of his walls and let the reader in is just so good!! Not to mention now the reader is going to tell him the truth over how she lost her dad! I'm very excited to read the next chapter, but this one was amazing Alex! 🤗

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 3

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[worldsmessiestwriter]

Just lunch.

tw - none

word count - 978

Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

inspired by Only Tea from great gatsby the musical

—————————————————————————

The soft hum of Tony Stark’s voice filled Peter Parker’s Bluetooth earpiece as he maneuvered through Midtown traffic on his way home. The sky was painted in hues of orange and gold, but Peter barely noticed, too consumed by the whirlwind of emotions triggered by the phone call he was still reeling from.

“Relax, kid,” Tony drawled, clearly smirking on the other end. “It’s just lunch. A little bread, maybe some salad. You’ve had lunch before, right? You’re not gonna implode.”

Peter gripped the steering wheel tighter, his voice strained. “Yeah, but I’ve never had this lunch before, Mr. Stark! What do I even say to her? How do I start? Do I start? Should I bring flowers? Does she like flowers? Oh my God, what if she’s allergic to flowers and I kill her on the spot—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tony cut in. “Stop spiraling. First of all, nobody’s allergic to all flowers, Parker. And second of all, she’s not some stranger you met on Tinder. It’s Y/N. You’ve done this dance before.”

“But we haven’t,” Peter argued, his voice rising with panic. “Not since—well, not since she…”

Tony sighed, a rare moment of genuine understanding sneaking into his tone. “Look, I get it. Five years is a long time. But you’re forgetting one key detail here, kid.”

“What’s that?” Peter asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“She’s Y/N.”

Peter blinked at the simplicity of it, his mind scrambling for a way to make sense of the statement.

Tony continued, his voice growing more patient. “You think she doesn’t remember you? Doesn’t care? Kid, the second she came back, I asked her what she wanted. You know what she said?”

Peter swallowed. “What?”

“She said, ‘Where’s Peter?’” Tony’s voice softened slightly, but his trademark sass quickly returned. “Not ‘where’s Dad?’ Not ‘how’s the company?’ Not even, ‘wow, what’s up with that whole universe-dusting situation?’ You. She wanted you.”

Peter’s chest tightened, his breath hitching.

“So, take a deep breath,” Tony instructed. “She’s not some long-lost pen pal. She’s your girl. And all you have to do is show up, eat some carbs, and let her remind you why you fell for her in the first place. Easy-peasy.”

“Easy-peasy?” Peter repeated incredulously. “Easy for you to say! You’re Tony Stark! I’m just… me. What if I mess this up? What if she realizes I’m not the guy she remembers? I’m a workaholic now! I wear ties!”

Tony let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, no! Not ties! How will she ever recover?”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead as he pulled into the parking garage of his apartment building. “I’m serious. What if she doesn’t… feel the same?”

Tony paused for a moment, and Peter could hear the faint clinking of glassware in the background, probably Tony making himself a drink. When he finally spoke, his tone was steadier, calmer.

“She will, kid. I promise you, she will.”

Later that night, Peter paced the length of his apartment, phone in hand, scrolling through Google for advice that no search engine could possibly provide. His thoughts ping-ponged wildly:

What should I wear? What’s the perfect “Hey, I’m a professional now, but I’m still your dorky Peter” outfit? A blazer? Too formal. Jeans? Too casual. Oh my God, what if she thinks I’ve let myself go? Should I do push-ups right now? Is there enough time to get in shape before tomorrow?

Frustrated, he flopped onto his couch and grabbed a pillow, muffling his scream into it.

He dialed Happy’s number on instinct, but when the man answered with, “This better be important,” Peter panicked and hung up immediately.

Instead, he called Tony. Again.

“Kid, I swear if you’re calling me about flowers again—”

“I don’t know what to say! What if I walk in and freeze? Or worse, what if I talk too much and say something stupid? What if I accidentally bring up the Snap? I can’t just be like, ‘Hey, remember when you disintegrated in my arms?’ That’s not lunch conversation!”

“Peter,” Tony groaned, clearly exasperated but still indulgent. “It’s only lunch. You’re acting like you’re about to propose or give a TED Talk on nanotechnology.”

Peter sat up straight, alarmed. “Should I prepare a speech?”

