#paper thin walls. just the worst

[the-emblematic]

The most serious concern is that since the frames are wooden, they’re a more significant fire hazard than other types of multi-family buildings. The 5 in 5 over 1 refers to both “Type 5” building materials which are rated as being non-fireproof, and to 5 being the max number of non-fireproof stories US building code allows

plus a lot of people just think it’s just a boring architecture style

Fuck it, Urbanism hot take night, none of you bitches actually know what gentrification is

[monster-disaster]

[monsters] Neighbors

Thoughts about living with monsters- You live in an apartment with monsters all around.

An orc family lives above you, and they’re the sweetest neighbors you’ve ever had. The wife loves inviting you over for coffee and a bit of gossip. Her stories fill the air with warmth as she pours your cup and chats about the neighborhood or shares a delicious new pastry she’s baked. Her husband? He’s a gentle giant, always ready to roll up his sleeves and help out around your small flat. Whether it’s fixing a leaky faucet or carrying heavy groceries up the stairs, he’s there before you even ask.

And then, there are the babies; two adorably chubby little ones with soft, green cheeks and big, curious eyes. You’ve become their go-to babysitter, which means plenty of afternoons filled with giggles and messy faces.

But when night falls, it’s a different story.

The ceiling might as well be paper-thin, with their gravelly voices and laughter rolling through the floorboards. Sometimes, those conversations turn into... well, more intimate moments and the babies aren’t just cute, they’ve got lungs that could rival any set of bagpipes. Their cries often jolt you awake in the middle of the night, heart racing.

Even with the sleepless nights, you never find it in yourself to complain, though. There’s a warmth to their noise, a liveliness that fills your small flat with a sense of family, even if it comes with a few sleep-deprived mornings.

Beneath you on the first floor lives a goblin who’s practically made it his life’s mission to comment on every noise you make. You do your best to avoid him, but it’s only a matter of time before you bump into him, leaning against his doorframe with arms crossed and an unimpressed scowl etched on his face.

He never misses an opportunity to complain.

“Your steps are like thunder up there. Ever heard of walking lightly?” he grumbles, or “How many times do I have to tell you? Lift the chairs, don’t drag them! Sounds like a damn avalanche down here!” And that’s not even the worst of it. The day he leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he muttered, “And for god’s sake, put a pillow over your face next time you play with your vibrating friend,” your face burned hotter than a forge. You were sure the ground might split open beneath you right then and there.

Since that conversation, you’ve found yourself tiptoeing around your flat, trying to keep your footsteps as light as possible, but even with your efforts, you know the next run-in with him is just around the corner, along with another list of grievances he’s been stewing over.

To your right lives a wolf-shifter, and for the most part, things between you are easygoing. He’s a quiet neighbor, the type who nods at you in the hallway and even offers a polite smile now and then. But his love life? That’s where the peace ends. His one-night stands, in particular, are the worst. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve had to comfort his partners the morning after, wiping away their tears when they realize that "just one night" really means just that. They always seem to hope for more, for something lasting, and it’s always you who ends up playing the sympathetic neighbor, nodding along as they pour out their hearts. Of course, it's your fault too. You should learn how to mind your own business instead of feeling sorry for crying women. And men.

And then there’s his rut. The first time you realized what was going on, you nearly dropped your coffee cup. The howls, the desperate growls, and the unmistakable... fervor of it all carried straight through the walls. After those nights, it’s impossible to even think about making eye contact with him. Weeks go by before you feel like you can look at him without your mind immediately replaying all the sounds you heard. And he, of course, acts like nothing happened.

To your left lives a succubus, and teasing you seems to be her favorite pastime. She’s always around when you come or go, somehow knowing exactly when to time her appearances. She leans casually against her doorframe, dressed in barely-there lingerie or a robe that hangs loose enough to leave little to the imagination, her lips curling into a knowing smile as she catches your eye. It’s impossible not to feel your cheeks heat up under her gaze, especially when she purrs a playful remark. Her eyes linger just a moment too long. And those paper-thin walls? They do nothing to block the sultry sounds she makes late into the night, sounds you’re sure are meant just for you.

You tell yourself you are holding your ground, that you won’t give in, but every sly comment she throws your way and every time she catches you with a flustered look makes you worry that it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself at her door, falling right into her trap.

Across the hall lives an elderly minotaur who, bless her heart, has made it her personal mission to match you up with one of her grandkids. No matter how busy you are, she has a sixth sense for catching you at the worst possible times. If you are running late for an appointment, she is suddenly in the hallway, eager to chat about her "really successful and recently divorced" grandson. Or maybe you’re lugging bags of groceries, arms aching under their weight, and just as you are almost to your door, she appears, excited to tell you that another one of her grandsons, who just came back from abroad, is finally ready to settle down. You try to smile and listen, nodding along as she goes on about their good jobs, kind hearts, and how they need someone like you in their lives. And of course, you don’t have the heart to cut her off, even when you’re in a rush or your arms feel like they might fall off from holding the bags. So, more often than not, you find yourself standing there, smiling politely and listening for far longer than you’d planned, as she talks on and on about her grandkids’ achievements while her eyes twinkle with hope.

“Y/N!” The goblin’s voice rings out just as you step into the elevator. Your name rolling off his tongue is already dripping with complaints. "I'm sorry!" You almost shout when you catch a glimpse of his frown while frantically jabbing the button for your floor. "Y/N!" As the elevator finally slips shut, cutting off his grumbling, the tension drains from your shoulders, but your relief is short-lived when you hear the familiar ding and the doors open. "Hey," the wolf-shifter greets you casually before taking your place in the metal box. You manage a stiff nod and a quiet "hey" while drifting your gaze to the floor, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second. When he disappears behind the thick doors, you let out a sigh and shift the bags in your arms as you fumble for your keys. Just as you manage to find them, the door in front of you swings open, and you force a smile as the elderly minotaur across the hall greets you warmly. “Hello, dear!” she beams. “Would you like to come in? My grandson, you know, the one I told you about, is visiting, and I thought you two should finally meet!” Your mouth opens, and your brain scrambles for a polite excuse, but before you can get a word out, her grandson appears behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Maybe next time, Nan,” he says with a smile, steering her back into the apartment. You share a moment of mutual understanding before the door clicks shut. Just as you breathe a sigh of relief, again, another door swings open, again, and you freeze, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. The succubus leans against her door, draped in dark purple lingerie that hugs her curves like a second skin. The bralette barely manages to contain her generous figure, and her sultry smile only deepens as she takes in your flustered expression. “Hello, Y/N,” she purrs. Your cheeks flare up, and you barely stammer out a weak “Not today!” as you nearly stumble into your apartment. You can hear her laughter echoing behind you, but your attention is quickly snatched by the buzzing of your phone. Your bags hit the floor with a heavy thud, and you cringe, fully aware the goblin will have a field day with this. You glance at your screen, catching a new message from your friend upstairs: The kids are with their dad. Fancy a coffee? How about you come down? you quickly reply, no way willing to risk leaving your apartment again today. Sure, comes the reply almost instantly. Did you hear about the party that harpy threw on the fourth floor? She drives me mad! No, you think, but leave the message unanswered. Of course, you didn’t hear about the party. How could you, with the orc babies wailing through most of the night?

[reysdriver]

Cruel Summer | E.M.

Eddie does his very best to help you through the current heatwave — eddie x pregnant!reader fluff

warnings: pregnancy, a little angst if you squint

words: 1.6k

Boiling. 

That was the only way your trailer could be described right now. It was one of Indiana’s hottest summers on record, and it didn’t help that you were six months pregnant and living in an aluminum box. 

You owned three electric fans, and they were all on full blast and aimed at the couch, but they really weren’t making as much of a difference as you needed.

There was a series of thuds coming from something or other outside the thin walls of your trailer, so you assumed your husband was home. And you were proven right when he entered, immediately apologising for leaving you alone in this heat. 

He had no reason to be sorry. Eddie has been so attentive and helpful through this pregnancy, showing you exactly why you fell in love with him everyday, and he was even proving it now. 

Since he just came back from a quick run to the store for some ice, fruit, and frozen treats, he set everything he bought on the recliner before crouching down next to you. 

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead and started lightly stroking some of your hair. 

“How are you feeling?” Eddie asked. 

You gave him a side eye, too exhausted to even lift your head. “Take a guess, Teddy.”

He smiled slightly. If it was at the use of your favourite nickname for him or your exasperated joke, you weren’t quite sure. 

“I know that, sweetheart, and I’m sorry. Hopefully I can help a little.”

“Thank you. Did they have black cherry ice cream?”

He hummed out a quiet ‘mhm’ then stood up with a stifled groan. “But it might have melted a bit on the way back. I’ll put it in the freezer and we can have it soon.” 

“What about oranges?”

That was your latest craving. The ice cream and popsicles were luxuries to get you through the heat; the oranges were necessities. You were thankful that your cravings switched from tomato soup to citrus just in time for the heatwave, or you weren’t sure how you would get through it at all. 

Eddie made his way back over to the living room and picked up a paper bag from the recliner. 

“Big bag of ‘em, just for you.”

Hoping to dive right into the bag of fruits, you attempted to sit up, but the baby bump paired with the immense summer heat rendered the process slow and tiring. 

Eddie watched as you moved sluggishly, pitying how this heatwave was taking an extra hefty toll on you. 

“Don’t push yourself.” He advised gently while holding out his hand for you. “I’ll help you with whatever, even if it’s just getting up.”

You thanked him, then grabbed a cutting board and paring knife so you could slice the oranges how you like. 

“You know,” Eddie spoke again. “I was thinking that we could stay at someone else’s place for a bit. Just to get through the heat, you know? I’m sure everyone we know would be more than happy to have us over.”

You started shaking your head before Eddie even finished the proposition. He and you both knew what your answer would be, but Eddie figured there was no harm in asking. 

He really just wanted the best for you. He wanted you to be safe and comfortable, and although that obviously was something you wanted too, you just couldn’t accept his offer. 

“Eddie, I know you just want me to be happy, but I promise you I’m happiest here, at home, with you.”

He sighs, torn between wanting to get you out of this sauna of a trailer and letting you decide what’s best for yourself. In the end, he had to go with your choice, even if it meant suffering; both of you suffering together wasn’t the worst thing ever, he supposed. 

“Alright. Want me to at least draw you a bath?”

“Will you feed me orange slices and ice cream while I’m in the bath?” With wide eyes, you flashed him a hopeful smile. 

He rolled his eyes jokingly, then smiled sincerely back at you. “Of course, anything you want.”

You let out a happy giggle, then took the ice cream out of the freezer almost as quickly as it got there. 

He kissed you on the forehead before heading off to the small bathroom. 

You heard the sound of running water, then your husband’s voice. “Make sure to scoop enough so I can have some too!”

You happily obliged and doled out an extra scoop into the bowl. Then you plucked one ripe cherry from the bag in your fridge and placed it atop the dessert. That was Eddie’s favourite, and if he was being so nice to you, then you would return the favour. 

You took the time to clean the kitchen up, then brought both the ice cream and the orange slices to the bathroom to see Eddie sitting by the tub and turning off the water. 

“It’s a little bit cooler than usual.” He warned. “I just didn’t want the water to be too hot when the whole place is already hot and you’re—”

You cut him off by pressing a kiss to his lips, then another on the corner of his mouth. 

“Thank you, baby. Now hold these while I get undressed. And then turn around.”

“I don’t get to watch?” Your husband asked, baring one of the most betrayed looks you’ve ever seen.

You shook your head. “I promise, you don’t want to see me struggling to get my clothes off because they’re drenched in sweat and I’m about to enter my third trimester. I mean it, don’t look. I don’t want you losing all attraction to me.”

Your husband sighed dramatically, then obeyed and turned slowly to face the other way.

It only took a bit of effort, but you took off your dress and placed it on the towel rack beside you. Then came a wolf whistle from right behind you. After turning around, you noticed that Eddie could totally see you in the bathroom mirror. 

“Pervert.” You mock accused. “Does me being all gross and pregnant really turn you on?”

“Everything about you turns me on.”

And he meant that. Not an ounce of insincerity in that promise. 

You faked a gag and then smiled just because you couldn’t help it. Holding out a hand, you asked if he could help you into the tub and he obviously did so after putting your food down on the counter. 

“How’s the water?” He asked. “I can add some hot or cold water if the temperature is off.”

“It’s amazing, handsome. Perfect temperature for some orange slices.”

Eddie chose the slice that was calling to him the most and held it for you to bite. Some of the juices missed your lips and dropped into the bathwater, but you paid that no mind. 

You were thankful that your husband bought a whole bag of these, because you had a feeling your diet over the next few days would be mainly oranges. 

After a few more slices, you decided you now wanted some of the black cherry ice cream that you had also been craving recently. 

As Eddie held the spoon up close to your lips, he noted that this was similar to feeding a baby—something you would be experiencing soon enough. 

“I don’t know about that.” You said. “I think a baby would be a lot more difficult to feed than me.”

Eddie cringed exaggeratedly and shrugged, telling you he doesn’t know about that either. 

Maybe proving his point, you splashed about a cup’s worth of water at his chest, taking care in your aim to make sure none of it got in your ice cream. He ‘retaliated’ by doing the same to you, though the water didn’t affect you when you were already in a whole tub of it. 

“Do you want to join me?” You proposed, gesturing vaguely to the tub so small that you had to cram just to sit alone in. 

“I don’t think this thing can fit both of us, baby. You enjoy it now, and a big tub will be on the top of our list when we buy a new house.”

“It’ll take a while.” You told Eddie. “A lot of our savings are gonna go to the baby, and who knows when we’ll be able to leave the trailer park.”

“Don’t say that. We’ve been working hard and saving. We’ll get there soon.” Eddie assured you. “And even if we can only afford a place without a big tub, I’ll live in the dark and eat nothing but salt and pepper for as long as it takes to get you one.”

You tried to hide your grin, but you knew you were failing at it. Maybe he didn’t think you believed him, so he kept going.

“I’m serious. We’re almost there.” Eddie looked down at your bump sticking out of the water. “Our baby is gonna have a good life”

“You’re so cheesy, Teddy.”

“I’m in love. Love makes you do cheesy things.”

“Like feeding me ice cream in the bathtub?” You asked, attempting to not put your true intentions on display. 

But Eddie understood, just like he always does. He picked up the spoon once more and scooped a heap just for you. 

“Like feeding you ice cream in the bathtub.” He nodded in agreement.

[meowpupp]

as a thank you for hitting 1k followers, and an apology for my absence, I would like to share my take on poly!141.

poly141! x recruit!reader. 1.5k words. mentions of sex, although no smut. yet.

you're a sweet little thing. smart as a whip, nerdy, and confident. having spent most of your post highschool graduate years studying, youve acquired numerous impressive qualifications. while most people your age in university were out partying, getting blind drunk, hooking up, you were studying.

a tech genius. that's what laswell had sold you as to price. he had been hesitant to allow any new members at all, especially ones so young. and yet, taskforce 141 sees two new additions. the newest little tech genius who's climbing quickly through the ranks, and another soldier. someone by the name of roach.

at first, you weren't amused. as a woman in the military, your life was already difficult enough. being assigned to an all male taskforce felt like your worst nightmare. but after some convincing from laswell, and realizing this would be the fastest way to make a name for yourself, you sign the papers.

your first week is smooth, albeit awkward. you and the other new recruit, roach, get along fairly well. he's funny, a little dorky, but obviously skilled. he isn't as intimidating as the others, being almost as young as you. you find yourself gravitating to him often, often staying up late together, eating meals together, and even training together. you make quick friends.

and so, it's only natural that you both end up becoming… closer. late night talks turn into makeouts, and makeouts turn into grinding. it's somewhat clumsy however… as if the two of you can quite place the power dynamics.

the others, however, are much more of a challenge to get along with. you're cautious, aware these men have been in this business much longer than you. the four of them- price, ghost, gaz, and soap- are a power unit. it takes weeks for you to find your place within the team.

price tries to be welcoming, although it doesn't quite work. there's this sense of authority and power around him that makes you feel small, almost submissive. his gruff voice sends shivers down your spine each time he speaks over comms, panties growing wet each time he gives you a direct order.

it's almost as if he knows, whispering your name rather than your military nickname. his voice sounds almost seductive. it makes you feel like a pervert, imagining him growling in your ear each time you get off.

price has a way of always remaining in control and not just with you. the power dynamics within the task force are subtle yet well established. there seems to be a chain of command that follows their ranks. price on top, then ghost, then gaz and soap. you notice how they all drop casual innuendos, their affection for each other, corssing over the boundary of just friendliness.

ghost barely looks, let alone, speaks to you for the first month. you're unsure if he even likes you. on the field, he's sharp and alert. you occasionally hear him share banter with the others, but never feel brave enough to join in. the man is intimidating, almost three times your size, a quiet sort of confidence and dominance that follows him around. he's the one you train with most often.

ghost is ruthless. he slams you into the matt, somehow always ending up between your thighs, his big hands holding them apart and pinning you down. you can't help but memorise the sight. your Lieutenant, panting, slightly sweat as he holding you in such a lewd position, glaring down at you.

it's your favourite fantasy to think about late at night as you touch yourself, unaware that the walls are so thin that ghost himself hears you whimper his name. he strokes himself in time with the slick noises of your cunt, imagining how desperate you must look.

gaz isn't intimidating, per say. he isn't distant like ghost or unapproachable like price. the man has such a casual confidence and arrogance around him. he's the first to speak to you, ask you about yourself. throughout your career, you've met many military soldiers. most the men fit into two categories, misogynistic dicks who don't believe you have a place within the ranks, or disgusting perverts who want a quick fuck (most of them have wives, even kids.) but gaz is refreshing. he fits into neither.

he often starts conversations with you. asking questions and truly listening as you speak. little do you know he records each one, saving them for when he's alone late at night. something about the way you speak, your tone, the quiet rasp or accent, it makes him stupidly hard. he's not above recording you while you workout, standing just close enough to capture each huff and grunt as you lift. it's those recordings that get him off the quickest, wondering how whiny youd sound if he held a vibrator to your clit, didnt let up until you were crying and covered in slick.

and soap. the man is difficult for you to read. your first impression is that he's one of those men who fit into the ‘misogynistic asshole’ category. apart from your initial meeting, he practically ignores you.

you can tell its not deliberate. he just seems more immersed in the natural, pre-established dynamic of the taskforce. the one that doesn't include you. it takes a while, but after a month or two, your interactions become more common.

he turns out to be very respectful- even helpful. due to your background in tech, you skipped a few ranks when you joined. soap helps you in the shooting range. standing behind you, body pressing into yours from behind, correcting your posture before you fire.

you even create games with each other. he gives you little quizzes. theyre normally about gun components, military jargon, or even field upgrades. with each quiz he promises a ‘reward.’

its embarrassing whenever you blush and grow wet when he says it. the rough growl of his voice, combined with the accent he has, all makes you dizzy. you don't even notice how he plays it up, practically purring out the word, smirking as you squirm, making sure to graze his fingertips over your hot skin.

it's obvious that after a month or two, that roach is significantly more acclimated than you. it feels unfair. your relationship with each member is steadily growing, yet something about how roach interacts with them is so different. it's like you're missing a puzzle piece.

it isn't until one night when you're venting your frustration that roach reveals the reason he's clicked with them so quickly.

“It's like an initiation,” he smirks, eyes flicking away from you, “think of it kind of like…. hazing.” his eyes are almost predatory as he meets yours again, so unlike the goofy persona he usually has, “if you like, I could speak to price. they have started to discuss inviting you in.”

it's as if everything made sense now. it wasn't your fault. it was another case of discrimination, you being left out because you didn't fit into their stupid boys club.

ever since that conversation with roach, you have become frustrated, irritable, and short with them all. you fulfilled all your required tasks but refused to engage with them any further. denying invites to the pub, ignoring gaz when he tried to speak, training alone, no longer asking soap for help.

after about a week of this, price calls you to his office.

a sick sense of unease and anxiety settles in your gut. the man is so intimidating, and this surely wasn't a positive meeting. you've never been in a position like this. all throughout school, you were a grade A student, and within your years in the military, you've always maintained basic respect and politeness. you've never been in trouble with a CO.

when you step into his office, however, all your expectations are subverted. price sits at his desk, smoking a cigar. roach leans against it next to him. the two of them are speaking lowly.

price notices you first. his eyes carry an emotion you haven't seen before. lust. he's staring at you as if you're some sort of prey. with a smirk, he blows out a large puff of smoke. it curls around him, only making him more intimidating.