“No!” Tony practically yelled. “For crying out loud, Parker, if you don’t stop overthinking this, I’m gonna send Pepper to come knock some sense into you. Or Morgan. She’s scarier.”

Peter groaned, leaning back against the couch and covering his face with his hands. “I can’t help it, Mr. Stark. This feels… big.”

“It is big,” Tony said, his voice gentler now. “But you don’t have to handle it all at once. Just show up. Let it happen. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

The next day, as Peter drove to the lakeside cottage, his mind raced with every possible worst-case scenario. He was running early—so early, in fact, that he had time to pull over at a rest stop and scream into his jacket sleeve again.

When he finally arrived, Tony was waiting on the porch, sipping a cup of coffee like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You’re late,” Tony teased as Peter walked up the steps.

Peter frowned. “I’m ten minutes early.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you’ve been marinating in anxiety for hours. Thought you might need a little nudge.” Tony patted him on the back and leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Remember: it’s just lunch.”

Peter nodded, trying to believe it.

But when he saw Y/N standing on the dock, laughing with Morgan as the wind caught her hair, his breath hitched, and for the first time in five years, his world felt whole again.

“Just lunch,” he whispered to himself, smiling despite his nerves. Maybe Tony was right after all.

—————————————————————————

[ivysprophecy]

Am I Okay? Chapter Three

a/n: hi again! if you havent guessed already this chapter is going to include the gala i mentioned in part twelve! (which is linked) now as author im going to state clearly that this is not their first date 'canonically', however, its what i MYSELF consider their first date. <3

warnings: i dont think there are any, but i did add a little somethin somethin at the end ;) and i should mention this ones gonna be in rafes pov ;) im in no way saying that rafe is my character

word count: 1241

this shouldnt feel as daunting as it does right now. shes just a friend. its just a dinner party, theres no commitments attached or technicalities to worry over.

its just me and her making a boring evening more exciting.

thats all.

i knock on the door and wait patiently for her to answer. i did come a bit early so i wouldnt be surprised if she was still getting ready.

she has a tendency to get swept up in the music shes listening to when shes at her vanity.

but as soon as she opens that door and i turn to see her... i suddenly forget all the convincing was doing.

cause i know after tonight theres gonna be no more hiding just how into her i am. she looks incredible.

it does something to me knowing its the dress i bought her.

"hi," thats all she says and i swear i forgot how to breathe. how does she do this to me?

"hey," my smile widens, "you look... gorgeous. really you look great."

"cant take all the credit, the dress was all your doing. im just wearing it."

"and you wear it beautifully," just like that, a natural blush replaces the artificial pink on her cheeks "we should get going, are you ready or do you need more time? i can wait."

"i think im ready..." she searches through her purse, going over its contents making sure she has everything. "yep, im ready."

"perfect," i close the door behind her as she walks out, "its a little jarring to see you without your boots."

she chuckles as i open the car door for her, "i tried to clean up as nice as i could."

"you clean up just fine cowgirl," i cant hide my smile.

the drive to the event was that comfortable kind of quiet. i always let her take aux when we drive together. country music definitely isnt my favorite but she could play a lot worse.

besides she throws in the occasional kid cudi or metro boomin for me.

shes thoughtful like that.

"oh theres valet? how fancy," the valet opens her door for her before i can even get out of the car. i suppose thats his job.

"thats kinda how these things go. theyre a bit much."

"well i think its refreshing being so spoiled. dads done a lot of fancy business but nothing like this. its fun."

taking her hand, i lead her up the stairs into the building, "ill spoil you as much as you want cowgirl."

"youre such a sweet talker city boy. for someone who, supposedly, is a serial bachelor youre a total flirt."

"nah, i only flirt with you," i tell her, truthfully. part of me said it to see her all flustered but really there isnt a point in lying about it.

i know everyones got me figured out already, the guys and their girls are better gossipers than the real housewives. not that id know anything about the real housewives. i definitely dont watch that shit.

"thats exactly what im talking about," shes giggling as we walk into the giant room filled to the brim with investors, partners, staff, clients, a bunch of people i really want to avoid. i was about to lead her over to the bar when we run into someone conveniently.

her father. that i work with. awesome.

"cameron! thought i wouldnt be able to catch you tonig- y/n? pumpkin what are you doing here?"

"dad! were in public can you maybe not call me that-"

i let a smile peak through, "pumpkin?" its just too easy to tease her.

"rafe," she sends me a warning, and you know she means business when she uses my "government name" as she likes to call it.

i throw my hands up in defense jokingly.

"its good to see you y/l/n," i reach out to shake her dads hand, "i invited her, hoping a friendly face would make the night more barrable. i hope thats alright with you."

"nah its good for her. she needs to get out more. i trust youll take care of her."

"dad!" she raises her tone while keeping a hushed voice, "dont talk about me like im not here. please."

"you kids have fun tonight," her dad wraps an arm around her before pressing a small kiss to her temple before shaking my hand again, "good to see you rafe. take care of my little girl."

i nod with a smile as he walks away, heading over to a table of some other clients i recognize.

"unbelievable! rafe im so sorry that was embarrassing. he doesnt know how to act normal. i shouldnt let him out of the house. i need to put him in a home."

"cowgirl, youre rambling. its fine, i get it. hes a dad its his job to embarrass you a little."

she rolls her eyes leading the way back to the bar like we intended in the first place. leaning against the bar she tells the bartender her order and mine, already knowing id like a whiskey.

how am i not supposed to like this girl so much when she knows me so well? i dont care if we come from two completely different backgrounds. a part of me knows this is the girl for me.

taking our drinks i lead her over to our table for the night, pulling out her seat for her to sit when suddenly i see some investors walking my way.

i knew id have to work a little tonight but it doesnt stop me being disappointed from being pulled away from her.

the night goes on, i introduce her to a few of the people i know better than others, but i give her the chance to mingle when she wants too. shes so well spoken and holds her own well.

shes mesmerizing.

at one point i return from the restroom, and when i come back i see that after i stepped away one of the investors sons is making conversation with her.

hes far too close to her for my liking, touching her arm subtly, desperately trying to make her laugh. but i can see shes only doing it to be polite.

i step up right beside her, my hand naturally falling to the small of her back. innocently of course.

"jared! good to see you man, your dad let you come?"

theres nothing i love to see more than his confidence faulter. he needed to be put in his place, what can i say?

im just happy i was the one to get to do it.

"yea... yea he did. it was good seeing you rafe. nice meeting you...?" he smiled in her direction, asking for one more chance silently, i couldnt contain my laughter.

"have a nice night jared. tell your dad ill see him at mondays meeting," and with that i lead her away in the direction of our table.

"you didnt have to be so rude to him you know?"

"cowgirl, that was hardly rude of me. i was doing him a favor."

she plasters on an offended face, pretending to clutch her pearls, "how dare you, im a catch. hed be so lucky to have me, and so would you."

god, shes such a tease.

believe me gorgeous. i know id be so lucky to have you. its all i think about.

[ masterlist ]

[killercozmos]

Art The Clown Headcanons

(Warning these are my opinions!)

𖤐: He's non verbal autistic little guy

𖤐: He age regresses (it makes sense to me cause of the first movie)

𖤐: Reason he's autistic again is cause he stims a lot (and I do mean a lot)

𖤐: When he was human he would go to the circus a lot.

𖤐: I like to think he's a rejected clown that's why he uses a clown persona.

𖤐: He loves animals (I don't remember he ever kills them but if he does that doesn't stop him from loving them to me)

𖤐: I seem him aroace personally ( I'm aroace so shoot me)

𖤐: He doesn't care about gender (I mean come on he wears a girls skin-)

𖤐: When he was human he would get bullied a lot for being nonverbal. Which actually probably made him more vicious to people who are even just slightly rude with him.

𖤐: I realised I don't think anyone ever gave him a name. And only call him art. I think his name would have been Arthur. :3 cause like short Arthur to Art. And boom.

𖤐: Art favorite color would be yellow

𖤐: He gets overstimulated easily especially with noise. (Samesies)

𖤐: He has a biting problem. Not cause of canablism but his biting problem made him learn that he is one(was one? Cause he becomes a demon so idk-)

𖤐: He would use note cards to talk

𖤐: He would be heavily sarcastic (body language and with the note cards)

𖤐: If he was friends with you he would be clingy with affections

𖤐: He loves to celebrate the holidays

𖤐: When he was a child he would be skittish. (That's why he hates loud noises) (edit: it's not the only reason but it made it worse kind of deal.)