“if you were feeling excluded, sweetheart, you should've made me aware.” he leans back in his chair. suddenly, the room feels so small, your body getting hot, “id be more than happy to include you.”

roach walks towards you, guiding you further into the office. he doesn't let you sit, however, instead standing behind you, hands groping your hips. his fingertips slip under your shirt, brushing the sensitive skin of your stomach.

he kisses your neck, “price wants to see how pretty you are,” his hands slide further up, taking your shirt off, “let's give him a show, yeah?”

cont.

[bigification]

Somethings in the Water

Being the great team captain that you are, you show up to the locker room early. You've had a reputation throughout your entire college football career of being put together, and being a good example for your team. And now, at your final game before your graduation, you feel the pressure lift off your shoulders. It's gonna be nice passing on the torch to someone else for next year.

Footsteps echo as you walk through the empty change room. The faint smell of sweat from yesterday's game feels nostalgic. A thud rings out as you drop your heavy bag on the bench.

"Huh? What's this." You say to yourself as you notice a bunch of water bottles in a holder in the middle of the change room. You investigate and see a note nearly placed on top.

"So you don't have to bring water from your university." Is written in neat handwriting on the small piece of paper.

How nice of them to provide your team with water bottles, it'll be convenient not having to carry them all the way in.

You grab one of the water bottles from the holders and hold it above your mouth. You grip tightly, shooting water down into your mouth. It feels oddly refreshing. Sure it was cold, but there was something more. It is... sweet. And it costs your teeth in a weird way. They must put something in the water to freshen it up, you think to yourself.

Though it doesn't take long for you to realize that there is in fact something wrong with the water. The coating in your mouth gets thicker and thicker, making it hard to swallow. Did they spike your water? You ask yourself, trying to make sense of it. Soon your body starts to feel weird, as if you were high. Only more intense than you've ever felt.

You drop the bottle as you stumble back into the showers. Trying to grab at the walls to stabilize yourself, but your hands feel too weak to grab anything. Though you still manage to lean against the damp tile walls of the shower. You bend down, still leaning against the wall, in an attempt to regain your balance. You've been high out of your mind at every frat party, so you can handle any drug they gave you, you tell yourself.

Little did you know, you couldn't.

As you're catching your breath, you look down in horror. There's a big lump under your jersey. Are the drugs making you bloated? You lift your shirt, and your heart sinks. A flabby stomach bounces as you pull up your shirt, this was no bloat. With every breath it swells, becoming rounder and softer until you can't see your feet anymore. But the worst is yet to come. Your strong pecs, the ones you've built throughout your entire football career, also begin to soften under an ever growing layer of fat. They kept their shape for a while, only looking a bit swollen. But they quickly grew into an undeniable pair of man tits, that pressed tight against your shirt. As your shirt rides up more and more, your nipples also swell, making you involuntarily moan as they rub against the rough texture of your jersey.

You jerk back, recoiling at the moan that just escaped your lips. In a fleeting attempt for control, you desperately tug down on your jersey, hoping it will hide your rotund midsection, but it barely reaches past the top of your gut.

And if you think it can't get worse, it can, and it will.

A pelt of brown hairs grows all over your exposed gut, making your once clean shaven body look unkept. The hair spreads up to your chest, where you can feel the rough hairs rub against your tight jersey. You also feel an intense itch spread around to your back, down your ass, and all over your legs.

Don't worry, you'll get used to the itchiness eventually. Because shaving it will only make it worse.

The defined muscles on your back disappear under a layer of pudge and your thin waist bulges out as love handles spill over your waist band. Making even your silhouette look fat. Next your arms begin to sag slightly under their own weight, making your hard earned biceps look old and flimsy. And the hair on your arms grows much thicker than everywhere else, growing even over your hands. Which are now massive, with thick calloused fingers, perfect for catching and throwing a football.

That means you can convince yourself you haven't let yourself go old man. Oh right, I forgot to mention. Your hairline has started to recede, exposing the top of your head. And the hair that's left is not fooling anyone, you've maybe got a couple of years before even that becomes too thin. The wrinkles on your forehead and around your eyes are not helping either. Maybe some moisturizer would help. But I doubt you would use that, considering you're a crusty old man. Also, don't worry about that double chin that's forming under your softened jawline, your scruffy beard totally hides it. Trust me, no one can see it.

As you can probably tell by now, you are completely out of it. You are holding onto the wall for dear life, trying to make sure your hefty body doesn't fall. Your skin feels weird, your eyesight is fucked, and there is voice in your head narrating all of the horrible, I mean wonderful changes that are happening to your body. Those aren't done by the way.

Next, your ass begins to plump up. Your cheeks start to strain the fabric in your shorts, letting out a few ripping noises. The front gets just as tight, as your dick doubles in size, begging to escape your tiny jockstrap. Your thighs continue to strain against your shorts, becoming thick and solid like tree trunks. That's at least something you never lost from your football days in college, though they're much hairier now. And your feet burst out of your tiny size 11 shoes, now only fitting in a manly size 18.

It looks like all those drugs you took in college really paid off, as the high starts to wear off. The familiar heft of your body returns in full, and your memories start to come back. You became a full time coach at your college after graduating. Of course you put on some weight over the years, but that's only natural for a man in his forties. At least that's what you tell yourself. Your team used to make fun of you for growing a spare tire, but you're the one laughing since you've got them on a new diet. Besides, a man isn't complete without a bit of meat on his bones, and your team knows that now. The pussies on the other team aren't gonna know what's gonna hit em.

You finally regain your composure, acting like nothing happened. You fold the collar on the polo tee that has appeared over your body, and you loosen the belt on your jeans to give the belly some breathing room. The water tends to leave you with a bit of a bloat, so you've gotta leave some room.

Being the great coach that you are, you stand up tall and walk out to greet your team. You first see Colin, your team captain. He's been doing great since he took over, but he's stubborn. He questioned your judgment when you wanted to put them on a new diet, but realized his mistake and followed his coach like a good captain does. He's a little behind the other boys but he's getting there. His buddy Stephen is making sure he shapes up well before this game, thanks to that diet powder you put in the team's water.

Historians would say Colin and Stephen have become 'really good friends' recently, so it's no surprise Stephen has been helping Colin with his dieting. They always seem to shower together, and you even love to join them after a long hard game just to blow off some steam.

"Stephen! I want Colin twice that size by the time we get in the field." Your voice echoes around the room.

"Yes coach!" Stephen responds as he sprays more of your water into Colin's mouth.

Next you pass George. He's been a great offensive lineman. He was always one of the bigger guys in the team, but your diet has done wonders for his waistband. Now no one can get through that wall of a man. Looks like Brenden is feeding him his pre game dose of diet powder to make sure he's nice and plump before the game. Those two are shaping up to be done real men, the thought of them growing more only makes your jock tighter than it already is.

"Don't forget to take some too Brenden, don't let George hog it all." You shout unnecessarily loud in your deep gruff voice. And just like the good player he is, Brenden takes his dose. Looks like he's ready for action.

You stop by every player, making sure they're sticking to their diet. And if you need to force feed them spiked water to make them grow into the big football players they're meant to be, then so be it. You also make sure to slap each player on their ass as you pass by.

Finally you stop at Peter. He's kind of the runt of the litter, more of a bench warmer. You've been trying to train him to be the man he could become, but all the diet has done is made him extremely fat.

He thinks that stretchy sports shirt hides anything, but everyone knows it doesn't. You grab him by the wrist and drag him into the showers with you. You press your heavy hand down on his shoulders, and he knows his job. You pull off your shirt and drop your jeans to the ground. Peter drops to his knees, his fat rippling as he does so, and he looks up at you as if to ask for further instructions.

"Coach has gotta release his stress before a tough game." You command him.

[jayke0]

And They Were Roommates

Pairing: Marc Spector x fem reader

Summary: You catch your roommate, Marc, having some private time, and it's only when he comes at the sight of you that something inside you is released.

Rating: nsfw, smut

Warnings/Content: Friends to lovers?, Male masturbation, fluffy/soft sex, Marc being insecure at first cuz he hasn't had his chode ridden in a while, some nipple play (f receiving), protected sex (pill), mention of female masturbation, p in v, breeding if you squint, creampie, lmk if there's anything else I should add :).

Word count: 2,275

A/N: Uhmmmm so i accidentally posted this too early, so if you see it please reblog so it reaches others! Thankyouuuu

Credit: @automnepoet for proofreading ily.

…………......................………………………………….

Marc Spector had always found himself to be a very private man. You're lucky to have even gotten a glimpse at his phone that one time, given how precisely he guards what little personal belongings he has and hides his emotions behind a stone-cold glare.

That's why he always waits for you to go out before he touches himself.

He'd gotten into the habit of it after realizing the wall dividing your bedrooms is so paper thin that he could hear every word the character was saying on whatever show you'd been watching at the time.

The anticipation; the waiting was always the worst. You'd take your sweet sweet time getting ready and checking your shopping list, only to forget something and come back 2 minutes later; luckily, he'd gotten used to that part too. Though, as much as he pretended he hated it, he actually found it quite endearing; a little quirk of yours that made you so fucking adorable to him.

“I'll be back in an hour!” Marc hears your voice echo through the hall, simply responding with a grunt that was somewhere along the lines of ‘alright’. He hears that first front door slam and waits a couple of minutes, before excitedly scrambling to his bedroom, cock already twitching at the prospect of release.

He'd had a particularly hard few days (pun intended), and with you deciding you didn't want to venture out, he was left to let his mind wander, only to blueball-ball himself in the process.

He's quick to grab his earphones and settle down comfortably in his bed, pulling his t-shirt off swiftly and practically ripping his jeans off. It doesn't take long before he's got his cock in hand, fisting his throbbing length harshly as girly moans fill his ears and do wonders for his imagination.

Oh, how he tries not to think about you. He knows It's creepy, and he knows that if you found out you'd probably kick him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, but it's so hard. His thumb swipes over the tip, collecting the beads of precum and spreading it over himself.

You're always so perfect, so gorgeous. The sun always seems to land on your face beautifully and illuminate each of your features. He twists his hand expertly and pulls a string of breathy gasps from his chest as he squeezes the tip.

The way you walk through the living room in just a towel, dripping wet; it's almost like you're tempting him.

He's now frantically thrusting into his hand at the image in his mind, low moans and growls escaping through his gritted teeth as his head tilts back and the tendons in his neck bulge at the stretch. That coil is tightening faster that he can control, his brain foggy with thoughts of you, just you you you. The thoughts are so close that he swears he can hear you calling his name, begging him to ruin your cunt and fill you u–.

A cold feeling runs through his body as his head shoots up, his eyes meeting your shocked gaze. Unfortunately for him, that's exactly what he needed as he's sent tumbling over the edge. Hot white ropes spill from his ruddy tip and splatter across his toned chest, huffed moans and curses falling from his lips as he fucks his hand through his orgasm.

It's only when he finally opens his eyes again that the guilt hits him and he scrambles to pull his boxers back up, trying to put his still throbbing cock away.

“Fuck, I'm so sorry, didn't realise you were there! I- I had my headphones in–.” He pulls them out, trying to wipe the evidence of his sins off of his chest, but your soft hand stops him; yes, you had gotten closer.

You watch as his dark eyes trail up your arm to your face, a cocktail of dread, fear, and… something else, all brewing in his gaze; it makes you want him even more.

“I'm not mad, Marc.”

“Creeped out, then?...”

Your thumb runs over his knuckles, feeling how warm and soft his hands are. “No. I mean, I probably should be, but fuck,” your eyes are drawn to his twitching length fighting against the restraints of his tight boxers. Carefully, you crawl onto the bed, straddling his legs far enough away from his body so he can push you off if he's uncomfortable.

You inch closer to him, “ ‘s this ok?” Hands either side of his thighs, your words are soft and breathy, your eyes gazing at him with a look that is sickeningly sweet.

It makes his head wurl, a tight feeling constricting in his chest as the prettiest girl in the world sits virtually in his lap. “Yes–” his voice breaks, making you chuckle softly. “Yeah, it's more than ok.” His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and you feel it as you place your hands on his chest to shuffle closer to him.

“You looked so handsome like that, Marc.” You compliment with a smile, leaning in to brush your lips across his and feel him take in a sharp breath. He catches your lips and pecks them with adoration, letting a longer kiss linger on them as you press closer to him still. After a few seconds, he moves his hands to rest on your waist, one running up your back to cup the back of your head as he runs his tongue along the seam of your mouth, and you happily oblige.

Months worth of feelings are poured into the kiss, both of you slowly and softly lapping and sucking at each other's lips before you dissolve into panting messes, biting and licking fiercely as if trying to eat each other whole.

“God damn, Spector, you're a great kisser,” you giggle softly, pulling from his lips to appreciate the shiny and red mess you'd made of him. A familiar growl rumbles in his chest, one that you'd learnt was an appreciative noise rather than something to be put off by.

“You can talk, y'know. You're not gonna scare me off.”

Briefly, you see insecurity paint across his face. It's something that you'd never seen before, a small crack in the otherwise solid structure of his frigid expression. On instinct, you brush his curls from his forehead and cup his cheeks, “I trust you, Marc, it's ok. I'm not here to judge you.”

His shoulders seem to relax as he nods a little, “I'm sorry. I don't do this often, if you hadn't noticed.”

You laugh softly and pat his chest, “that's ok, neither do I,” you smile as you sit back on your heels and pull your t-shirt off over your head. You take his hands gently and place them on your breasts, “none of them were you.”

You swear that you see him change in that moment, your words sinking in and his eyes turning hungry. His thumbs run over your hardening nipples as he surges forwards to seize you in another burning kiss that has you hot and breathless this time.

“Jesus, Marc…” a soft whine is pulled from your lips as he glides his lips down and over your neck, focusing on the pulse point below your jaw by nibbling and sucking softly. He's surprisingly quick at unclasping your bra, and he pulls away a little to admire your body.

“Shit, you're gorgeous,” he mumbles, thumbs running underneath your boobs before they work up and run across your nipples, making a gasp get caught in your throat. “You always have been gorgeous. I always look at you and think ‘fuck how doesn't she have a boyfriend yet?’”

“ ‘Cause I've been waiting to fuck my roommate…” You chuckle softly, feeling him chuckle too as his head dips to your chest and he takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue sliding over and swirling around the hard bud in a way that leaves you grinding against his thigh. Suddenly, your jeans feel so restricting, like they're choking you, stopping you from appreciating any pleasure that Marc offers you, which is why you're quick to unbutton them and slip them off… All while your roommate sucks on your tits.

“God. Do you know how many times I've touched myself hoping you’d catch me?” Your words are breathless as your body rolls against his mouth and a pleased noise from the man reverberates over your nipple. “Left my door open just a crack in hopes my moans would grab your attention, and you'd come and fuck me right…”

He audibly groans at that, pulling away to look at you again while his hands travel to your waistband.

”You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that.”

He hungrily pulls your underwear down your thighs and off with his own following soon after, leaving you both naked and messily grinding against each other as you're caught up in yet another kiss.

You glance down eventually, being treated with the glorious sight of his thick cock throbbing and spilling pre-cum… Or maybe it's cum from his previous orgasm, either way it makes you clench your toes.

“It's bigger when I'm this close,” a nervous chuckle leaves your lips.

“I know, I know. That's also why I don't fuck much.” He laughs breathily and grips his length at the base, running it between your sopping folds and circling your clit perfectly. You grind down on his tip with a moan and pant.

“We don't have too, if you don't want to.” He reminds softly, pressing a few more kisses on your jaw, but you're quick to shake your head and grip his shoulders, “I need you inside me, Marc. Needed it since the day i fucking met you.”

You certainly don't have to tell him twice.

He's sinking inside you before you can even process his tip probing your hole. It's such a delicious stretch, one that spreads throughout your body and along your nerves. You sink down on him further, wanting to sheath him inside you whole.

You'd like to think that Marc knows you're on birth control, given the endless packets and the way you often rant to him about the imperfections of the drug. You're hoping he knows this, because you're hoping he cums inside you.

“Fucking hell Marc, shit…” You pant softly and look down between your bodies, your hands holding onto his shoulders As he grips your waist and guides you; down down down till you're sat in his lap.

You feel so full like that, and honestly you could probably just roll your hips and cum right there, but it's not long before your roommate is lifting you off of himself just to impale you once again. A rush of pleasure runs through your veins and makes your cunt clench around the girth, both of you groaning as you capture his lips again.

“Dammit… you're lucky you're hot, or I would've kicked you out–ah- for being a creep–”

“You were the one watching me stroke my fucking cock. You liked it deep down.” The man growls on your lips, making a whimper rise in your throat as you nod a little, dumbly. His breath is hot on your lips, each of your moans being swallowed by laboured gasps from the other as his hips rock up.

Although the pace isn't fast, you already feel wrecked. The stretch is so fucking good, and the way he hits your sweet spot everytime has you weak at the knees for this man, your groans turning into gasps and drawn out moans.

“M-arc, honey, I'm not gonna last much longer…” You whine pathetically, but this only makes him move faster, now bringing you down on his cock as he thrusts up harshly and sends waves of pleasure through you as he does so. “That's it, baby. Wanna feel you cum All over my cock; cum all over your roommate's cock… shit, you're so filthy, sweetheart.”

His words have your nails digging into his shoulders, your thighs burning as they finally give up and you let Marc use you, use your cunt for his own damn pleasure. The whole idea has you arching your back, and finally, with your shaky fingers circling your clit, you go crashing over that edge. Your thighs instantly clench together as whorish moans are pulled from your lungs and fill the room, ecstasy washing over you in waves and taking you to a place that you didn't even know existed, not until Marc.

Your clenching cunt is what finishes Marc off, that and the beautiful sounds you make as you come. Your walls milk him dry, taking every drop from him and more as he fills your cunt with that delicious warmth.

You sink back down on him finally and practically collapse into his chest, your arms wrapping around His torso tightly as you try and catch your breath.

The warmth that spreads through Marc's heart in that moment is almost unbearable. It's a feeling he's wanted for a long time, one that he doesn't even know how long will last, but he's sure as hell is not gonna waste it worrying.

You feel his large arms wrap around you tightly, a kiss placed on your shoulder, and then his warm breath sending goosebumps over the back of your neck as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Never took you as a cuddler, Marc Spector.” You mumble softly into his chest, listening to the rhythmic thump of his heart as it slows to a comforting pace.

“I'm full of surprises, sweetheart.”

...........................................................................

Tags 🖤: @boredzillenial @cowboymarcs @chichimisaki @faretheeoscar @fanofstuffidk @minigirl87 @marisferasiop @red-hydra @summonthesoups @steven-grants-world @queerponcho @ominoose @mynamesstevenwithav @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @cupidysm @clemdango04 @flowercrownonapegion @spxctorsslxt

[amaranthineghost]

BUT I LOVE YOU SO (PLEASE LET ME GO) ( lando norris. )

he loved her, but knew he had to let her go even if it killed him inside. still he left a paper trail back to him.

warnings: heavy angst I suppose

authors note: wrote this with 2 am motivation. it was about time I finally gave you guys some writing after a couple of months of an absence (I sincerely apologize). I was thinking of making this one of the parts of the mini series because it sort of fits what I want to do with it, but i figured since i hadn't put anything out in a while, it'd be its own separate thing <3

part 2 found here

HE LOVED HER with every fiber of his being. every cell in his body lived for her, he told himself. the blood that ran through his veins underneath his tan skin, all the way to his heart that he had so carefully carved to be able to beat for her. she was the center of his life, he thought.

he really thought.

because now, as he sat and watched her through the fingers over his face to hide the incoming tears, he wished he knew what he should've done. because he only knew what to do.

to let her go.

surely, it wasn't easy, it was never going to be. but alas it was inevitable for the lovers to part though at the time, they wished for it to be only shortly.  but they were never coming back. they didn't want to believe, but their hearts knew.

it was a long time coming, but nothing could've prepared them for the heartbreak they forced upon themselves. it was like running blindly into the brick wall they had built together.

they didn't ever fight though. that was the one thing they took pride for their relationship, but now they realize it would've been better for petty arguments. because now, they realize they just don't work.

he was social, she was a homebody. he loved the night life, jumping between different clubs across cities he'd drag her to. of course, at the time she didn't mind being pulled into a club every so often, but it wasn't her scene. the media never was.

he knew that. she knew that it was his.

her hands shook with every folded article of clothing, occasionally wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she tried to avoid his figure altogether.

it wasn't like she didn't want him, in fact she needed him. but the relationship was doomed from the start, she knew yet she didn't care because at the time, everything was tunnel-visioned and he was the light at it's end. 

her best moments were the ones lived with him, yet also the worst ones too. but she didn't regret it, it shaped them for their future. one where they knew they couldn't be by each other's side.

they knew heartbreak was looming over them, though the possibility of severing their relationship at any given moment didn't dawn on them till blood was pouring out the wound and there was nothing they could do to stop the bleeding.

they wouldn't try to, they knew better than to patch a wound that would never heal. they let it bleed onto the cold floors of their apartment. the one she had to leave.

nothing had happened in the way they had wanted, but when would it ever if everything was always working against them? it was the world versus them and they lost.

they accepted that defeat.

she tried her best to keep her composure as she packed, for whatever thin thread they held onto would snap if she broke down. because they both knew he couldn't leave her if she did, wouldn't let her go.

because she knew he'd give up his career, his dream, in a heartbeat if it had meant he could still hold her at night. he said forever, and he would make it happen.

it sent her over the edge, reliving their relationship as her fingertips creased memories and packed them into a suitcase, each item of clothing holding significance from their relationship. all from the beginning, she'd kept everything, and that wouldn't change.

she broke. she recognized the textures beneath her fingertips before she could look, her favorite dress. her favorite dress that he bought for her for their anniversary. she knew it was over.

as soon as the choked sobs left her lips, the armchair he sat on creaked as he simply stood and walked to console her. his arms wrapped around her shoulders as the warmth of his chest spread across her back, which did nothing but break her heart more.

she pressed her lips against his skin, though not in an intimate manner, but to hide her struggled cries as the tears down her cheeks began to stain his skin with mascara. she gripped his forearm and bicep tightly, leaning her head further against him.

" 'm sorry," she mumbled against his skin, sniffling as she struggled to catch a breath between sobs. she clenched her eyes shut, seeing dizzying shapes underneath her eyelids. she hoped it would stop the tears.

"shh," he shushed as his lips kissed her hair, muffling his words, "i should be sorry."

still he spoke ever so softly to her as the day they'd met and she couldn't help but fold for his tone of voice every time. even when she knew she shouldn't.

" you have nothing to be sorry for, lan..." 

"i should've know the media would be too much for you, love." he mumbled against her hair, "i have everything to be sorry for."

"but i handled it." she peeled his arm from her skin, the streaks of black mascara almost making her lips twitch into a smile as it brought back memories. memories of crying-laughing and smearing mascara onto his arms. still, she held his wrist as she turned to face him, yet she didn't step back.

it'd be the last time they would be this close.

but part of him didn't want her to turn around. he loved when her makeup ran down her face as she cried tears of joy, with the bright sun shining down on her, acting as her personal spotlight, because she was the center of attention, with the wind blowing her hair.

he wished he could see her like that one more time before they left for good. because now he stood, resisting the urge to wipe the tears off her face. because now it wasn't happy, it was sullen. he wanted everything to be able to take care of her, to not let her leave. not yet.

he sighed, he had to give in. he always would, he couldn't help himself when he smudged the running mascara off her face, "fuck, that never works, does it?" he muttered in a soft panic as he realized he just made more of a mess.

she chuckled. she loved whenever he lightened the mood, intentionally or not, it was something she could always count on him to do, "every time, lando, every time." she replied through soft chuckles, sighing as she calmed.

he became serious once again as the smile slowly fell from his face and he wiped the black from his fingers, "but really, did you handle it?" he asked lowly, looking down at her with the same, soft look on his face she could always count on, "i know the media really affected you."

she sighed. there was no denying the exhaustion the media and paparazzi caused. they thought they were fine in the bubble of their apartment, but that bubble had long popped.

"you were born to shine, lando." she simply responded to not give him the truth he was expecting to hear, "that's just not me, we both know it."

"i know." he whispered, biting his lip and looking at her with a gloomy expression. he felt regret and guilt, " 'm sorry."

she shook her head, raising her hand to his jaw to trace the bone under his skin, “i know, but we're both at fault here. we should've known it wouldn't've worked out."

it hurt for them to hear, but it needed to be said, and he would've never said it. it was the truth.

she sniffled, backing away with the realization of how close they had become as she wiped away stray tears and turned back to the half-packed suitcase on the bed they once shared.

he watched her face as her eyes scanned the still heaps of clothing left for her to take, and boxes needing to be filled, "do you want some help?" he offered, his hand grabbing the back of her arm, caressing the skin as she jumped slightly at the contact.

she sighed and said through an awkward chuckle, "please," she reached again for clothes to resume her packing, " 'm afraid i'll change my mind if i stay too much longer."

her words hurt, like daggers slicing through his skin. another wound they couldn't heal.

"would it be that bad?"

his response hurt more. she hadn't meant it like that, but words were subjective. it was like he had taken the knife from beneath his flesh and twisted back into hers.

"no, lan, i didn't mean it like that-" she dropped the shirt she held to place a hand on his bicep, which he shrugged off.

" 'ts fine," he spoke without a tone in his voice, which was odd for him. His focus was on her clothes in his hands and somewhat neatly packed away into one of her many suitcases.

"but i just meant-"

"listen, 'ts fine, we aren't together anymore so we don't have to fix things, or try to."

she squirmed under the dagger as it twisted deeper into her flesh. the air was tense, too silent for her liking and his new attitude threw her off.

it made her realize that maybe there was something more to them that didn't work. because surely any two people who loved each other would make it work out.

it didn't make sense though. maybe it never would.

after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence between them where the only sound was folding of cloth and zipping up certain spots in her suitcase, he turned his back and left the room.

she watched him leave from the corner of her eye, but she didn't stop him. she wanted to though. she wanted so desperately to grab him by the arm and force him to talk to her, but she wouldn't. he was right. they weren't dating.

besides they couldn't even fix what they had before.

minutes later he reemerged with a hand stuffed in his hoodie pocket and another behind his back with something he hid from her. she couldn't get a peak before he slipped it into one of the boxes. she shrugged it off as something she had forgotten.

he returned to helping her fold, but this time with his back towards her. it pained her, she didn't want him to turn his back on her, yet in a couple of hours, she would walk through their apartment door, her back turned to him. it was unfair, she knew.

the tears this time were silent as they streamed down her face, but she didn't make a sound. she watched his actions for a solid five minutes, seeing his best attempts folding her clothes, for her. he was never the best at it, as she had poked fun at him for it in the past. it hurt to think she would never see the difference of neatness in her closet anymore.

her attention was piqued  when she saw his movement halt, quickly resuming with a messily put-together hoodie, one she didn't recognize to be hers.

she didn't get to look before he flipped back the top and zipped it up to go with the others.

she didn't have time to wipe the fresh tears from her face when he turned around after pulling the suitcase from the bed. he paused, dropping the handle.

in a swift motion, he pulled her into his chest. she couldn't stop herself from breaking down in his arms, his hand wrapped around her head, the other around her back. they stayed silent, apart from her sobs into his shirt. he didn't care if she ended up staining it.

they swayed for a while, longer than they should've, but at least now she had calmed down. though tears still streaming down her face and a headache forming in her head, they pulled apart slightly.

her hair was messy, her nose, cheeks, eyes and lips were red, her eyes were puffy and tears stained her face, but she was still prettier than ever.

he couldn't help but tuck the hair in front of her face behind her ear, his hand resting on her jaw.

for the last time, they kissed.

to him, it was like he was taking his last breath of air, or gulp of water for the rest of his life. he was taking what he could.

the taste of her salty tears, the wetness from her cheeks now on his, the hands in her messy hair pushing her desperately closer because he didn't want to let her go.

they sighed when they parted, his teeth grazing her bottom lip at a desperate attempt for more. more time.

they both stepped back, staying silent once again. they didn't have anything to say because their actions said it all. he stepped back to the suitcase he dropped and started moving them out to her car, which had considerably more trunk space than any of his.

it felt like when she was first moving out for college, with stacks of boxes and plenty of suitcases to make it seem like she was fleeing the country.

it all ended the second she walked out the door, but she didn't have to turn her back on him as he walked her to her car, opening the door.

one last hug between them. the last contact.

but they still followed each other's lives.

she would watch his races from the comfort of her new living room couch because she still worried about him the same amount from when they were dating. she noticed his suffering performance, though she sighed every time he crossed the finish line unscathed.

part of him knew she was watching for him.

he still followed her private accounts, liking the posts of the lifestyle that he could never live. it just wasn't his to experience, just like his was never hers to live either. most nights spent drunk in the dj booth, or out to dinner with other drivers, the social life had never been her scene.

he knew.

he knew all along that it was never going to end as they wished in the moment. they stared at their future without fully knowing what was waiting, yet they didn't step down.

months had passed. their lives were supposed to have gotten better, but they could both see they were both suffering.

boxes still unpacked from when she first left, she had never gotten around to fully moving in. still suitcases and cardboard boxes laid around the kitchen of her new apartment.

she felt like she should open them, like she needed to. if not now, would she ever?

boxes full of old memories from her childhood, or stuffed animals she had always convinced lando to buy for her. until there was one box left untouched. she hadn't remembered packing this one.

carefully, she sliced the tape and pulled back the cardboard. she was speechless.

his race helmet. his race helmet he dedicated to her.

dedicated for the anniversary of the day they met. for the race of the country where their eyes first found each other.

it had details about her. her favorite colors, places, things. it had her name, big enough to see from a while away.

he loved this helmet. and he gave it to her.

all she could do now was hug the last remainder of him and cry. she wasn't sure if letting him go was the right or wrong decision, but it felt wrong to question it now.

when she pulled away from the helmet and sniffling her nose, she noticed a piece of paper lodged into the visor. carefully, she pulled it out, unfolding it to see the familiar and horrible handwriting of lando norris.

she was lucky she learned to read it over the years or she would've been screwed.

blue suitcase. for when you're ready.

out of all of the suitcases she had taken, only one was blue. the one he had packed.

she hastily picked herself off the floor, carefully setting the helmet down on the kitchen counter before dropping back down on her knees and desperately unzipped it.

she tossed through every pocket and article of clothing packed into the suitcase, inspecting every single item. until she found it.

of course, he had given her one of his hoodies, but it was not just any of his hoodies. once again, a favorite of his he wore regularly. he gave it to her. it smelled like him still. curse him for spraying cologne on it.

she felt the fabric beneath her fingertips before slipping it on. a smile crept onto her lips as she went and sat back down on her couch, the TV had been playing FP3 in the background before quali in a couple hours time.

she pulled her blanket back over her, slipping her hands into the pockets. her brows furrowed when she felt yet another piece of paper, pulling it out to reveal even more horrendous handwriting from her beloved racer.

will let me know you're watching?

any day now love.

when the nights get lonely, i'll be waiting.

whenever you're ready.

i miss you, i'm sorry

ynusername

liked by landonorris and 4037 others

ynusername I don't know if i'm ready for this...

comments have been disabled...

-

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[muzanswaifu]

Out of Options

Sugardaddy!Toji x Fem!Reader

18+

You needed money. He wanted free use. You weren't past making an exchange... until he started to get cheap. What else was a girl to do?

5k Words

Big thank you to my beta readers @mistymuichiro & @thosestarry-nights & @mrskokushibo !!!

Sfw Warnings: Sugar Daddy Toji, Sugar Baby Reader, Themes of prostitution, Angst, Bad Communication, Toxic Relationships, Creepy Old Men, Misogyny, Toxic Work Environment, Jealousy

Nsfw Warnings: Smut, Hints of Breeding Kink, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! receiving), Cunnilingus, Squirting

~

~

~

The wooden frame of the bed slammed viciously into the thin walls of the motel bedroom, the withered coat of eggshell white chipping away with the ruthless collision, likely cracking the wood as well. The hellish creaking burned into your ears, scratching at the back of your brain and preventing any chance of relaxing in the moment. You’d had a shitty day, and the fact that this wasn’t even the worst of it was almost sad.

Work was exhausting, stupid old men yelling at you all day that you couldn’t do your job and the lead physician not doing a thing to stop them. Not to mention that you were in charge of most of the side work all day, replacing the instruments and utensils, emptying trash bins, cleaning out inpatient rooms, none of which was given to any of the newer technicians. You were good at what you did. You studied hard in school, you perfected all of your residency, you had astounding references. Your only flaw? Your gender. You were one of the only females in your department - hell - in the entire building. Most either quit or moved to different hospitals, entirely due to the terrible environment. None of your peers or superiors or inferiors respected you. You were always stuck with the dirty, side work while the others got to do what your job actually entailed, and the rare occurrences when you did get the opportunity to work with patients, they were always abusive to you. It was hell.

But what other choice did you have?

All the other openings at other hospitals were either filled or about to be. No other fields or retail jobs made enough pay. You didn’t have near enough money or grounds to seek out legal help. You were stuck. You were desperate for money. You were out of options.

You had family to take care of - two brothers, a sister, your mother. Dad died years ago in a car accident. Mom was already working overtime with two jobs, barely making ends meet. Rent, insurance, taxes, student loans, car payments, groceries, clothing, hospital bills, schooling, existing. It all cost money. So much money. It felt like you were suffocating. You were out of options.

Finally the creaking stopped. You back was already sore beyond belief and your legs numb. Your knees were probably bruised, too. Damn, you could go for some marble cheesecake right now. Your nose scrunched as you smelt the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, you lungs burning from the second hand nicotine.

“Here.”

A wad of cash fell across your back, the paper crunchy and bent. You groaned as you rose up, stretching your back out and hissing at how tight you were. How much was ibuprofen again?

You flicked through the money, your brow furrowing when you shuffled across the last layer.

“This isn’t enough,” you countered.

The end of his cigarette burned gold. He stood in front of the window, brushing away the curtain to peer outside as he took a drawl. He was still naked and didn’t seem in a rush to dress himself.

“It’d be more if ya didn’t make me wear a condom.”

You scowled but kept silent, fidgeting at the sides of your panties where he tied the damn things. The latex was knotted tight with each used rubber, five in total today. It’d be easier to just throw the whole pair away.

He took another hit.

“Won’t make our date on Saturday,” he mumbled, “got plans.”

You were already redressing yourself, desperate to get out of there and get going. Shower. Eat. Jerk off. Go to sleep. There were only so many hours in a day and you still had work in the morning.

You sighed, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He chuckled softly to himself. “How’s work.”

“Bye, Toji.”

The store wasn’t all that crowded surprisingly. It was Thursday afternoon, but people tended to not follow norms around here when it came to scheduling. They were out of marble cheesecake so you had to get turtle. It was too sweet in your opinion.

Everyone was asleep when you got home, but you were grateful for the privacy. Mom was still at work.

You locked your door and ruffled through your bottom drawer, fetching out your vibrator. The fan in your room was loud so nobody could hear it anyway. God, you were tired.

You never thought of anything particular when you were trying to get off, it honestly depended on the day. Sometimes you thought about getting eaten out slowly by a fireplace. Sometimes you thought about getting dicked down in a dark alley. No matter the scenario, there was only one similarity. You never imagined anyone in particular. You couldn’t put a face to the man. He was big, muscular, strong. You felt safe yet thrilled underneath him. But you couldn’t see him, if that made any sense.

Your sex drive had always been high. Ever since puberty you were antsy and pent up, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to date. Your first boyfriend was overwhelmed with how needy you were, and the moment you sensed his rejection, your attraction to him plummeted. You needed to feel secure before you felt horny. Were you demisexual? Maybe. You weren’t sure and hardly had time to find yourself.

You tried to find another partner again in your third year of college. There was a party at a local bar, and your friends hyped you up to go. You were both drunk, him more than you. He had whiskey dick. You didn’t feel comfortable. You left relatively quickly after calling him an uber. Failed again.

You didn’t try again after that.

You were fine keeping to yourself. You had your own assortment of toys awaiting you in your room. And work only solidified your hatred of the male species. You likely would’ve remained celibate forever if you hadn’t run into Toji.

You had just gotten off work, walking through the subway to catch the next train. Your engine was busted so your car was in the shop. Not many people were around, and the ones that were left after a while since it was taking too long. But you were too tired to walk so you stayed. The sketchy figures in the back didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. Finally the train came and you got on, only about six people onboard. The man a couple feet down on the bench smelt like burnt flesh. He had a cigar in his mouth despite the no smoking sign. Whatever, it wasn’t any of your business. Your left side was occupied, surprisingly, despite the abundance of free seats. This man was close, too close. Two others gathered in front of you. 

“Where ya headed to baby?

“Yeah, yeah, you need some company?“

“We’ll treat ya real nice.”

You tried to ignore their taunts, keeping your eyes down and trying to appear as small as possible. You immediately noticed when a knife was drawn.

“We’re tryna talk to you, bitch.”

The blade nicked the bottom of your jaw, your blood running cold.

“Yer makin’ too much ruckus over there.”

Everyone slowly turned to look at who spoke. The man looked without a care in the world.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask you, now did I old man?” The knife was now pointed to him.

He drew a long sigh and took out his blunt, pressing the lit end into the seat, the plastic screaming in agony.

You don’t really remember the rest of the conversation. Everything was a blur. Words were said. Punches were thrown. Bones were shattered. The man with the cigarette hardly got up from his seat, really. The next thing you knew he was sat back down and the others were lying on the floor, knocked out. You shifted your feet away so they didn’t get near the bodies.

Awkwardly, you tried to thank him, offer him what little you had in your pocket, mostly out of fear. You didn’t want to get on the bad side of someone who could so easily hurt people, and you didn’t want to appear ungrateful. Based on the scar that tore into his mouth, he’d seen his fair share of violence. He turned it down. You offered to buy him food. He turned it down. Medical care to clean his fists? He turned it down. You were out of options. Was there anything you could offer him? His answer still burned in your mind.

“You wanna fuck?”

The money afterward was unexpected. You woke up sore and broken, your thighs burning and covered in bruises. He was long gone, in his place a wad of cash that made your eyes bulge. Did he think you were a hooker? You weren’t sure. The sex wasn’t bad. You didn’t get off, but he obviously knew what he was doing. It felt nice. You felt safe.

Your next meeting, he found you walking the streets. Money in hand, stinking of booze. Wagging a room key in your face and giving you an address to go to if you need some money. Maybe he thought you were someone else. You didn’t care. You needed money and didn’t mind the sex. You were always wet enough to be comfortable for a decent amount of time, but it would hurt more after each round. You wish he didn’t last so long. Or for so many rounds. You wondered if he was even human. More money.

You had a couple rules for your… relationship. No kissing. No oral (for either of you). No raw contact or cumming on your body. No telling. You didn’t need a reputation.

He paid based on what he felt like paying you, but he was never stingy so you didn’t mind. Until lately.

He wasn’t paying as much as he used to. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much. Maybe he was getting bored. You were worried.

You needed the money. You always needed money. And this wasn’t paying like it used to. It was a hard pill to swallow, but you knew what you had to do.

You needed another outlet.

It was going to be hard to find one. You were essentially selling your body, but you still had standards. You refused to sleep with anyone who you didn’t find attractive, anyone who was married, anyone dangerous. Your work was cut out for you.

And since you were now free on Saturday, you would go out then.

You put your siblings to bed early, double checking with mom that she’d be out until early morning. You dressed nice but not too nice. Hot but not too hot. It was a fine line you were walking, and you absolutely were not going to cross it.

The bar in the popular part of the city was going to be the number one spot for rich bachelors. You never went there yourself because it was so expensive and uptight, but you were looking to get drinks anyway. You didn’t have to wait long before you had a drink in front of you, courtesy of a gentleman sitting in a booth in the back. He was too old for you but you smiled at him. The others came quickly. You had the bartender sneak most of them into the sink. You couldn’t get drunk and most of these men you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. It was starting to get late. You didn’t spot anyone worth your while.

“This seat taken?”

You whipped around to your right, surprised to see a young man - no - someone your age in here. Not to mention attractive. You shook your head, trying to cover your own shock.