(I honestly should write him a backstory for funzies)

I can't come up with anymore rn but feel free to comment your own headcanons or even debate with mine (as long you are kind about it)

[tashism]

older gf!tashi is invading my mind… doing something for her birthday, making it a whole day affair like starting with a bike ride and then going to her favorite cafe. snuggling at home with a movie on and then going out for a nice dinner. giving her presents and with every one her face is heating up more and more because no one has even known her so well.

sigh. forever thinking about her

hi i’m so happy you guys love older gf!tashi so much because i love her so much and she won’t leave my mind!! i could write about her forever!! and i just might!!

she’s been talking about this bike trail along the side of a mountain for what feels like months now. you don’t trust your biking skills nearly enough to do this, but you love her, so what’s a broken rib? waking up bright and early to set out her first gift — a brand new zip up, one of those tight ones with the thumb holes in the sleeves. she loves those things. a matching pair of leggings folded on top. waking her up with a kiss to the forehead and a quiet “c’mon, birthday girl”. she comes out of the room with a bright smile and sleepy face, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that flips around when she does a little spin for you, her hand grabbing under your jaw gently to pull you into a kiss.“i love it, thank you” she mutters before kissing you again and grabbing her water bottle to fill up.

before you know it, you’re following close behind her up the side of this steep mountain, yelling at the back of her head about how this is making you want to shit your pants from how nervous you are. the second you get to the top of the trail she takes out her ten year old digital camera, snapping pictures of the sky, your profile, your shoes, her eye, anything that she thinks might look nice in a scrap book one day. sweet lady.

after more than a few kisses and a long talk by the summit (never too close, you’re too nervous), it’s back down the mountain and to the car, off to her favorite little mexican cafe. she gets a hot chocolate because of course she does. you’d swear she changed her life the second you introduced her to abuelita. she never finishes her concha, always more than insistent that you share with her because she won’t eat it later. you never share, she always eats it later. you pay, she complains about it, you go home. all the biking and talking and hot cocoa drinking got the both of you sweaty — you shower together. running your hands through her hair, massaging shampoo into her scalp, kissing and nipping at her neck and chest and cheeks, telling her how lucky you are. you get so caught up in feeling her, in practically worshipping her kiss after kiss, that you don’t even process that she’s washing your hair while you do so.

after the shower it’s robes and wine, some cheese from trader joe’s that she says she’s too full to eat while stuffing her face with it. she leans into you all curled up, her brows furrowed while she picks a movie. you both fall asleep thirty minutes into the waterboy. the grating sound of your alarm startles the both of you, but it’s the fact that you’re bound to be twenty minutes late to your reservation that gets you on your feet. she wears a her prettiest jewelry and fanciest knit sweater, you wear some skirt from the bottom of your drawer and the boots she got you last week. more kisses, more giggling, one smack on the ass from her trying to get you out the door.

she loves martinis. god, why does she love martinis? what’s worse is that she gets you to take a sip every time, then you end up chugging half of your mai tai to try and chase the olive taste out. she orders steak fritz, you order truffle ravioli. you laugh about your friends and how dysfunctional their relationship is, how bad that pie they brought to thanksgiving was. you never tell the staff it’s her birthday; you’d rather spare her the awkward song and sparklers and just pay for whatever dessert she wants. she wants some lemon ricotta pastry, but she wants you to get the german chocolate cake so you two can share. she tells you that she wants to read the midnight library, you tell her you’ve heard good things about it. she wonders if she should get into pottery, you wonder what mugs and bowls her pretty hands could craft. after forks scraping frosting and a weird lemon dessert that you both hated, it’s back home.

you’re all too eager to get her in the house, all giddy as you unlock the door and drag her into the room, pulling out all her gifts from your side of the closet. she’s always sort of hated gifts. she’s used to perfumes and heels and lingerie — shit she doesn’t need and “should” want. a card, three boxes, and a bag. she goes for the card first, reading the lengthy message you left in there before peeling open the piece of folded paper inside. a cooking class in the heart of the city. just for her, you didn’t even bother booking a couple’s class. “you don’t like sharing the kitchen” you laugh softly, “n’ i figured it would be a nice personal thing”. the woman likes her solo hobbies, who doesn’t? you watch with warm eyes as she starts ripping at the brown parchment wrapping of the first box. brand new hokas, the ones she’s been refusing to buy herself because it seemed like a waste of money. after that is a brand new film camera. she mentioned it once at some point, and you’re sure of that by the look on her face. the box after that is just rolls of film and a little book about photography.