“Not a lot of… not… old guys in here, am I right?” He laughed, nodding toward the tables of older gentleman. Most were fifty or so. You felt gross now realizing how many were staring at you.

You laughed back nervously, “Yeah…”

“What brings you here?” He asked innocently, “Not that you don’t belong here! You just look… I don’t know - uncomfortable?”

You cringed. Did you look uncomfortable? 

“Yeah, sorry. Just… hanging around, I suppose,” you offered. He was too cute now. You couldn’t bring yourself to take his money even if you wanted to. 

He smiled. “Same here. I thought this place was going to be fun, but there’s not a lot to do.” He looked around. “Most of these guys are talkin’ business.” Looking around yourself, you realized he was right. Most of them were meeting up with business partners whiles others were trying to make business partners. Some looked pretty shady. You were getting more nervous by the minute.

“I-I have to go,” you mumbled quickly, getting up from your seat end creeping toward the door. He was surprised. “Uh, by-”

You bumped into something, stumbling back into the bar. 

“Oi, you should watch where you’r-”

You gasped.

The music got louder. The air felt heavy. His eyes looked dark.

The corners of his mouth tugged down and his eyes narrowed. Sweat condensed on your brow.

“What are you doing here?” He growled, his stature big and menacing. His green eyes bore into you sharply.

“I-I-I-”

“Hey-” The boy from before was back. “Are you okay?” He looked to Toji and frowned.

“This guy bothering you?” He asked, all too naive. You gently pushed him back. You could see Toji about to pounce. 

You pushed him back a little harder when he didn’t get the hint. “No, it’s fine, man,” you told him, “just go.”

He gave you another concerned look, but left when you gave him a stern one. You felt bad. He seemed nice.

Much to your disappointment, the other man you were dealing with didn’t just vanish into thin air. You sighed. “I was just about to leave, anyway.” You tried to step past him. He didn’t let you, his wide torso stepping in front of you. His smirk made your skin crawl.

“Let’s talk.”

You weren’t given the option to deny him as he stole you away, a large fist grabbing you arm far too harshly. He pulled you through the exit, dragging you down the crowded street. Any struggle you made was met with a firm tug, his grip getting tighter and tighter. You were definitely going to bruise.

When you’d rounded lone alleyway between the buildings, he’d pressed you against the wall, the grainy texture of the brick scratching your skin.

“What the fuck was that about, huh?” He hissed, his teeth sharp and burning white.

“You fucking around? You screw any of those fuckers?” He’d never been so angry with you before. He’d never been angry with you, period. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

“N-no!” you argued, “Toji, no. What the hell - what are you doing here?” When he gave no answer, his eyes still glaring, you continued.

“You said you were busy today…”

No answer.

“I can spend my free time wherever I want.”

No. Answer. Your eyes glazed over, and you turned away from him.

“I… needed money…”

With that he seemed to let up.

“Money?” He scoffed. “This how you get money now? What the fuck happened to your job?”

“Nothing… I just needed more.” You bit your lip. “Your’s isn’t enough.”

“What do you mean mine isn’t enough?” He barked. He wrapped his hand under you jaw, his palm grasping your pulse.

“I told you I’d give you more if you let me screw you raw. Didn’t I?”

You swallowed thickly, tears clinging to your eyelashes.

You looked back at him with fear in your eyes, his hand slowly closing around your neck. His expression softened ever so slightly as he realized he was scaring you.

He released you with a huff and walked a few steps away, running a hand down his face.

“What’s the issue? STDs? Birth control? I’m clean, and I’ll get you pills-”

“No!”

He looked at you surprised. You calmed yourself down and rubbed your arms, suddenly feeling the chill of the air.

“Toji…,” you began, “we’re… not together. You have your fun, I get paid - that’s all we do.” You looked up at him softly. “I need more than what you’re giving me.”

His eyes narrowed. “You saying you don’t have fun.”

You bit your lip and looked away. He scowled. Wrong answer.

He took wide strides forward, cornering you against the wall yet again, this time with his hands on either side of your head, forcing you to face him.

“You saying you don’t love it when I fuck you? That your cunt doesn’t fuckin’ love my cock?

You frowned back at him.

“You tell me.”

His mouth thinned.

It was no secret that you didn’t come when you two fucked. It’s not like he was trying either. You always prepped yourself beforehand, lubing yourself up and stretching yourself out so he didn’t hurt you. And during your escapades, he always just pulled his dick out and got to it. He never touched you more than necessary, never tried to feel you up or grope around. His only goal was to get himself off. And you were fine with that. So long as he paid you.

His eyes looked at you softly, he almost looked guilty, but you knew him better than that. You sighed and pushed away from him.

“It’s late… I gotta go hom-”

He grabbed your wrist, squeezing tight.

You looked down at it, his hand engulfing your arm, his fingers and knuckles all too big for you. His nails dug into your skin and he pulled you back. You couldn't walk away if you wanted to. You were trapped. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to be mad, but you couldn't find it in yourself.

He leaned in, his eyes soft yet cold.

You flinched, his lips connecting with the side of your neck. He was rough, his mouth moving against your flesh in a sloppy kiss. His tongue flicked across your neck, and his teeth tugged at your skin. He was hungry. Always hungry. You pushed your free hand against him. He ignored it.

His free hand snaked up to the underside of your breast, the other dropping to your hip, his palm resting on the bone. His thumb rubbed at the exposed skin where your chest spilled out. You felt conflicted.

He bit you harshly, drawing blood. Your eyes widened and you hissed.

“So that’s what this was all about, huh?” He rasped, his bottom lip resting on your skin, his breath hot.

“Little girl not cumming like she wants to?”

You pushed his face away and groaned.

“As if you’ve ever gotten me off? I’m leaving.”

You went to move, but he kept his grip tight. He grabbed the other wrist as well. He squeezed hard, forcing you to gasp. He smirked.

“You’re this stubborn you’ve forgotten how to ask for things? You had me worried there. Thought you were tryna end things for real.”

Your face flushed in anger and embarrassment. You yanked your arms away but he didn't let go. You tugged once, twice, three times - he didn't let go. You yelped as he tugged back, forcing you to stumble and fall against him. He pressed his hips against yours, his groin digging into your stomach. You grunted at the pressure, your toes curling at the contact. He was hard already, his cock throbbing against your navel.

He pinned your arms over your head, his weight forcing you up against the wall, his mouth looming over yours. You turned your head to the side. He couldn’t kiss you, that was against the rules. His hot breath fell down your cheek and neck.

He leaned in again and you turned away.

He was hungry. Always hungry.

He leaned in again. And again.

You whimpered softly and groaned. Your heart throbbed.

You swallowed thickly as he leaned in again, your chest heaving, his lips brushing against your jaw. You shook your head weakly. He huffed, a deep, almost animalistic rumble leaving his chest.

You whined and shut your eyes.

His tongue smoothed over your jawline, his hand finally letting go of you.

You placed a hand on his shoulder but didn't push him away. He was too strong, anyway.

He grunted and ran his fingers through your hair, grasping a handful and pulling your head back. You whined, the sound only encouraging him to continue, your hair tightening in his fist. He pushed his hips against yours, his hard cock pressing against your pelvis, the fabric of your skirt doing nothing to stop the feeling.

“C’mon sweetheart, Don’tcha wanna feel good?” He cooed.

He forced you into the wall once more, his free hand moving down to your thigh, squeezing the skin just under your knee. He pulled your leg up, wrapping it over his hip, his bulge rubbing your heat. A chuckle rose deep within his throat, and he licked at your ear.

“Ugh, Toji, stop it! You’re being annoying,” you complained, despite the thrill lacing up your spine. He laughed.

“Don’t lie,” the man crooned. “I’ll make you come so hard, you’ll be beggin’ me to fuck ya.” 

Your cowered away. “Wha-” Umph.

You couldn’t finish as you we dropped onto a hard surface, a mixture of both brick and stale dirt. Looking up, dead branches and deader leaves filled your vision. The alley way had led to a smaller subsection of the street, a lone crevice in the city district that was long abandoned and withering away. Your dress was smushed into the dirt of the old dirt bowl that was in the center of the small courtyard, the tree taking root twisted and weak. It almost seemed pitifully metaphorical to your current situation.

A scheming hand slithered up your thigh, scrunching back your crinkled skirt and hiking it around your hips, your lacey g-string fully exposed.

“Fuck,” Toji moaned, licking his lips, “You were definitely looking to get fucked tonight.”

“No I wasn’t!” You countered nervously, trying to press your thighs together to hide yourself. Despite being in an abandoned area, you were still in a public space and didn’t want to be seen by anyone. Much less be here for the long duration it took him to be satisfied. But this time felt a bit different. He was taking his time, touching you more, teasing. He usually got straight to business and had his fly down by now, but instead it was you who was being undressed, his big, warm hands encompassing your thighs and groping them. He was trying to break another rule, you could feel it. He had a devious look in his eye. He smiled at you.

“How much to touch your pussy?”

You were taken aback by the question, squeezing your thighs even tighter.

“Wha- that’s off limits!”

“No, no,” he insisted, “everything’s got a price, baby. What’s yours?”

He couldn’t possibly be serious. You’d never seen him so adamant to give you pleasure, much less offer money for it. From your experience, men were hesitant to do anything besides receive, convincing themselves that woman adored pleasing them. And the rare moment when they did touch a girl, it was always careless and short-lived, the only real goal to get them wet enough to be a slippery hole. You weren’t in the mood to be disappointed.

“Thirty thousand yen? Forty?”

“Not interested.”

“More?”

“No.”

He leered.

“Three. Hundred. Thousand.”

Your eyes bulged. Mouth gaping.

“Th-thats…”

“Going once,” he announced. “Going twice!” Don’t let him get to three.

You could get a new computer with that, replace your old busted one that had lost half the keys and took fifty years to load.

“Going-”

“I’ll do it!” You gasped, defeated. “I’ll do it…”

His paws squeezed your thighs, drifting up the insides and gently prying them apart. You hardly fought him when you realized that was the only way you were going to get the money. New computer. New computer. You tried to focus on the positives.

Toji pressed his cheek into your inner thigh, kissing your skin softly. You shivered at the feeling of his soft lips brushing your flesh. He moved up your leg, placing his hands on each side of your panties and tugging them down, your skin glistening with sweat as he pulled the cloth against the curves of your flesh. He pulled your legs apart further and licked a long stripe up your skin. the wetness cold on your overheated flesh. You clenched your teeth. You were on the verge of telling him the deal was off, but his tongue brushed against your core and you could no longer find the words. He kissed and sucked at the sensitive skin of your thighs, leaving marks in his wake.

Your core throbbed.

He pulled you closer to the edge of the pot, your body lying at an awkward angle, the base of your spine aching.

Toji pressed a thumb against your slit, dragging it across your folds and collecting your slick on the pad. You shuddered.

He ran the pad of his thumb across your clit, rubbing slow circles into the bundle of nerves. You gripped his hair with one hand, tugging it hard, his muffled groan tickling your core. His finger slipped between your folds, easily entering your wet hole, his finger much bigger than your own. You grunted at the intrusion, the thick digit stretching your inner walls, his knuckle pressing against your clit as he bottomed out inside of you. He wiggled his finger, stretching your walls before pumping his finger in and out of your cunt, dragging out every little noise he could from your mouth.

He pulled you closer to the edge of your seat, your legs dangling in the air as he sat between your thighs, your hands digging into the dirt beneath you for support.

His finger moved slowly within you, his eyes never leaving yours, a fire burning within his emerald eyes. You grunted when he added another finger, the feeling almost too much for you. Your noises echoed briefly throughout the courtyard, bouncing off the concrete and surrounding buildings, and you were all too aware of how loud you were being. You pulled harder on his hair as the knot in your stomach grew tighter.

But you tried to keep your composure, your body still tense with the fear of your surroundings. Any moment someone could come waltzing by, see what you two were doing, your disheveled appearance, perhaps even try to take advantage. Your alarm hindered your concentration on the pleasure.

“What’s up?” You heard, turning your eyes back down to look at him. You hadn’t realized your gaze had wandered to the opening in the walls to where the city life buzzed about. He glanced over to where you were looking.

“Ain’t nobody comin’ over here. Relax,” he mumbled, his eyes getting warm again. “I’ll protect ya. Just relax.”

Your heart throbbed at the promise, warmth enveloping your body. You hesitantly let your head fall back and sighed, dropping your shoulders. His free hand moved to the hem of your skirt and pushed it up over your belly. He wanted a good view. You didn't care. You felt… safe.

His fingers picked up speed, fucking you harder as you bit your lip. His thumb moved back to your clit, rubbing circles on the swollen button. You hummed and sighed, his fingers twisting inside you. The pleasure began to build up again, boiling in your belly and tingling up your spine. And just when you got comfortable he only took it further.

Heat enveloped your clit, wet and slippery and hot like a warm bath. You gasped out, squirming around a bit and digging your nails into the roots in the ground. Looking back down, you confirmed your theory. Toji’s head was between your thighs, his mouth on your pussy and wrapped around your little bead, his fingers still working inside of you. Soft pants and whines left your mouth, your legs shaking around his head as he continued to suck at you, his tongue swirling around and prodding under the hood, leaving you slick and sensitive. Your core throbbed.

You felt a sharp pressure inside you, and then a slow stretch. You yelped. A third finger was entering you, your cunt molding around the thick digit. You writhed  again, trying to ease the ache of the intrusion. His other hand rested on your belly, gently smoothing over your skin as he ate you. His head moved side to side, tongue laving over you, his hands never stopping their movements. Oh god. It felt like you going to- to-

“Ah!,” you moaned, shaking viciously and clutching at his head, holding him in place. You were melting, you were sure of it. Everything was slipping away from you, your bones, your brain, your worries. His tongue kept lashing at you, extending your pleasure and refusing to slow down. His fingers remained pressed against your sweet spot, his other hand pushing on your belly. It was all too much, you were squealing with overstimulation. It got tighter. And tighter. And tighter. Until something popped.

All the tension broke from your body, the shocking sensations melting into something warm and fuzzy. You slowly let go of everything, all tension easing away from you and allowing for complete bliss to take over. Sweet sighs and mewls left your lips, your back lying against the dirt as you caught your breath and waited for your head and pussy to stop tingling. Another whine was pulled from you when he took his fingers and mouth away from you, unraveling your legs from his head and stepping back.

“You fallin’ asleep now?” He laughed.

You pouted and groaned. “No… jus’… gimme a sec.” Your bones were like jelly, your eyelids heavy. He cackled at you and that was the push you needed to get off your ass. He looked smitten.

“Good, right?” He crooned, wiping his mouth, “Ya fuckin’ squirted on me.”

Your face got dark and you looked to your lap, embarrassed.  

“Nothin’ to be ashamed about princess.” He assured, fishing out his wallet and shufflling through the bills. He took out a stack and threw it in your lap.

“It was hot.”

You groaned again and dug your face into your hands, trying to ignore his raspy laughing.

You jolted when you felt his breath on you, looking up and freezing. His eyes burned into you.

“Now next time, let’s work out this condom situation, alright?”

You gulped.

~

Part 2 coming eventually...

[bio-hazard]

Charlie's original Classrooms video makes my head spin and i had to write about it. i dont know how to do these intros help

smut !!! minors dni !!

~2k words, gn!reader, i made up backrooms to fit my needs i was Not looking up actual levels for this im sorry

warnings: dubcon (it's not unwanted but there's no verbal consent), face fucking, charlie's a bit of a freak but he's been isolated in the backrooms for god knows how long he's earned it

A dare. It was supposed to be a dare. Go into the creepy abandoned school, take photo evidence of you being there, and leave.

Except this had to be the worst dare in the history of dares, because now you were wandering for what felt like days through these strange and dangerous levels just trying to get out and go home. You weren’t hungry or thirsty, and aside from the horrific feeling that thought gave you, it wasn’t so bad. If anything it was convenient with how often you had to be running or hiding.

Slowly you had noticed patterns across all the layers that didn’t seem to add up. Slightly crumpled papers, scuffs, missing dust and discarded batteries. Someone else was here, and hopefully they were human. More importantly: Hopefully they were friendly.

The slight reprieve of the elevator didn’t last as long as you would’ve hoped, the ding signalling the start of another rat race. You stepped out and took a deep breath as the grey lined walls seemed to stretch on, thinning out as they went. At least this one wasn’t wet. It was cold and narrow and the thought of what naturally dwelled in such a space made your skin crawl. As you walked, being sure to stay as quick and quiet as possible, you saw something out of the corner of your eye cross at an intersection in the labyrinthian halls. Surely a glimpse of what horrors could kill you here wouldn’t.. well. It might kill you. But what did you really have to lose? Every time you thought you were surely dead, you woke up back in the elevator.

You followed after it as silent as possible, peeking around corners until you saw him. A person. An actual person who didn’t have strange features or some bloodthirsty intent present in his body language. If this was a trap, then damn you for falling for it but the chance at companionship was too good to lose.

He was looking in his bag and muttering, leaning against the wall as he knocked old batteries out of his camcorder and popped new ones back in. Then he looked up. His face shifted quickly from confusion to horror, and before you could react he sprinted off in the opposite direction.

“Wait!!” You shouted after him, trying not to trip or ram into any of the short stops and tight corners of the level. Every turn you could see less and less of him until something else caught both of your attention.

Skittering along the roof. You hadn’t paid attention to the roof since it seemed so far away but now you realized your shout had probably alerted whatever was on this level to your location, and the running didn’t help.

The other person seemed to know where they were going as they picked up the speed, and as you chased him you noticed the hall begin to widen out again, before the elevator door finally came into view. He dove in and hit the button before staring at you and seemingly deciding something. As the skittering grew louder and you got closer to the elevator, he grabbed you by the shirt and yanked you in.

The doors hesitated to close just enough to give you a full view of the centipede-like creature that lunged out of the ceiling.

"What the fuck."

You wondered if you had said it out loud before you realized it wasn’t your voice. It was his. You finally remembered you were alive and stood up straight, feeling hope for once since you wound up here.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, raising your hands. “I-! I’m so sorry if I scared you I just- I thought I would be alone here forever!”

He studied your face, then let his eyes trail down you. You were soaked and scraped and your clothes were worn and torn from what felt like countless deaths, but he deemed you safe enough to actually accept.

“You’re an actual human being.” He breathed, then a small laugh escaped, before turning into something manic and a little intimidating. You flinched a little and laughed along awkwardly. “You’re a fucking person! You’re an actual person!! Human flesh! I never thought I’d see it again! It’s been- God, fucking months?? I don’t know-“

Your heart broke for him and you quickly hugged him, his words dying in his throat with a pathetic whine. You stayed like that for a few minutes as he slumped against you.

“You can hug me back. This is.. Terrifying. And-“ You couldn’t finish your thought before he was wrapping his arms around you and spinning you around, practically crushing you. His face found a spot somewhere between your chest and neck that made you shiver while his fingers edged their way under your shirt. “Um-“

“Right-! Fuck, it’s been so long I almost forgot my manners!” He pulled his face away with a nervous, almost delirious chuckle, but kept his arms tightly around your waist. “I’m Charlie.”

You laughed in a polite but nervous manner before introducing yourself as well.

“I never thought I’d get to see people again.. You smell so good..” His voice was a little more than a soft whine, you almost didn’t hear him.

“Pardon..?” You squirmed in his grasp a little but it only seemed to make his grip tighten.

“Your skin is so soft.. You’re so..” He pressed his mouth to your skin as you tried to squirm away more. “Please.. Please, I need this..”

Before you could even comprehend his words, you felt him press tighter against you, like he had entirely forgotten you were a person. “It’s been so long and- and you’re just.. so soft..” He breathed against your skin as if trying to taste it without being too forward.

“Charlie- Uhm-“ You didn’t know what to say. Sure it had been a while but you had just met the guy.

He seemed to have a moment of sanity as he stopped and pulled away, flushed red.

“I- Ah-..” His voice trailed off into a whine as his thighs shifted. You could tell he was genuinely ashamed though. “Sorry.”

It wasn't like you could fault the guy. He seemed like he'd been here much longer than you had, and... Well. Even while being all roughed up from the horrific world you found yourself in, you couldn't deny you weren't a little flattered, as strange as it felt to admit that. How long had it been..?

“It’s- Fine, really. I could get how you’d get overwhelmed with suddenly seeing another person.” You felt uneasy with the way he stared at you, almost hungry. You started to find yourself hoping he also didn’t feel hunger, but figured this wasn’t the time to ask.

The elevator dinged again and you both turned to face what looked like the front entrance to a domestic house. It looked dusty and abandoned and the lights were out aside from some unseen windows letting in an eerie ambient blue lighting.

“Have you been to any of these levels before?” You whispered to him as you made sure there was nothing immediately in front of you.

“Uh- No. I haven’t seen the exact same level twice..” He whispered back as he grabbed your hand and pulled you along.

The level itself was mostly empty and creepy with the only threat being a slow moving ghostly figure that would survey the house. Neither of you two wanted to find out what happened if it were to see you, and covering yourself in sheets or otherwise staying out of the direct line of sight seemed to work.

You two were discussing where to go next when you realized the heavy shuffling was right around the corner. With no sheets to hide under, you opted to shove Charlie into the nearest doorway and hope for the best. It happened to be a small closet just barely big enough for both of you to fit in, pressed chest to chest. The boxes in the closet seemed to shove Charlie onto you as you slammed the door shut, catching the attention of the creature outside. With your hands pinned to the door behind you when you slammed it shut, Charlie was pressed into you by the unstable boxes with no way to

The hiding spot would’ve been just fine if he hadn’t tried to shove the boxes back, only to slice his hand on the cardboard.

“Ow, Shit-!” He hissed, scrunching his face up in the minimal lighting. “What the h-“

“Shh!” You stared at him, bewildered. It occurred to you that he hadn’t realized it was right outside but you didn’t know how to communicate that without unnecessarily speaking yourself.

“I cut myself on cardboard!” He whispered at you, upset. You had to stop him from talking but you couldn’t cover his mouth. “How the hell do you cut yourself on cardboard— mmpf-!”

His eyes widened as you smashed your lips into his, praying he took the hint to shut up. The creature outside seemed to shift after a while, losing interest. You couldn’t get caught now. As Charlie pulled away, you let out a low whine that seemed to make his resolve disappear right then and there. You could swear you tasted the desperation on his tongue as he kissed you, pressing you into the door like his life depended on it.

By the time you two pulled away to breathe, the creature had already left and probably been gone for a while. Charlie reached around you and quickly pulled the both of you out of the closet, tugging you down the hall as the boxes clattered down behind him.

Running into a bedroom he closed the door and found a chair to pry it shut. He placed his camera on an antique looking dresser then turned to you with a pleading, conflicted face.

“Charlie?-“

He walked up to you, keeping up with every step you took back. Charlie’s hands raised to your jaw and held it, eyes softening as he took in your face.

“We have to work together to get out of here, but before we can start that you need to just do one thing for me..” His voice was soft and warm, and you felt yourself flustered a little as he spoke.

“Okay..?”

His hands slid to your shoulders, quickly buckling your weight until you fell to your knees in front of him.

“Let me have this," Charlie breathed, undoing his pants. He was already hard, you could tell as much in the closet, but having him move this suddenly took you off guard.

There was a moment between you two as you swallowed and realized what he was asking for. He watched as you made no move to pull away or fight, not an ounce of resistance in your eyes. A slight smile curled onto his face.

“Charlie, is this really?—" Your question was cut off as Charlie wasted no time in forcing himself into your mouth, looking utterly intoxicated by the view.

“Please- Please just let me have this, I’ll do anything you want too I just can’t keep going without this.. God you’re so good..” He whined, petting your hair. The man at least took the time to let you adjust rather than making you choke right away. “So good for me..”

You really had to consider your options here. Sure there was plenty of horrors outside the door, ready to kill you and here he was, fucking your face while not caring if this was the time or place. But he’s also attractive, competent and actually seems to care about getting the both of you out, and … Fuck. You found this hot. You never told him to stop and honestly the thought to do so hadn't even crossed your mind. Surely that was something to figure out another time, when you were home and not in some other plane of reality on your knees, staring up at the disheveled man fucking your mouth and staring at you like you hung the moon.

The second you heard Charlie's breath pick up and you clued in that he was close, he ran his fingers through your hair and gripped it tightly, beginning to fuck your throat faster. The gasps and moans made the tears and inevitable sore throat worth it, at least.

His voice cracked as he came, holding himself as deep in your throat as he could. You didn’t have a choice but to swallow, coughing as he pulled back and caught his breath, tidying himself up. Charlie crouched down immediately after and checked you over, wiping your chin of any liquids that had dripped from your mouth.

“You look.. Wrecked.” Part of him sounded aroused while the other sounded horrified, not sure how he should feel about what he had done to you. “I’m so sorry, I really-“

You cut him off by grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss, despite a till trying to catch your breath.

“It’s okay.” You smiled at him, watching his face screw up at the taste of his own cum. “I promise.”

“Did I really make you swallow that?? Jesus Christ..” He stared at you, a little concerned. You just laughed at him, wiping your lips.

After he considered that, he took his bag out and immediately handed you some water he had been holding onto.

“I’m not thirsty, you don’t need to-“

“I don’t have much else to take care of you with..” Charlie frowned, tilting his head.

You stared at him for a moment, before smiling softly.

“How about we just get out of here, then worry about aftercare? It'll be welcomed after... Everything."

That seemed to satiate him as he put his items away and stood, helping you stand up. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and squeezed your hand.

“I will, I promise. I’ll take care of you until we get out of here, and for every moment after until you’re safe.”

There was a distant bang.

“Let’s uh.. Let’s worry about getting to the next safe moment right now, though.”

“Good idea.”

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

I saw this edit on Pinterest..... do what you want with this but I was literally freaking out on this part. I wanted to see if it's possible to write something based off this .. *look.* Maybe the reader just constantly likes to tease Hiccup but one day he just had it and just did ... The look. I would be flabbergasted. <3

Thistle, Scout and Scottish Bluebells

Pairing: Grumpy!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 2094

Things don’t happen the way they’re supposed to. The universe sends you to compensate.

Tags:  httyd 1, aged up, au, time travel

Next>

 The sounds of rustling ferns and the ends of pine trees larger than you’d ever seen them, of crackling twigs and wind whistling past fauna and over dirt made its way inside past thin wooden walls and through large cracks in between shuttered window sills and other things.

You sat, knees touching, head resting over folded arms. The chair below you was slightly wobbly, the table beneath your hands uneven.

You listened to the sound of gently sloshing water, watching as boxy, freckled hands dipped unevenly fired and sealed clay into an old, scratched bucket. One of the bucket’s handle’s hinges was broken and the metal bars holding it together were discolored in many places, scratched and dented in others.

A man crouched before the table on the side opposite to you by the door, donning a long, old worn tunic in green. It’d been torn and hastily sewn back together many, many times. That much was obvious.

“...And you have no idea how you got here.” He grumbled. He was crouched along packed dirt floors, wiping cribs and washing leftover bits of stew off your one shared plate.

He boasted a head of slightly fluffy hair, verging on auburn. It usually looked much darker, but he’d washed it recently, though ‘washing’ was a particularly strong word for whatever it was he’d done, going over it with a slightly damp cloth and ridding it of the thick oils and soot it’d worn like dressing.

“None at all.” You responded, the same way you’d been saying it for the past… However long you’d been here. The words spilled awkwardly from your mouth, tongue running over unfamiliar vowels and deeper tones.

Honestly, you missed home. You missed the convenience of a washing machine, for both dishes and otherwise. You missed the way the sun felt on your face, the way the sidewalk felt beneath your feet, the sound of people moving about, the sound of cars, the way paper felt beneath pen and the way the world sounded when it wasn’t filled with the constant sound of war, animals bleating and screaming and great, scaled beast letting out fervent death-cries and the dwindling numbers of a miserable warrior people.

“Any idea how to get you back?” Hiccup asked from the floor. He wasn’t near as quirky as he had been in the first movie, but that was just as well. He was a teen, then. He was a man, now.

“Nope!” You said, voice bordering on mischievous. As you spoke, something quite melancholy made itself known somewhere deep and sensitive. You made efforts to suppress it.

You weren’t lying when you said you weren’t sure how you’d gotten here. You were lucky, you guessed, that you’d been found by who you had been... Or maybe it was that you had been unlucky. 

You weren’t sure yet.

You thought he probably appreciated the company- or he detested it. It could go either way, really. Regardless, he never kicked you out.

“You… You’re....” He started, grumbling, “The worst.”

You heard the sound of drizzling water, watching small drops hit the bucket again as he stood, sighing.

“Says you.” You rolled your eyes. “Hiding away in the woods like a, ah, a hermit.”

“I was never this annoying.” He kept on grumbling.

The ‘he’ in question was your host. This was his shack, technically. His own miserable fortress of solitude.

You hadn’t… You hadn’t really figured out how to say his name, yet. Not in Norse. It was only the two of you here, see, which didn’t give you many opportunities to learn, even as you went romping around the village. 

It hadn’t posed a problem yet- it was mostly just the two of you, and so all you really needed to address him was ‘you.’

“You probably weren’t.” You shot back. “Maybe.”

It was mostly supposition, half based on what you saw and mostly gleaned from what little of the first movie you could remember. 

You weren't that close. You’d had maybe one or two conversations, some serious talks about life and other things that had only been half understood, at least by you. Now, whatever acquaintanceship had grown in the silence between you two as you struggled to learn more about Berk had dampened slightly as you’d begun pestering him.

You kept your arms carefully positioned over crinkled treatise, fingers gripping the edge of one splayed piece of cloth off to the side.

You were careful not to smudge the charcoal marrying each page, though your efforts were probably all for naught. Charcoal was a flakey medium, and your sticks had been perhaps left in the fires for much too long.

Perhaps too tired to say much else, he grunted and looked away, shaking his head slightly. 

You knew you were wearing his already thin patience even thinner.

“I want to shoot down a dragon.” You said, lifting your head and leaning it against your hand.

You’d been asking for a while now.

It was stupid, to keep pushing and pushing and pushing this way. You kept doing it anyway.

“Hand me the rag.” He said without looking at you, holding out one hand.

His hands were littered with scars, small and medium, from a life spent working in the forge. They dusted his knuckles, lying in wait in between and around patches of small freckles and moles and little croppings of baby hairs.

You’d never felt them either casually by accident, nor did you intend to, but still, his palms looked both rough and nice-to-the touch.

You shifted your elbows over your papers, slightly jostling your notes and resting your weight against a cleanly sealed note. The rough face of the cloth was scratchy against your thumb. “If it will lead me closer to dragon-shooting-”

“For just a moment, can you-” Your host stopped himself, gritting his teeth and looking you in the eye.

He had a nice pair of forest green eyes and tapering brows, moles and freckles scattering his cheeks. His face was slightly red from the sun, something which lasted the whole summer months, growing as the sun got brighter and staying throughout the colder nights. 

His chin was lined with a hearty dusting of fuzzy, peachy hairs.

His shoulders were set wide, mouth slightly handing open, as if to expel the force of all of his annoyance from his slitted open mouth, his head tilted downwards with a glint in his eye that might have looked menacing on any other person but only just looked a measure exasperated on him.

 He stared into your eyes, looking at you sideways for a very, very long moment. 

In that expression, you could almost see the shadow of the man he was supposed to have been; perceptive, determined, and a few other things, too.

Right now, those were the eyes of a man who knew exactly what you were doing

You kept your face resolutely blank.

“Help me shoot it.” You responded stiffly.

All in a moment, the man you saw was gone.

If you really thought about it, you might say that whatever spirit he’d once had had been killed a long time before you’d met him.

His brows were almost perpetually furrowed, his eyes weary, the lines under his eyes prominent, mouth stuck drooping. 

His shoulders were almost always dipped, too. If he wasn’t slouching, his shoulders were at a most imperceptible incline.  

While his face was not nearly wrinkled enough to be easily mistaken for the Chief, he looked a great deal older than twenty. He looked like his father- or, what you could remember of his father.

The darkness of the shack and the waning, settling light from the outside made it all look that much more severe.

“You’re not being serious.” With cinched brows, he looked at you as if to ask, ‘Are we really going to keep playing around like this?’

The answer was, ‘Yes-’ as long as the Night Fury remained in the sky and as long as your own project -the one hidden out back by his poor excuse for a well and hand-water pump- was in pieces, you felt quite obligated to keep going. 

“...No.” Your host finished, finally.

He looked down pointedly as you pulled your feet closer to you, heels just missing your chair’s legs as they came to rest before the pile of junk you’d hastily hid underneath. 

You dipped your head back towards your arms, miming bashfulness, though you didn’t feel too bad at having been caught. Stubbornly, petulantly, you continued on; “Why not?”

“Because-” He started, grimacing deeply.

You raised a brow, half expecting him to give up- to go silent.

“Because I said so.” He ended firmly, emotively.

“No.” You said, stubbornly.

“You’re- we’re doing this now?”

“As long as we need to,” You paused, “Until you help me shoot down a dragon.”

“You can just go and do it.” He snapped.

You didn’t mind it. You didn’t intend to stop, even if you drove him crazy.

You could be as crazy as you wanted here. You could run around naked, screaming in tongues and It’s not as if anyone would listen. Your words held no merit. The people were busy and you were just… not a member of society.

 You tried talking to people, once. People other than Him. They’d probably assumed you had brain damage. 

Honestly, you very well could have. When you’d woken up, your head had been aching pretty bad. 

Maybe this was all just an illusion and you really were still back in the real world, probably wandering around the streets, homeless, or locked up in a hospital or a mental facility somewhere, talking nonsense about Dragons and wanting to go home.

Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

There was also a very small part of you that didn’t want to say anything to these people. Really, you didn’t trust your host any farther than you could throw him. 

You hardly knew him.

“I need you to do it.” You insisted. Truthfully, you felt encouraged.

This was probably the most you’d heard from him. Ever.

You might have heard more if you’d spoken to him more, but to be fair, a man of little words attracted very little conversation to himself. Despite what you’d heard, he wasn’t… He wasn’t an easy conversationalist.

“Then you’re not going to be the one shooting down a dragon.”

“So, will you do it?”

He didn’t respond, shaking his head slightly, less so as if he was telling you no and more so as a general expression of his disapproval and of his frustration.

You tapped your finger against wood and paper, feeling at thick, packed paper ends.

It was time for a change of tactics.

“There was, uhm, a missive.” You said, “Someone delivered it while you were out. I think it’s from your dad. It says…”

Dried pulp felt rough against your hands, the wax seal clumsy and easy to peel apart as you unfolded the note. 

You wondered if opening someone else’s mail here was illegal. Hopefully you wouldn’t be arrested… Or thrown into the dungeons, or anything else. Beheaded, maybe?

You resisted the urge to snort.

You made a show of opening it and reading it, which was bullshit and you both knew it because you couldn’t read old norse. You kept your expression still, voice as serious as you could make it, “It says you have to help me shoot down a dragon.”

“No, it does not.” The man hunched for just a moment before turning back around quite abruptly, “Give me- Give me that.”

He reached over the table, snatching it from your hands.

“What does it say?” You asked curiously.

He shot you a look.

“...I think I’d rather shoot down a dragon.”

“So are we-” You tried again, feeling some sort of joy shoot its way up your chest and burst into a million little adrenaline-filled pieces.

You needed him to agree. Now, preferably.

You didn’t know why you were here. What you did know was what the movies told you and, well, you had two eyes, you could tell, quite obviously, that things had not happened the way you’d been told.

It was a one-plus-one sort of situation; a bunch of half-assed guessing and clumsy hoping, but you worked with what you knew. Maybe, if you made things right, then you’d finally be allowed back home from wherever this was. 

“No.”

You huffed. Instead of Hiccup the Useless, his name really should have been Horrendous the Stubborn.

You’d wear him down eventually.

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 13

Summary:

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Words: 9,914

Tony scribbles feverishly into his notebook, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the quiet room. His Art and Duty of Childrearing textbook lies abandoned on the floor beside him, pages bent and cover askew.

A casualty of negligence.

Propped up in bed, he leans against his and Arnie’s thin, mismatched pillows. The faint yellow glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered surface of his nightstand, highlighting the smudges of graphite staining his fingers.

He nibbles on the end of his pencil as his eyes flick between messy calculations and intricate sketches.

The thing is, he had sworn off this nonsense weeks ago.

It had been a fucking headache, if anything. A dead end, something better left to time and the patience he didn’t possess.

Besides, the memory was still fresh—sharp words, sharper fists, and an ugly, lingering threat that Tony couldn’t dismiss, no matter how hard he tried to shove it into a deeper crevice of his mind.

And yet, here he was, defying all logic and better judgment, pencil in hand, letting curiosity pull him back in.

Because, like all bad ideas, this one had resurfaced with a vengeance.

(And had been sparked, no doubt, by both the mind-numbing drudgery of his current coursework and the glaring absence of a certain Alpha to distract him.)

His notebook is a chaotic sprawl of equations and diagrams, the pages covered in his usual chicken scratch, lines overlapping in a barely organized frenzy.

At the center of his muddled, distracted focus was the concept of a crystalline core—a theoretical medium to focus and amplify the radiation. Around it, he had scrawled potential materials, rough calculations, and the faint outline of a containment chamber: lead-lined walls to shield against leaks, an observation window made of reinforced glass, and a rudimentary control panel. The dials for adjusting intensity and duration are painstakingly labeled, though their precision remains theoretical at best.

In the margins, as if shouting at him from the page, he had scrawled the words “BIG RED BUTTON” in blocky letters, a failsafe to terminate the process in case of catastrophic failure.

The numbers sprawled across the page are rough, a messy mix of intuition and rapid estimations, but they start to form a picture.

He jots down an energy output estimate of 12.7 kJ/kg, scribbling question marks beside it, and notes that such an output might just activate Erskine’s super secret magic serum. The challenge, he knows, will be distributing the radiation evenly across a six-foot frame.

As he flips back through earlier pages, more questions fill the margins: What’s the long-term stress tolerance of synthetic quartz? What happens if the subject’s heart rate spikes? Could sub-threshold pulses mitigate the worst of the unintended effects?

He bites harder on his pencil, splintering the wood further as his scowl deepens. The textbook he’s supposed to be “studying”—yeah, right—mocks him from the floor, its neatly printed title a sharp contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last hurried calculations, he underlines a phrase he’s written in bold, steady handwriting—a mantra that’s guided him through countless inventions and disasters alike: "Stark Rule #1: Always build it twice. The first one’s for the mistakes.”

He stares at it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets out a guttural groan, the kind that could rattle the hinges off the lab door. With a flick of his wrist, the notebook sails across the room, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor with an unimpressive thud.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Very mature.”

Fingers rake through his hair, tugging at strands as if loosening them might untangle the chaos in his head. He doesn’t even notice the caffeine buzz anymore—too much shitty dining room coffee, not enough food, and exactly zero good ideas.

“Some mastermind you are, huh?” He laughs, short and humorless. “Mastermind of digging your own grave, maybe. Idiot.”

A mastermind who will inevitably end up disowned, or worse, a victim of casual manslaughter, for this brilliant little detour.

He drops onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. The mattress groans beneath him in solidarity—or maybe protest. Above, the ceiling stares back, its cracks and water stains sprawling like some ancient, forgotten map. He traces the imaginary continents with his eyes, trying not to notice how the edges seem to blur.

"This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done," he announces to the empty room. His voice sounds small, swallowed by the radiator’s low, steady hum.

Hopelessly foolish endeavor or not, the itch won’t leave. It burrows deeper, demanding attention, like a stubborn splinter lodged under his skin.

The crystalline core. The perfect medium. The impossible dance of energy and matter, balanced on the razor’s edge of genius and disaster. It taunts him like an ancient spell, daring him to solve its riddle or perish painfully trying.

He turns his head toward the notebook lying facedown on the floor, pages splayed like a wounded bird. The edges flutter slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. For a second, he considers leaving it there—letting it rot alongside the other half-finished ideas that litter his life.

But a stronger, more reckless impulse wins out.

Tony rolls off the bed with a graceless grunt, landing in a crouch on the floor. He snatches up the notebook, ignoring the torn page at the corner, and flips it open to the most recent entry. His eyes scan the scrawled notes, his brain already working to untangle the mess of ideas.

"Okay," he mutters, dragging the pencil back to his mouth for another absent nibble. This is what happens when he skips supper—he starts eating his stationery. "What’s the play here, Stark? You need power—stable, scalable, non-lethal power. Sure. That’s easy. No problem at all. Just rewrite the laws of physics while you’re at it.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out against the uneven surface of the bed.