lastly, her bunny. that is, her stuffed bunny from when she was like… six. she hasn’t stopped talking about the thing pretty much since you met, always complaining about how it had to be somewhere in her mom’s attic. it was — it was ratty and faded and hers, a popped off eye and loose stitching. you sent it to one of those people on etsy who revives stuffed animals, now it’s nearly new. you can’t tell if it’s the lighting or the three martinis, or maybe she’s just genuinely a little emotional, but you can’t swear you see tears brimming in her pretty eyes.

i’m so sorry this is so long wow. wow wow wow

[howlsmovinglibrary]

hi, im sorry if this sounds stupid but like. how do you get your brain to switch from academia to fanfic. like when im done with my lab reports and finally have time to write i feel like a textbook mimicking human speech

hey anon! none of this is stupid at all, please don't feel bad for asking a question :)

i think i should preface by saying, I wasn't a girl in STEM. I'm an English lit girlie, so often my academic work got me thinking about stories, which made me want to write stories, and thinking about D&D which made BG3 the perfect outlet! I couldn't write a paper titled 'D&D vampires are weird, huh?' but I could write stories around those themes. So sometimes my fic just became a place for me to explore the stuff that interested me but had no place in my professional work, which obviously made it easy to generate ideas and content.

but I have my advice under the cut! (bc this accidentally became a long post lol).

what advice I can give, however, is advice that was given to me by another friend, who is also a PhD student. She said (in quite a clinical way, but that's the kind of person she is) that she saw her fic and her writing as 'building mastery' - which was something she'd learned in therapy. the idea that practising something and working at it makes you better at it but also makes you feel better about yourself, because you can find enjoyment in the hobby and see improvements in your work. she wrote fic, to see a progress and a learning curve she didn't see in academia.

Idk what STEM is like, but often my experience in academia left me feeling stupid or inadequate. everything I wrote there mattered, and it didn't always bring me joy. I actually started writing fic, because I had just finished my PhD funding applications, and after sinking 100+ hours into something that made me miserable, I just wanted to write words that were fun for a change.

it doesn't always feel like it, of course, but fic doesn't matter. it should be fun. it can be silly, it doesn't have to fit a wordcount, it can be whatever you want it to be and it's never getting assessed at the end. and - unlike academia - typically it only receives positive feedback. so I write fic, bc it doesn't make me feel like shit, even when academia does. it's a different ballgame, and it has a much lower stakes, and more forgiving relative curve. i like it, becuase i switch my brain off, and get to have fun and play around in a way i don't in acadeimia.

so I guess my advice for this particular question - other than "please rest", bc like the last person who asked me about this you sound a wee bit burned out beloved - is.... it's literally fine, if you sound like a human textbook. forget the words and how they're coming to you as you write them - are you having fun with the idea? do you like the positive feeling of writing them, and the positive feedback you get either from yourself or others? that's how i switch from academia into fic mode. I find something that i actually find recreationally enjoyable (lol, academia).

let go of all expectations, and just follow the story or plot noodle that itches the happy parts of your brain. don't let it be about quality at all.

and, in case I've misunderstood the question and this is actually more an issue of stylistics - my fic got wordier as a result of my academia. even worse, my ACADEMIA got wordier as a result of my fic!!! (when the adverb curse follows you into your day job lmao). I don't think there's any way to prevent crossing the streams. But you can be sillier in fic, so add some jokes! make the stupid reference! let everyone be a little less formal!

and, if all else fails, get a second pair of eyes :) maybe from someone outside of the institution. they can tell you if you've become a pretentious ass overnight or not x

[vaguehotels]

curtains

[peaches2217]

I have so many varied and fun WIPs I could work on but my brain continues to scream “BE WEIRD ABOUT CHILDBIRTH! SURELY YOU WON’T WEIRD ANYONE OUT IF YOU KEEP WRITING ABOUT CHILDBIRTH!” and I’d like it to sTOP

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[nonuggetshere]

I need to draw something with PK and Hornet there's not enough of these two together in my art

[kittlyns]

I had yet another long, strenuous day yesterday and didn't finish work until super late and then I couldn't fall asleep until well past 2am cuz I was in so much pain from standing literally all day