"Step one," he says aloud, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the core’s containment unit. "Figure out the heat dissipation. No point in building a glorified bomb. Step two..." He pauses, pencil poised mid-air. "Find someone stupidly altruistic enough to let me test it on them.”

That thought makes him pause, his posture deflating as his expression twists into something sour. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, and for a moment, his hand hovers uncertainly over the page. He knows better than most what unchecked ambition can lead to. The wrong hands, the wrong intentions, the wrong test subject—it could all go sideways so quickly.

He sets the pencil down and exhales, his breath shaky.

"Stark Rule #2," he says quietly, repeating another mantra he’s lived by since childhood. He thinks of flying cars. Stolen glances at classified files on his father’s desk—nuclear bombs. "Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. But even as they settle, his eyes wander back to the notebook. The diagrams. The equations. The tiny, insistent kernel of possibility that won’t let him walk away.

Tony knows himself too well to believe he’ll leave it unfinished. He never does.

He lies sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, the growing ache in his neck a distant afterthought. His mind hums with restless energy as he conjures equations from nothing, the numbers unfurling like spectral ribbons. They stretch toward the ceiling, forming intricate patterns—floating variables that shimmer and shift, like constellations only he can decipher.

The ceiling becomes a canvas for his imagination, an infinite expanse where equations morph into possibilities. Variables twist and curve, dancing in a chaotic ballet as he tries to tease meaning from the mess. His lips move silently, murmuring numbers and theoretical principles, the words barely audible over the soft creak of the radiator.

A sharp knock breaks his reverie.

“Go away,” Tony grunts, rolling onto his side and sliding his notebook under his bed with a sharp shove.

The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. Tony scowls, sitting up on his elbows and glancing warily at the door.

It’s past curfew. Room checks were hours ago.

It’s clearly not enough to stop Tompkins and his pathological need to catch Tony in some imagined act of delinquency and debauchery.

Well, maybe not so imagined, not anymore. To the trained, prying nose, his sheets most definitely still smell like Bucky.

Tony had been writhing in his lap only twenty-four hours earlier, after all, before Bucky had so graciously flipped him around and pinned him to the mattress, spread Tony’s hips with his thighs, sucked a bruise to his collarbone, and rocked him to a swift, messy orgasm before Tony could even unbutton his pants.

“So easy, doll,” Bucky had laughed into Tony’s throat, squeezing Tony’s hip as Tony’s pleasured aftershocks ebbed into a more heated type of mortification.

“Gonna have to hand wash these, you animal,” Tony groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hiccuping weakly as Bucky punished him with another slow drag of his hips, relishing in Tony’s overstimulation.

“Not my fault you’re on a hairpin trigger, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’ when you just made me blow a load into my pants, Barnes, gross.”

It’s too late now for Tony’s sheets. Besides, until Tompkins catches Tony ‘in the act,’ so to speak, Tony has just been heavily relying on his best friend—plausible deniability.

Straightening his tie (askew since breakfast) and brushing graphite smudges from his hands, Tony clears his throat. "I'm studying," he says, loud enough for the words to carry through the door. “You know, like a model student.”

There’s no response—no impatient drawl, no snide comment about Omegas needing discipline. Just a muffled sound that sends a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Byron?” he tries again, this time more cautiously. His hand hovers over the doorknob. “If this is another surprise ‘search and seizure’, you’re too late, sir. My harem’s already disbanded for the night.”

Still nothing. He presses his ear to the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, a sniffle.

Tony freezes.

He finally swings the door open, the sight on the other side rooting him to the spot.

Becca Barnes’s shoulders tremble under a plain uniform sweater, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she clutches a crumpled telegram to her chest, fingers gripping it like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Tony,” she whispers, her voice cracked and broken. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his, filled with a grief so deep it takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Becca? What—” He stops short, stepping aside to let her in. She sways slightly as she crosses the threshold, and Tony catches her elbow, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed.

Her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs, and Tony drops to his knees in front of her, uncertain, his mind racing.

Tony, historically, doesn’t do well with tears. Other people’s or his own. He doesn’t know how to handle them—what to say or where to start—but something about the way she trembles makes his stomach twist.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the telegram clutched in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling.

“It’s Joey,” she finally chokes out, barely managing the words before her voice breaks.

Tony’s brain stalls, caught between relief that it’s not Bucky—it’s not Bucky, he hasn’t gotten his orders yet—and a sharp pang of guilt for the thought. His eyes flick to the telegram in her hands, and though he doesn’t ask for it, she thrusts it toward him like it’s burning her.

With hesitant hands, Tony unfolds the paper. The words hit him all at once, stark and clinical against the cheap yellow stock.

“We regret to inform you that Private Joseph Proctor is missing in action. Further updates will follow as they become available.”

Missing in action. The phrase lingers in his mind, carrying with it the weight of all its implications. Not dead, not confirmed—but not safe, either. Not home.

“Becca,” he says carefully, setting the telegram down on the bed beside her. “I—” His voice falters, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Her shoulders shake harder, and before he can figure out what to do, she collapses forward into him.

Tony freezes. She’s clutching at his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder, and he’s absolutely, completely out of his depth. He sits stiffly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, panic rising in his chest.

What is he supposed to do? Hug her? Say something? He glances around the room as if the peeling wallpaper might offer some guidance.

“Uh, hey,” he tries, his voice thin. “It’s—uh—okay?”

She doesn’t stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder, her entire frame trembling against his. Tony’s heart hammers in his chest, and finally—finally—he manages to drape one arm around her shoulders in the most awkward, tentative hug imaginable.

“There, uh… ” He clears his throat, patting her back stiffly. “There, there?”

She doesn’t respond with words, just cries harder, and Tony’s awkward pats slow until he’s holding her in a loose, uncertain embrace. The position feels strange, foreign, like wearing a suit two sizes too big.

He doesn’t... comfort people. He’s not good at it. But Becca is falling apart in his arms, and for once, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It’s… it’s not over yet,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, less stilted. “They said he’s missing, right? That means there’s still a chance. He’s probably out there thinking about you. About how much he wants to get back home to you.”

Becca hiccups, her tears slowing enough for her to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his. “What if… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Tony’s throat tightens, and his own breathing suddenly feels constricted in his chest. He forces himself to hold her gaze as he says, “Then… you’ll deal with it when you know for sure. Until then, don’t let yourself lose hope, okay? John wouldn’t want you to.”

“Joey.”

“Joey wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony’s grip on Becca spasms momentarily, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cardigan, before he loosens his hold again, uncertain. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into him, her weight anchoring him to the moment. Her breathing hitches, soft hiccups breaking through the stillness, and Tony focuses on those tiny sounds because they’re easier to manage than the chaotic storm brewing in his own head.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Comforting people, sitting with their pain—it’s all alien to him. It feels like trying to hold water in his hands, everything spilling through the cracks no matter how tightly he tries to hold on.

He’s failing, isn’t he? He must be. Becca’s still crying. His words hadn’t helped. His presence hadn’t helped. He’s just a placeholder—just here because she needed someone, anyone, and he happened to open the door.

She’s trembling in his arms, hiccupping breaths that shake her small frame, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—with her grief, with her fear.

Because it isn’t just her fear anymore, is it? It’s his, too.

The thought twists something sharp and bitter in Tony’s chest.

He’s spent months shoving it down, locking the fear away behind the endless buzz of equations and ideas and the warmth of Bucky’s grin, the way his voice drops when he teases Tony, the way his hands linger like they never want to leave.

Tony had told himself that was enough. That as long as Bucky was still here, still with him, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Do you ever think about the war?”

The crumpled telegram sits on the bed beside them, the stark, clinical language burned into Tony’s mind.

Missing in action.

It’s Joseph Proctor's name on the paper, not Bucky’s, but for the first time, Tony lets himself consider—really consider—that it could be.

That one day, some faceless messenger could knock on his door, hand him the same slip of paper, and tear his entire world apart in one word.

He swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. The thought feels too big, too heavy to hold in his chest, and yet it’s there, pressing down on him all the same. He’s spent weeks pretending the war was something far away, something that happened to other people.

Other Alphas. Not Bucky.

Not his Bucky.

But the war isn’t far away anymore. It’s here, in his room, in Becca’s shaking hands and tear-streaked face. It’s in her sobs, and the weight of the paper she’d handed him like it was burning her alive.

It’s in the question he’s been too afraid to ask himself: What if?

Becca shifts slightly against him, and her words pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to… to sit here and not know.”

Tony closes his eyes, gripping Becca a little tighter. His breath feels too fast, too shallow, and he forces himself to focus on her instead of the spiral pulling at him. She’s here, crying, looking to him for something—comfort, answers, anything—and he has nothing to give. Nothing that doesn’t sound empty or wrong or too much like a lie.

“You just… keep going,” he mutters, his voice thin, shaky. The words feel foreign in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. “You block it out. You don’t think too much. And you hold onto…” He trails off, his grip loosening as he glances at the telegram again. His throat tightens as the words hang in the air between them.

Because he doesn’t want to imagine the empty days and nights Becca will have to face, the silence stretching on without answers. He doesn’t want to imagine himself sitting in this same position, staring at a piece of paper with Bucky’s name on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t let it in. That’s how he’s survived so far, isn’t it? By not letting it in?

Becca pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes full of a quiet kind of devastation. “Is that what you do?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Tony’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t meet her gaze.

The truth sits bitter and heavy in his chest, impossible to spit out. He’s been doing exactly that—blocking it out, refusing to think about the letters piling up in mailboxes, the names of boys shipped off to fight wars they might not come back from.

Refusing to think about Bucky and the unspoken inevitability hovering over them both. Because once he lets himself think about it, there’s no turning back.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe.”

Becca’s hand brushes against his, tentative but steady, and it jolts him like a live wire. He glances down, startled, as her fingers curl lightly over his. “Tony,” she says softly, her voice still trembling, “Bucky’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words hit him square in the chest, a mix of comfort and something sharper. Not yet. It feels like a countdown, like the moment the other shoe will drop. And yet, it’s also true. Bucky hasn’t left. He’s still here, sneaking through Tony’s window, teasing him, stealing kisses when no one’s looking. He’s still here.

Tony nods slowly, forcing himself to meet Becca’s gaze even as the weight of everything presses harder against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, the word barely audible. “Not yet.”

Before Tony can fully process the weight of his own words, the air shifts around him, subtle but inescapable. He feels it before he understands it—a presence folding into the room, slipping between the stale heat of the radiator and the sharp tang of Becca’s distress.

And then, it’s there. Firewood and snowfall.

It wraps around him in a way that’s both grounding and unbearable, soothing and terrible all at once. It floods his senses, pulling him from the moment even as it tethers him more tightly to it. Tony’s breath catches, his pulse stumbling over itself as the scent settles deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

The window creaks.

Tony stiffens, his heart kicking hard against his ribs—equal parts anticipation and dread—as Bucky hauls himself through the narrow opening. He moves with the same practiced ease as always, his boots landing softly on the floor, his shoulders rolling loose as though the weight of the world has never once touched him. His hair’s mussed, wild from the wind, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing arms dusted faintly with soot. And then there’s the grin.

Lopsided, easy, and warm, like the night is his to command.

Tony can only watch, frozen in place, as Bucky brushes dust from his shirt and casts a glance around the room, oblivious to the weight pressing down on it. “Evening, sweetheart,” Bucky greets, his voice rich with its usual warmth as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Know I wasn’t supposed t’stop by tonight, but…” He shrugs, his grin widening. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

For a moment, Tony feels like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, every part of him stretched thin under the collision of two worlds. Bucky, carefree and teasing, full of life and ease. Becca, trembling in his arms, her grief still a raw, open wound. The contrast is jarring, the shift too sudden to reconcile, and it leaves Tony paralyzed under the weight of it.

Bucky doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still unwinding his tie, pulling it loose with a casual flick of his wrist. “Miss me?” he teases, stepping further into the room.

Then he sees her.

Bucky’s steps falter, the grin freezing halfway across his face before it dissolves completely. His gaze sharpens as it locks onto the bed, his brow furrowing deeply as he takes in the scene: Becca, curled tightly against Tony’s chest, her face blotchy and red; Tony, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, his body wound so tight it might snap.

“Becks?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, sharper now, tinged with alarm. He steps forward, his movements slow but purposeful, his steel-grey eyes darting between Becca and Tony. “What’s going on? Why is she—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingers on Becca’s trembling frame. “Why is she crying?”

Tony tries to respond, but the words catch in his throat, jagged and unsteady. “It’s…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “It’s Johnny.”

“J-Joey,” Becca corrects between hiccupping sobs.

Bucky freezes, his entire body going rigid. The name seems to hang in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, his expression shifts, the confusion melting into something darker. “Joey?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, lined with a growing edge of dread. “What about Joey?”

Becca doesn’t answer. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she presses her face harder against Tony’s shoulder, her sobs rising again, fractured and uneven.

Tony swallows thickly, his gaze darting between the siblings as he wordlessly gestures to the crumpled telegram on the bed.

Bucky’s eyes follow the motion, narrowing as he steps closer. His hand trembles faintly as he picks up the telegram, unfolding it with a deliberate precision that belies the storm gathering behind his gaze. Tony watches the exact moment the words hit him. Bucky’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as his eyes dart across the text.

Missing in action.

The words seem to knock the air from his lungs, leaving him standing there, silent and still, his jaw working silently as though trying to chew through the implications.

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough as he rakes a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t turn to Becca right away. Instead, his gaze flicks to Tony.

His expression is unfamiliar. Raw, unguarded—emotions that Tony isn’t sure he’s meant to see, and it makes his chest feel too tight, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Tony meets his eyes, the breath catching in his throat as the unspoken passes between them. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, as heavy as the telegram.

Bucky sighs, sets the paper down on Tony’s nightstand, and takes a cautious step closer. His hand moves before his words can, reaching out to settle lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is brief, almost fleeting, and Tony flounders under the weight of it—his own nerves fraying at the edges.

For just a moment, the world seems to still. Bucky’s thumb brushes against the edge of Tony’s neck, the faintest, almost imperceptible movement—and Tony’s breath hitches, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s face. There’s something uninhibited in the way Bucky looks at him that makes the knot in Tony’s chest loosen, if only slightly.

Tony swallows, nodding once in acknowledgment, though his heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Bucky’s hand twitches but lingers for another heartbeat before he pulls it away, his movements deliberate as he shifts his attention to Becca.

He moves quietly, his boots barely scuffing the floor as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, Becca doesn’t react. Her small frame remains hunched over, curled against Tony’s chest, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

“Becks,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and gentle as he leans toward her. He reaches out, his hand hovering near her back before settling lightly against her shoulder. His touch is cautious, careful, as though afraid she might break beneath the weight of it. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Becca hiccups softly, her sobs catching in her throat as her head shifts slightly, her cheek brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his other hand sliding under hers with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly around her trembling grip. “C’mere, Becks. I’ve got you.”

Tony feels the moment her hold on him falters, her hands slipping from his shirt as Bucky gently coaxes her away. There’s no resistance, only a quiet surrender as she turns toward her brother. Her movements are slow, almost hesitant, but when she finally collapses into his arms, it’s with the full weight of her grief.

Bucky pulls her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her as she buries her face against his shoulder. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances that Tony can’t quite make out. His hands move in soothing circles across her back, anchoring her to him.

Tony exhales, the sound shaky and uneven, as he sits back on his heels.

He should leave; he knows this, but he feels rooted to the spot.

The quiet of the room feels oppressive, broken only by Becca’s uneven breaths and the faint creak of the wind pushing through open window. Tony’s fingers twitch against his knee, the urge to do something—anything—gnawing at him. But there’s nothing to do, no easy fix, no clever quip that could make this moment any less harrowing.

His eyes drift toward the window, the cold air seeping in from its slightly warped frame. He tells himself he should get up, close it, climb out it—do anything to give them some privacy. But he doesn’t move.

Because Bucky’s eyes keep finding him.

Over Becca’s shoulder, Bucky looks at him with something unspoken, something open and unguarded that Tony doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it’s not dismissal, either. It’s something in between, a thread pulling Tony back every time his thoughts stray toward leaving.

Becca shifts slightly in Bucky’s arms, her quiet sobs giving way to hiccups as exhaustion begins to weigh her down. Her fingers clutch at Bucky’s shirt, trembling as her breaths stutter unevenly. Tony watches as Bucky presses his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring something so low that Tony can’t catch the words. But the cadence of it—the quiet, steady rhythm of Bucky’s voice—settles something fragile in the air.

Tony swallows hard, looking away to give them some semblance of privacy, though there’s nowhere else for his gaze to land. The room feels smaller than ever, the three of them compressed into this tiny, suffocating space. He lets his gaze trail back up to the ceiling. Wishing he could find answers instead of constellations full of equations and improbable variables.

Tony shifts his weight, his knees protesting the hard floor, and eventually leans back onto his palms, his body folding into the silence.

The stillness stretches, minutes bleeding into what could be hours, until Bucky’s voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“She fell asleep,” Bucky says eventually, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Tony’s head snaps back down, his gaze darting to Becca. Sure enough, her breathing has evened out, her face slack against Bucky’s chest. She looks younger somehow, smaller, and the sight makes something twist sharply in Tony’s ribcage.

Tony swallows audibly, his mouth opening and closing a few times before his gaze darts across the room.

“Yeah, no,” he says, shaking his head and blinking as his mind catches on the words. “Sure. You two take the bed. I’ll crash on Arnie’s. No big deal.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “Tony,” he says quietly. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, pushing himself up onto his feet and wincing as the feeling comes back into his legs. I have extra sheets… somewhere. Probably. And I’ve been stealing Roth’s pillow, anyway. Seems silly to drag Becca back to her room—”

“Tony.”

Tony freezes, mouth tense, a hand tugging through the messy strands on the back of his head. He looks at the Alpha.

The Bucky that Tony knows is… effortless. All easy grins and self-assured confidence.

But now, sitting on the edge of Tony’s shitty, too-small twin bed with his little sister cradled in his arms, Bucky looks different.

Tired. Resigned, maybe, or weighed down by something Tony can’t quite decipher. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem deeper, Tony’s usual favorite crooked grin replaced by a faint downturn of his lips. His broad shoulders, always so solid and unyielding, slump just slightly.

It’s disarming, Tony realizes, seeing him like this.

There’s no bravado, no easy grin to shield the cracks in his armor. He looks unpolished. Vulnerable in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache and his breath hitch.

The realization pulls something sharp and uneasy through him, and Tony’s gaze flickers away, but there’s no escape from the weight of it—or from Bucky’s scent, which hangs thick in the air now, impossible to ignore.

It’s still familiar in its warmth, still steadying in the way it grounds Tony when everything else feels too loud. But now there’s a bitter undertone curling beneath it, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet sorrow that lingers like the first sharp bite of frost before a snowstorm. It seeps into every corner of the room, clinging to Tony’s senses and wrapping around him in a way that makes his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He inhales without meaning to, the scent pulling at something deep and instinctive, something he doesn’t want to name but can’t shove down any longer. It presses against his ribcage, heavy and unrelenting, and he feels himself teetering between the urge to offer comfort and the impossible desire to fix it, even though he knows he can’t. Not this. Not tonight.

“Tony.”

The quiet rumble of Bucky’s voice slices through the haze, steady but laced with a softness that catches Tony off guard. When he glances up, Bucky’s sharp, perceptive eyes are already locked on him, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Tony want to squirm. Concern, sure—but also something deeper, something Tony’s not ready to face.

“Stop scentin’ me,” Bucky murmurs, though the words carry no real command, only quiet insistence. His jaw tightens as he glances away, his fingers flexing gently against Becca’s back. “Didn’t mean for it to get to you. Just…” He trails off, his voice lowering as he nods slightly. “Hold on.”

Tony flinches, heat crawling up his neck. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into his palms. “It’s fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice sharp with defense.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers for a beat longer before he shifts his attention back to Becca. Moving with a quiet deliberateness, he adjusts her until she’s lying on the mattress, her head propped against the pillow and her small frame tucked carefully against the wall.

Tony watches in silence as Bucky leans down to slip her shoes off, his movements careful and precise, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile peace they’ve built. Once Becca is settled, Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his own boots with slow, deliberate motions.

Still, Tony doesn’t move. His feet feel like lead, his body rooted to the spot as he watches Bucky without meaning to, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

Bucky straightens, his boots landing softly on the floor beside Becca’s. His hands rest briefly on his knees, fingers flexing like he’s bracing himself for something. Then, without hesitation, he looks up at Tony and holds out his arms.

“C’mere,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He shifts on his feet, his arms tightening across his chest. “What—”

“Just come here, doll,” Bucky says, his voice gentle but firm.

Tony hesitates, his gaze darting between Bucky’s open arms and Becca, who’s still fast asleep, her breaths slow and even. The bed is tiny. There’s barely enough room for Bucky and Becca as it is, and the thought of squeezing himself into that cramped space feels… impossible.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, his voice awkward and stilted. “There’s no room. I’ll just—”

“There’s room,” Bucky interrupts, his arms still outstretched. His expression softens, but there’s an edge of stubbornness in his tone now, the kind that always leaves Tony feeling off-balance. “You love havin’ this argument, don’t you? Just humor me.”

Tony snorts, shifting his weight uneasily. “Probably not gonna get much humor out of me tonight, Buck.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bucky says, his lips quirking in a faint, tired smile. He nods toward the bed, his gaze steady and insistent. “Come here, baby. Please.”

The please is what gets him.

Tony swallows, the sound loud in the stillness, and finally takes a cautious step closer. “This is stupid,” he mutters, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the words fall flat. He toes off his own shoes as he drags himself forward. “You don’t need me crowding you two all night.”

Bucky shakes his head, the smile fading into something quieter, more earnest. “I do,” he says simply. “I need you here.”

The words stop Tony in his tracks. He stares at Bucky, his mind scrambling for a witty retort, something to deflect the heaviness of what’s hanging in the air between them. But nothing comes.

Instead, he just exhales sharply and mutters, “Fine. But if I fall off the bed, I’m taking you down with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches out and catches Tony’s wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His hand is warm, calloused, and before Tony can process what’s happening, Bucky tugs him closer—not onto the bed, not yet, but to the space between his knees where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Tony stumbles forward, blinking in surprise. “What are you—”

“Just… hold still for a second,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and steady.

Tony freezes, his pulse ticking sharply against his throat as Bucky’s hands reach up to the knot of his tie. The movements are deliberate, careful—nothing like the hurried, heated way Bucky had tugged at his clothes a few nights ago, impatient and hungry as he backed Tony against his desk.

The memory flares briefly, unbidden, making Tony’s face burn. He remembers Bucky’s hands then, quick and sure, undoing buttons and pulling fabric aside like it was in the way. The way his lips had followed, leaving a trail of heat against Tony’s skin, drawing soft gasps and murmured protests that neither of them had meant.

This is nothing like that.

Now, Bucky’s touch is unhurried, almost reverent as he loosens the tie from Tony’s collar. There’s no rush, no teasing smirk, no deliberate press of his body against Tony’s to ignite sparks. Just quiet, deliberate movements and a weight in Bucky’s eyes that Tony can’t quite name.

The tie slips free, and Bucky sets it aside before his hands move to the buttons of Tony’s blazer. His touch lingers briefly, just enough to make Tony’s breath hitch before the first button pops open.

“You don’t have to—” Tony starts, his voice coming out shakier than intended, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I do,” Bucky says simply, his gaze meeting Tony’s as his hands move to the next button. “Just let me.”

Tony swallows hard, the words catching in his throat as he nods, barely perceptible. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he lets Bucky work, his hands steady as they ease the blazer from Tony’s shoulders.

The quiet intimacy of it all feels strange, too raw for Tony to handle, but he doesn’t pull away. He stands there, frozen but compliant, as Bucky folds the blazer and sets it aside with the same care he’d shown with the tie.

When Bucky’s hands settle lightly on Tony’s waist, Tony’s breath catches again, his gaze darting away. But before he can spiral too far into his own head, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

Tony exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re really… something tonight,” he mutters, his voice quieter than intended.

Bucky hums faintly, his thumbs brushing lightly over Tony’s hips. “Yeah, well…” His gaze flicks to Becca, nestled behind him, her face slack in sleep. “Guess everyone’s a little off tonight.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The warmth in Bucky’s voice pulls at something deep in his chest, but before he can dwell on it too long, Bucky shifts, his hands steady as he guides Tony toward the bed.

“C’mere,” Bucky says softly, his voice calm but insistent. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat tight with something unnameable, and doesn’t argue. He lets Bucky guide him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles hesitantly beside him. Bucky leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Tony adjusts awkwardly, curling into Bucky’s side and fisting his hand into the material of Bucky’s tear-soaked shirt. “Don’t blame me if I elbow you in my sleep,” he whispers, his tone pitched low and uncertain. The bed is small, and Tony’s already bracing himself for the inevitable fall if Becca so much as shifts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky murmurs, his hand settling lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is steady and warm, grounding Tony in a way that makes his throat tighten.

They fall into silence for a long moment, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft sound of Becca’s breathing. Tony lets his eyes adjust to the dark, his gaze flicking to the faint outline of Becca tucked against Bucky’s side. She looks smaller than usual, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. It’s soft, but there’s a weight to it, something heavy and resigned. “Joey… he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. Never thought it’d get this serious between them, but she loves him. Always has. Since they were little.”

Tony swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He’s never met the Alpha, of course, but the way Bucky talks about him—steady and low, tinged with quiet fondness—makes him feel like more than a name on a telegram. It’s easy to picture the boy through Bucky’s eyes: the neighbor kid with a shy grin and a good heart, someone who grew up alongside Becca and earned her love in a way that feels unfairly fragile now.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just a kid. Fifteen. She should be worried about dances and sneaking out to see a picture show, not… not this.” He exhales shakily, his grip on Becca tightening slightly. “Not waiting for news that might not come.”

Tony presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and smoke washing over him—sharp and steady, but tinged with sorrow. It anchors him and unsettles him all at once, pulling at something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters after a moment, his voice barely audible. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer, and Tony doesn’t resist. He lets himself sink into the warmth and the weight, the quiet presence of the man beside him. It feels like too much and not enough all at once, but for now, it’s all he has.

“You’re good at this,” Bucky murmurs after another long pause, his voice soft and low, breaking through Tony’s spiraling thoughts.

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “What? Squeezing into a bed too small for three people?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow, soothing motion. “This. Being here. Taking care of people.”

The words hit something raw and fragile inside Tony, and he stiffens slightly, his breath catching. “No,” he mutters, his voice rougher now. “I’m not.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tony’s head. His lips linger there for a moment before he rests his cheek against Tony’s hair. “You take care of me,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Hey, sweetheart?” “Yeah?” Tony croaks.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends. But… thank you. For being there for her.”

Tony bites down on the inside of his cheek and buries his face into the Alpha’s armpit to hide the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“We’re not friends. She forces me to eat breakfast with her. Steals my breakfast and cheats off my homework.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t do ‘homework’.”

“Exactly,” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s how much of a menace she is. She cheats off assignments I don’t even do.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Tony can feel more than hear. It’s warm and familiar, and for a moment, it cuts through the weight pressing down on the room. Tony’s grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens slightly, his fingers flexing before curling again, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

The darkness around them feels impossibly heavy, but it’s not suffocating. Not quite. It’s the kind of weight that settles rather than smothers, wrapping around them like a blanket too thick for the season. Tony closes his eyes, letting himself focus on the faint, steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the quiet creak of the bed as it shifts under their combined weight.

“Hey, Bucky?” He says quietly.

Bucky hums. “Yeah, baby?”

Tony hesitates, his question lingering on the edge of his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t ask—knows the weight of it—but the thought has been gnawing at him for weeks. Tonight, though, with Becca curled against Bucky and Joey’s absence casting a shadow over everything, the words slip free before he can stop them.

“Why haven’t you been called up yet?”

Bucky’s hand stills, his breath catching just enough for Tony to notice. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and for a moment, Tony regrets asking. He lifts his head slightly, glancing up at Bucky’s face. “Forget it,” Tony mutters, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky interrupts gently, exhaling a slow breath. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, distant and thoughtful, before it falls back to Tony. “Guess we have to talk about it, sooner rather than later.”

Tony doesn’t respond. His chest feels like it’s caving in, his lungs straining against the weight of the conversation he’s been avoiding since the beginning.

“When Ma and Dad died,” Bucky begins quietly, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “it was just me and Becca. She was thirteen, still a kid, and there was a pile of debts bigger than anything I’d ever seen—hospital bills, the funeral, everything they left behind. Someone had to take care of it. Someone had to take care of her.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “So when the notice came, I went down to the recruitment office and told them I wasn’t tryin’ to dodge it. Just… asking for time.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “They let you do that?”

Bucky shrugs faintly. “I think I got lucky. This was before things really took off. Before Japan attacked us. Maybe they took pity on me, y’know? Some kid fresh outta school, no parents, trying to hold things together for his sister. Told them I’d go if I had to, but I couldn’t leave her with nothing.”

Tony swallows hard, the image of Bucky standing in front of some indifferent bureaucrat, pleading his case with the same quiet determination that Tony’s come to know so well—it twists something deep in his chest.

“And now?” Tony asks, his voice quieter.

Bucky’s hand falters for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. “Now our grandparents are helping. Paying for her schooling. She’s with them when she’s not here. They’re good folks. But… that doesn’t mean the clock’s not ticking.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m on borrowed time, Tony. Just waitin’ for the day the letters start coming again.”

Something in Tony’s stomach lurches. It feels like dread, but heavier.

Anguish.

There’s no point in masking it. He knows Bucky can smell it.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. His hand continues its steady rhythm on Tony’s back, grounding and patient, giving Tony the space to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. But Tony can feel the Alpha’s gaze on him, sharp and searching even in the darkness.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to dump this on you,” Bucky says softly after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet, apologetic in a way that twists something deeper in Tony’s chest. “Not tonight. Not…like this.”

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no humor in it. “What’s one more thing to worry about?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Might as well pile it on.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand stills briefly before resuming its soothing motion, firmer now, as though trying to ease the tension out of Tony’s frame. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than he intends. “Be realistic?”

“Minimize this,” Bucky counters gently, his fingers brushing against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re allowed to feel this, Tony. You don’t have to… bury it.”

Tony scoffs, though the sound comes out weaker than he’d like. “Yeah, well. In my experience, burying my crap tends to work better than facing it.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Bucky knows what “it” is. The war. The draft. The inevitability of Bucky’s name coming up, of the letters arriving, of him being sent off to fight in a war that’s swallowing up everything and everyone in its path.

Tony shifts abruptly, pulling away from Bucky’s warmth and turning onto his side, his back facing him. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the weight in those steel-grey eyes, the resignation that’s already settled in. It feels too much like an ending, and Tony doesn’t know how to hold that in his chest without breaking apart.

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The confession trembles in the air, so quiet and raw that Tony isn’t even sure Bucky heard him. His voice cracks on the last word, the sound splintering like glass, and Tony clamps his mouth shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop anything else from spilling out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the mattress dips, and Tony feels the warmth of Bucky shifting closer behind him. A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder, hesitant, before sliding around his waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back against the solid warmth of his chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and Tony’s breath catches as he feels Bucky press his forehead gently against the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and heavy with something Tony can’t name. “I know.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his body stiff in Bucky’s embrace.

He can’t help but think of the last time they’d been tangled together in bed—only a few nights ago, at the tail end of his heat, when the world had felt far away and distant. Bucky’s bed had been too warm, their limbs intertwined, Tony too boneless and content to care about anything beyond the four walls of the bedroom.

He thinks of the lazy, indulgent smile on Bucky’s face, the way his mouth had trailed patterns down Tony’s bare shoulder, both of them sticky with sweat but too relaxed to do anything about it. They’d talked about nothing and kissed endlessly, the kind of careless behavior that felt safe because the world outside hadn’t crept in yet. Tony’s heart had been full that morning, his body humming with the comfort of Bucky’s scent and the warmth of his skin.

Now, the bed feels cold despite the heat of Bucky’s body against him. There’s no teasing, no smirk, no lazy contentment. Just the weight of what’s coming and the words they can’t take back.

“You don’t—” Tony’s voice falters, breaking apart before he can finish. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be left behind.”

To be cast aside by everyone you know.

Bucky exhales softly, the sound shaky in a way that makes Tony’s stomach twist. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t. And I’m so damn sorry that you have to feel this. That Becca has to feel this.” His arm tightens slightly, his hand resting against Tony’s side. “But you’re never gonna be alone in this, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest aching as he fights to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Bucky’s scent surrounds him—heady and incensed, still tinged with that quiet sorrow that makes Tony’s heart hurt—and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside him, something that makes him want to stay wrapped in this moment forever.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony whispers finally, his voice barely audible. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Petulant. Selfish. “You don’t have to go.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his hand moves, his fingers brushing lightly over Tony’s side in a way that’s both comforting and  devastating. “I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands fisting in the sheets as he presses his face against the pillow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the reality of it looms too large, too undeniable, and it feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

Bucky shifts closer, his arm tightening around Tony as if he’s trying to hold him together. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the ache that lingers there. “I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. You have my word.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony mutters, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bucky insists, his voice firm but gentle. “And I am. You hear me? I’m coming back, Tony. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and Tony wants so badly to believe him. But all he can do is nod, the motion small and uncertain, as he lets himself sink back into the warmth of Bucky’s embrace. His breathing is uneven, his heart racing in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, pressed against Bucky, and lets the Alpha hold him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Bucky’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing circles against Tony’s side.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got you, Tony.”

And for now, in this quiet, fragile moment, it’s enough.

Tony doesn’t recall falling asleep; the crushing weight of his thoughts must have eventually dragged him under.

He wakes before dawn, the pale light creeping into the room, casting everything in a faint gray haze. The mattress beneath him is too warm, crowded with too many bodies. Becca is still curled up against the wall, her face slack in sleep, while Bucky’s arm remains slung protectively around Tony’s waist, holding him in place.

Tony untangles himself with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake either of them. He doesn’t look back as he slips out of bed, his bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. His mind is already racing as he pulls on his blazer, though his tie remains slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He doesn’t need to be presentable for what he’s about to do. Just… prepared.

The hallways are eerily silent at this hour, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft creak of Tony’s footsteps. The early morning chill seeps into his skin, but he doesn’t care. His destination is clear, and his purpose even clearer.

Byron Tompkins’s office door is closed when Tony reaches it, the plaque on the wood catching the dim light. Tony doesn’t bother knocking. He grips the handle, twists, and pushes the door open with enough force that it smacks against the wall, rattling the frames hung with awards and irrelevant accolades.

The headmaster is seated at his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews the morning paper. He jumps at the sudden intrusion, his head snapping up, and the color drains from his face when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Stark,” Tompkins says sharply, though his voice wavers. “What on earth—”

“Becca Barnes is excused from finals,” Tony announces, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Tompkins blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Excuse me?” he says, recovering enough to feign authority. “Christ—you don’t have the authority to make that call, Stark.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s voice is calm, almost bored. “She received a telegram last night. She’s grieving, you absolute cretin. Do you expect her to sit through exams and recite poetry while her world is falling apart?”

Tompkins clears his throat, clearly flustered. “This is an institution, Stark. We have protocols—”

“To hell with your protocols, Byron,” Tony snaps. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to phone her grandparents and explain the situation. Tell them to come pick her up. She’s excused from finals, and she’s excused from the rest of the term.”

Tompkins glares, his indignation flickering behind a thin veneer of control. “You don’t get to decide that, Omega.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile, and he leans forward, planting his hands on the headmaster’s desk. “You know who my father is. You know what he could do with a single phone call. Do you really want to test me on this?”

Tony won’t test this. He’s completely bluffing. His father wouldn’t give a shit.

But the threat works, anyway. It’s worked for two years.

Tompkins visibly swallows, his eyes darting away as the weight of the unspoken threat settles over him.

“She’s a child,” Tony hisses. “A grieving child who doesn’t need some bureaucratic leech like you making her life harder. And while you’re at it, write a note excusing her from every last responsibility she’s got. Outstanding assignments, obligations, whatever else you pencil-pushers are dreaming up to make kids here miserable. She’s done."

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders sagging as he realizes he’s lost. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ll… make the call.”

"Fabulous."

Tompkins scowls as he reaches for the phone on his desk. Tony doesn’t leave until the first dial tone sounds, ensuring that the man follows through.

As he steps back into the hallway, the burden in his ribs doesn't lift; it just shifts. For a moment, he stands still, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight, like he’s daring the weight of the morning to press harder.

The faint hum of the headmaster’s voice drifts from the office, low and reluctant as the call begins. Tony doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t need to. The message has already been delivered, the balance of power tilted just enough to leave Tompkins scrambling to save face.

He exhales slowly, his breath sharp in the quiet, and begins walking again. His steps echo in the empty corridor, steady but heavy, like each one carries the weight of something he can’t shake.

There’s no satisfaction in the victory—only the dull ache of inevitability settling deeper.

Lodging itself firmly into his chest.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - IV

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, mention domestic violence, not reader divider by animatedglittergraphics

4. for it is the blood that makes atonement 

You are doing your best to keep your cool about it, but it’s possible–alright it's damn likely–John Constantine is ghosting you. 

You’d think that would be hard to do, living right next door, but he’s out a lot at night, and so are you. 

It has been over a month since you’ve seen his stupid, handsome face. 

In person, at least. In your daydreams, is another matter entirely. And even, possibly…in your mind’s eye. You don’t really know what else to call it, but ever since drinking his blood, it’s almost been like you can feel John Constantine at the end of a golden thread, his life a shining light. You’re not sure what it means, only that…it feels good, and it fills you with even more longing to be near him. 

Sometimes you even get hints of his emotions, if he’s feeling angry, or sad, or annoyed. 

There’s a lot of annoyed going around, with that man. 

You wonder if it’s the same, for him, to you. 

So you are excited, when a night comes in which you know he’s home. You can hear the sprightly notes of Take Five through the paper thin walls. Somehow, you just know he is sitting at his kitchen table with a bottle of Ardbeg. 

You give him some time before slinking out to the hallway, and knocking on his door.

You listen as he rises, the chair legs scraping the floor, his soft footfalls bringing him to the other side of the door. Your stone-still heart leaps into your throat, as you make out what sounds like the pads of his fingers sliding on the old wood panel right before you, pressing there as though it was a window, and he could see you on the other side. 

There he stands, for minutes. 

You want to, but you dare not knock again, listening to his breathing through the barrier between you, so close and yet so far. You touch the door, willing him to just reach for the knob. You can almost see him with your third eye, just standing there touching the door with his head bowed. 

You hope against hope, that he will let you in.

When you reach out to him, down that metaphysical connection you have no name for, but feel as real as holding a rope in your hands, you sense a shadow of sorrow in him, bleak and black, before he pushes you out entirely, and you can feel nothing. 

As the sound of his footsteps walking away from you reaches your sensitive ears, you are not proud that you return back into your apartment, curl up in your chair, and cry bloody tears until you are wrung out completely.

Whatever is going on with him–he does not want you. 

It shouldn’t hurt the way it does, but it feels like throwing your bare, bleeding heart under a speeding train. 

You do not have the courage to break down his door and demand to know what’s wrong. 

You couldn’t enter without an invitation anyway.

Exhausted, you sit in the dark, staring out the window. 

Again, you have that feeling that you are being watched. 

Maybe you should be afraid, but at the moment you are too sad to care. What’s the worst that could happen now? 

Constantine did warn you not to challenge the gods with such questions. 

♰♰♰

 Just when you thought John Constantine couldn’t hurt you any worse than he already had, you were in for a surprise. 

You have just stepped outside, dressed up to go out on a hunt, and there he is at last, standing under a street light outside your apartment building–with another woman. She is tall, brunette, beautiful. A police officer, you infer from the gun and badge on her belt. You hear John say her name.

Angela.

How fitting.

You can sense the attraction between them from all the way down the street, and it feels like someone carving out your undead heart with a dull blade. 

She’s even religious. You can see her gold crucifix glinting at her neck.

She is everything, you reason, John Constantine could possibly want in a prospective mate. 

Everything, it hurts to admit, he really deserves. 

He is ducking his head towards her, and you are certain they are going to kiss. 

You cannot watch. 

Without really even realizing what you’re doing, you turn on your heel, and run.

Running as a vampire is something out of this world. In a matter of minutes you have covered miles. You find yourself in a part of LA you’re not familiar with, though these days it doesn’t matter much.

You make your way to the roof of an abandoned skyscraper–by climbing it on the outside with your iron-hard claws. At the top you scream at the moon, your eldritch voice lost in the chaos of this soul-devouring city. Empty to the tips of your toes, miserable to the marrow of your bones, you collapse in a sad tangle of limbs and hug yourself, wishing your heart had died along with your body.

♰♰♰

Later, you find yourself in a club in Hollywood called Perla, in the mood for a drink but not what they’re serving behind the bar. There must be something extra special about John Constantine’s blood. You went for weeks without hunger pangs, after your little interlude. 

Nice as that was, it threw off your cycle of rent collection. A girl has expenses, and if you’re not picking scumbags’ pockets, you’re not bringing anything in. What you need is a score, and looking around the rich assholes that fill the room, you don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding one. 

You’re not sure why you picked this club in particular. You just had a feeling as you were wandering, and decided to try to get inside. If you were in a better mood you might have enjoyed the dismay of the onlookers who had been waiting in line for hours, when you glided up to the intimidating bouncer, caught his eyes and asked him politely to let you in–and he did, opening the red rope for you with an absent smile.

There are other perks to being a vampire. Such as, when men you have no interest in try to sidle up, you’re not afraid to send them on their way.

You have noticed lately that you’ve been getting stronger impressions from people. Not just snatches of their thoughts, but scenes from their lives. Sometimes, it’s as simple as their trip to the grocery store the week before. And sometimes, it’s a man’s memory of pushing his wife off a balcony in Mexico, so she wouldn’t take him to the cleaners in divorce court for fucking his secretary. 

He’s drinking in a booth to the side of the dance floor, and you’ve decided he’s going to be your next meal. You suck at pick up lines, but it doesn’t really matter. You’ve found that all you really have to do is make a few seconds of good eye contact, and it seems most of your marks will practically eat out of the palm of your hand, open to your charms and suggestions.

You’ve chosen your prey for tonight, and after finishing your drink (you can consume most liquids to no ill effect) you make your way over to him. He has two human women at his sides when you approach. “Can I sit?”

He looks you over, like a horse at auction, before making the mistake of meeting your eyes. You feel it, when his mind becomes yours, like a Lego clicking into place. “Sure, baby. C’mere.”

You give his companions a look too, suggesting for their own good, “Go away.”

They do.

Maybe being a vampire is actually awesome? Everyone does what you want them to. Everyone…but John Constantine.

Go fucking figure.

You ignore the excruciating pang just the thought of that man sends ripping through you, and concentrate on the task at hand.  

You crawl into the booth, herding him into the most shadowed part of the seating arrangement, and you laugh up your sleeve at this self-assured man, who seems to think he’s in control, snaking an arm around your waist and pulling you close. With a single hand on his chest you pin him against the tufted back of the banquette. It clearly startles him, though he tries to play it off.

“Easy there, muscles,” he says with a smirk.  

“Is that what your wife said?”

His eyes go wide with alarm for a moment before you overpower him with your mind and your strength, your fangs sinking into his neck. The temptation is so real, to bite and tear and end this piece of shit once and for all. The savagery of this urge still startles you, and ultimately, saves his life. You drink your fill but do not kill him, leaving him dazed and unintelligible in his seat, the cash in his wallet stuffing your bra.

You are exiting the shelter of the booth when you feel that presence again. That heavy prickling energy that has been following you all over the city. 

Although it’s dark in the club, you can see perfectly well. He leans on a railing on the level above, his eyes all for you. He is painfully handsome, you hate to admit. Beautiful, even. Tall, dark. A sharply trimmed beard, eyes that glitter like polished jet.. He is wearing a black suit, his white shirt open at the throat. There is a cruel turn to his mouth that raises your guard–and sends a thrill straight to your loins. 

If you weren’t undead, you would consider getting your head checked. It just seems too late for all that, though.

At least you’re not mentally tripping over yourself because he’s so good looking. You’re freaking out, because you recognize him from the night you took a little astral tour of the city while John dozed, and this man? This thing? Hit you hard enough to rattle your teeth with nothing but power from halfway across L.A. You feel the absolute depth of that power again, filling the room. It’s almost suffocating, and as you look around you can’t believe no one else seems affected by it. 

Lucky you. 

You don’t really mean to make eye contact. It just happens, as though you are coerced and cannot resist. You feel this irresistible pull, the urge to go to him, as though he is in your mind–that is when you realize he is a vampire too, and possibly the oldest thing you have ever met in this city.

He is safe.

He is good.

He will care for you.

These are notions that run through you like thought bubbles in a comic strip, and you know they’re not your own, even as you are tempted in every cell of your body to cross the floor and climb the stairs to him. 

You belong with your own kind.

You have nothing but hatred for the vampires who took you, who made you into this thing. But aren’t you curious about what you are? Would he give you some of the answers you seek? 

The insistent urge to go to him amplifies, and you find yourself placing one foot before the other. You can't really fight it, even if deep down, you know you should. 

At the top of the stairs, two bodyguards part to allow you through. He is there, appearing every bit the king in his castle in his throne of a booth in the VIP section, his long legs crossed and his arms spread over the back of the seat. Maybe you are just feeling raw from rejection from a different tall, dark, and handsome man, but he is so gorgeous that your heart feels as though it’s made a date with the Iron Maiden.

“Why, if it isn’t John Constantine’s little pet vampire. At last we meet.” He smirks up at you, as though he is privy to some inside joke you do not understand. “I’ve been waiting for you, querida.” 

You blink, trying to shake off this spell he’s cast over you. What are you doing here? You should be halfway across the city by now, running from this thing, not standing like a stupified little idiot before him. You feel like you're drowning, wrapped up in the magic this man, this monster, has used to cloud your mind. 

It feels like moving a mountain, to answer with some defiance, “I’m afraid you’re not up on your current events.”

You’re not stupid. You know that you were taken as a tool to get to John; you’re not exactly keen to be dangled as bait again, or to even admit your association in this achingly scary vamp’s company. 

The vampire offers you a mocking pout that somehow feels like a dagger slipped between your ribs. 

“Poor thing. Did the demon hunter dump you? Too monstrous for such a good Christian boy to abide?”

Meeting this vampire’s dark gaze feels like looking directly into the dark center of an eclipse; you’re not proud, but you look away first. It has nothing to do with the sting in your heart, or the pain that jettisons all the way to the tips of your fingers. You hope the effect of his words is not written so blatantly upon your features, but you’ve never been that good at hiding your emotions. Being a vampire hasn’t really changed that, and at least at the moment, you wish it had. 

“Come here,” he demands. You do not want to, but your feet move anyway. When he snaps and points you find yourself kneeling at his feet, utterly unable to control your own limbs, even while your eyes fly wide. He leans down towards you, invading your space. It’s ridiculous, how the proximity doesn’t exactly make your heart beat, but it definitely does something to your insides. You want to rub yourself against him like a cat, like you’ve finally found the place where you belonged all along. 

Deep down, you know it’s a lie, but the weight of his will presses down upon you, and in this moment you are helpless.  

He hooks his finger under your chin, turning your gaze up to his, handling you with a possession he absolutely has no right to. “I’ve been waiting for you to come find me.”

You’re sure your confusion is as blatant as your earlier pain. 

“I don’t even know who you are,” you say with a frown, though you cannot pull away. There is something utterly magnetic about him; you feel as though you are drowning under his heavy gaze. Or perhaps you are so lonely, so pathetically touch starved, that you will let a handsome stranger manhandle you if it even vaguely resembles affection? No. This is…something else entirely. 

“How shameful, you do not recognize your lord and Master. I am don Juan de Aragón, and you are a vassal in my kingdom, little one. Furthermore, you have trespassed on my hunting grounds here. How will you make amends to me?”

“Excuse me?”

He leans in further, his whole hand cupping your jaw. He is big, you realize. You feel engulfed, as he looms over you, and though he makes you uneasy, a part of you cannot help but like it.

“Though I suppose it is not your fault–you have not had anyone to properly instruct you in our ways. I can practically taste your loneliness.” 

Utterly derailed by the truth of this, you search his face, looking for the mockery or the cruelty from before. Something that will help you break this spell. You find him unreadable, that dark gaze simply weighing upon you, as though he can see into your soul.

Finally, you come to your senses, answering, “I’m hardly missing the company of other vampires.”

“How would you know?” His long fingers caress your hair, practically petting you. It takes every iota of your self-control, not to let your eyes slide closed and just enjoy it.

What is wrong with you? 

It is as though you’ve been bewitched. This must be what it feels like, when you use your own powers on the hapless humans around you. 

You do not like it at all. 

When a single bloody tear slides out of your eye don Juan gathers it on the tip of his finger, bringing it to his lips. “I can taste your sorrow, little one. It is time you come home. You have been without a coven for too long.”

Alarm erupts inside you, even as you cannot move a muscle. You think about the coven that kidnapped you and turned you into this thing you are–you realize now, probably on this asshole’s orders.

“I think I’m good on that.”

“Oh? Because you are doing so well on your own?” You barely manage to suppress a shudder, when he sweeps a lock of hair behind your ear. “Living in squalor and pining for a man who reviles what you are?”

The last part is probably true, but you think about your tiny but cozy bohemian nest. Screw this rich asshole.  

“I like where I live.”

“You will like where I live better, I guarantee.” You get a vision of an opulent mansion in the Hills, filled with vampires as powerful as he is, all eager to lick his boots. The impression terrifies and repulses you. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” The words are right, at least, even if you still can’t quite manage to control your body. Get up. Your legs do not listen. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“I was not asking,” he answers with all the haughtiness of Old World nobility. He sees you struggling with yourself, trying and failing so badly to fight him. That proud mouth curls in a smirk, a devilishly arched eyebrow rising with disdain. “I would advise you not to displease me, little one. I am four centuries your elder. It will not end well for you.”

You blink at that, unable to fathom such a stretch of time lived by one man, and the changes he’s borne witness to. Four hundred years. It gives you chills to think on how a creature such as him would have been perfectly suited to aid the Spanish in their conquest of Alta California, wresting this paradise from the original Indigenous inhabitants and visiting unspeakable horrors upon them with the mission system. Kidnapping, rape, slavery, murder, and disease, all in the name of Greed and God. In the Catholic Church they were two sides of the same coin. 

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Very nearly.”

You shake your head, still hardly able to wrap your head around it. 

“I won’t be any use to you. I’m no one, and John Constantine doesn’t care about me.”

“No?” He reaches down to touch your hair, sweeping a lock behind your ear. The gesture could almost be mistaken as tender, if you didn’t see the glow of malicious glee practically dancing in his eyes. “I think you’re lying.”

“He can’t stand to be around me.” It hurts to say it out loud–but you hope he can sense the truth in your words. At least–he can sense your pain.  

“Pobrecita. Then it is my obligation as your liege lord, to take care of you regardless. I must see to my flock.” 

Maybe he is baiting you with honey, but you smell the bullshit from a mile away. You can still sense the flavor of his mind, like seething wrathful snakes. It scares you more than anything he’s done so far.

“I don’t need to be taken care of. Just let me go.” 

Now he does smile, surely the way the serpent smiled at Eve. 

“Stupid girl…” He moves faster than even your eyes can follow, his long fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you into his lap. “I own you, and I cannot wait to see John Constantine’s face when he realizes he’s too late to stop us!”

You try to struggle, of course, baring your fangs and hissing like a she-cat, but to no avail. He has his full attention fixed upon you, the entire concentration of his power, and you are helpless against this ancient monster. It feels like the first night the vampires took you all over again, and you could do nothing against their strength and their hypnotizing stares, but look at them with big glassy eyes like a lamb to the slaughter. 

They touched you and laughed at you, drank your blood and pressed their bloody mouths to yours, making you taste yourself, all the while knowing they were killing you. 

You have not felt so powerless since the night you died, and like on that night you cry out with all your heart,  “John Constantine!” , even if the words do not leave your lips. That curious metaphysical thread you feel with him flares red hot, almost searing you, though it is not a thing you can touch with your fingertips. 

Don Juan looks at you curiously as though he feels it too, turning your head this way and that rudely with his big hand upon your jaw. Finally, he laughs at you, a cruel sound that grates your ears. “Oh, how rich. You have but one chance to bestow this gift upon a mortal, and you wasted it on John Constantine? You are a stupid girl.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you don’t get the chance to ask.

One of the intimidating bodyguards at the top of the stairs suddenly collapses in a spray of blood. The second soon follows. The club is loud, and it takes you a lapse of seconds to make out which sounds are the speakers, and which are actually gunfire. The fuck? 

As it turns out there are quite a few vampires up in this VIP area. They emerge from the shadows, keen to meet this new threat for their Master, swarming towards the stairs. The floor erupts into chaos, a storm of fighting, hissing, screaming, dying. 

“It’s the Babayaga!” someone nearby snarls before joining the fray. 

At first you cannot look away, fascinated by the sight of one man taking on three older vampires in a fight–and holding his own. He is a tornado of destruction, striking and kicking, having lost the now empty gun somewhere. You see the silver flash of a sword in his hand, and his face in the light. He is middle aged, bearded, handsome, his longish dark hair pulled back in a half-bun. He wears all black, a long coat, big boots. His eyes glow an electric blue, and you feel an instinctual terror to the very marrow of your undead bones. 

“Pinche dhampiro, hijo de puta!” hisses don Juan behind you, his crushing grip making your bones creak. Yet at last, you can move, because his attention is not fully fixed upon subduing you, this new threat a bit more pressing. You struggle in his grasp, nearly breaking free, but he drags you with him, towards another exit. You push and pull, and you feel his anger for your defiance, like hot pins pricking your skin all over. 

He makes it halfway across the floor before something strikes his torso–alarmingly close to your own. He staggers, nearly taking you to the floor with him. Startled, you look back, to see the attacker staring you down. That blue gaze catches you like a butterfly in a jar, and for the second time tonight it’s as though you cannot move. 

He could have hit you with that silver knife. You were closer, and don Juan was attempting to use you as a sort of shield. 

Why didn’t he?

Two more of don Juan’s vampires attack the man in black, and his hold breaks upon you. You struggle again to free yourself from Juan, but he has his claws in you, and he starts to drag you away from the melee. He is still incredibly strong, despite having taken a large knife to the torso. 

“Fucking High Table,” he snarls under his breath. “We’ll see soon enough who holds the real power here.”

You keep struggling, and Juan hits you hard enough that you see stars. Stunned, he’s able to scoop you up again, making for the opposite side of the balcony–until three bullets strike him in the side, making him jerk. 

He whirls to hiss at the vampire hunter, his eyes flashing an unearthly molten orange. 

The vampire hunter, it dawns on you so very belatedly, that John Constantine had warned you about.

With a final baleful look at you, don Juan hurls himself over the edge of the balcony, opting to save his own skin. 

Frozen in place, you watch as what must be your doom approaches. You see the twisted corpses of the other vampires laying out on the floor behind him. Behold, your fate, you think sadly, as you watch inevitable death limping towards you.

To your surprise, he pauses to lock eyes with you, grousing, “You owe me one, vampling,” before sinking to his knees–and falling over.

The whole club has erupted into chaos now. Everyone is screaming and trampling for the exits below. 

You should too. 

You’re not sure why you scramble over to him, why your hands fly over his powerful body, searching for the fatal wound as though there’s a damn thing you could do about it. Because he chose not to kill you? Because he saved you from don Juan? 

Because you’re fucking stupid? 

You find it in a knife sticking in his side. You know you’re not supposed to take it out until a doctor can supervise the wound.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You reach to check his pulse, when a strong hand closes over yours, pulling you down against his chest. He is solid beneath you, seeming utterly unconcerned about your weight upon his injured body.

“Yelena?” he rasps, his grating tone betraying his injured condition. There is a hint of an accent to his words. Eastern bloc. Russian, maybe, or somewhere near it. 

“What?” 

His eyes fly open, fully awake again. His irises are no longer that eerie glowing blue, but fathomless black pits, and you find yourself caught in his stare again, unable to look away.

“Pull out the knife,” he tells you, his voice strained with pain.

“No, you need a hospital–”

“No hospital. Not human.” He says it like it should be all but obvious. 

“But–” He felt human. He was warm, and he smelled…mortal?

“Take it out, or I will heal over it.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

Cringing, you feel for the handle, meeting his eyes for one last confirmation. He gives the barest of nods, and as you pull the knife free he hardly flinches, staring you down. His big blood-stained hand reaches up to cup your cheek, sliding into your hair.

It feels good. Too good, maybe, for what it is, and you don’t recognize until it’s too late that he’s caught you in that hypnotic stasis again, your limbs gone unresponsive and heavy. You make some sound of protest, which he soothes with a, “Shhh. You smell so sweet.” 

That is when you finally see into his mouth, and you realize he has fangs. Bigger ones than yours. 

And he is looking at your throat.

You try to struggle. You really do. But he just has you in the grip of his hands, and whatever kind of hypnotic magic this man wields over you. It reminds you a little of your own power, that tingling rush that rises in you when you are hungry, and excited, and John Constantine is in your arms. 

Then he is rolling over on you, pinning you with his substantial weight, and even with broken glass from somewhere digging into your back, it is good. His sharp teeth at your throat feel like the only thing you’ve ever wanted in that moment, and even though deep down you know it’s a trick, you tilt your head and bare your neck for him. 

He bites you with a low moan that resonates to your core, a spreading warmth flooding your body, your limbs, and between your thighs. You feel your life draining into him with every draught, and yet you clutch him to you, your leg hooking over his hip. He grinds himself into you, breaking from your throat to kiss you, his fingers laced with yours over your head holding you down. It is messy and bloody and glorious–you don’t want him to stop.

He doesn’t, returning to the wound at your throat, draining you mouthful by mouthful. Languorously you let him have his way, too pleasure-drunk to stop him, even as somewhere in the back of your mind you are vaguely aware that he might be killing you. 

Darkness begins to edge at your vision.

You should try, at least once, to resist him, to save yourself–but you can’t. 

He keeps drinking, and you are taken by the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

—-----------------

*once again I’ve changed Don John to don Juan, because it drives me crazy 😜

**Pinche dhampiro, hijo de puta!” - Fucking dhampir, sonofabitch!

**Writing fic is so fun, you can steal whatever you want… 🤭 My favorite vampire media includes ABVH, the Vampire Chronicles, True Blood, the Jane Yellowrock series, the Dakota del Toro series, and Empire of the Vampire, which def inspired this version of Wick as a dhampir, as did B in The Book of Elsewhere. They both glow when they’re going berzerk 🤣.

[dollfaceksj]

Just saw your wips…. crack drabble series for Yoongi? Count me in pls!!!!

hope u like it 😘😘😘 tell me what u think!

ps: unlike toapp, this will have WEEKLY updates instead of daily updates. 🫶🏽 MASTERLIST POST to can’t afford love coming shortly after this.

can’t afford love | myg (m) #1

⋆ TAGLIST ⋆

⇠ PREV. ⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ NEXT ⇢

“come on,” you sigh as the child in front of you stubbornly crosses his arms and looks away

you sit back and stare at him for a while, his shoe in your hand that he refuses to let you put on. “jun, we’re going to be late. miss jiyeong isn’t gonna be happy.”

he still refuses to even acknowledge your presence, staring at the wall like the little brat he is

he looks so much like his damn father.

stubborn little shit.

he’s mad because he wanted to eat his breakfast on his own

ended up spilling on the shirt he insisted on wearing today

which you had to change OBVIOUSLY

you wish you could argue with kids cause why are they DUMB.

he’s upset because

jun absolutely loves daycare

he loves spending time with his friends

and as a mother it pains you immensely

it pains you so fucking much

to realize that your child

is lonely.

“okay, jun. that means no more spongebob or daycare for a whole week,” you sigh as you rise to your feet and drop his shoes, pretending to head out the door without him

he cries out to make you stop in your tracks, inevitably ending his silent treatment towards you

you turn around to face him and place your hands on your hips. “are you gonna listen to mommy now or not?”

soft tears prick in his eyes as he nods, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand

“come here,” you coo as you squat and welcome him into your arms, kissing the top of his head. “you really wanted to leave me while you’re mad at me? you don’t want to break mommy’s heart, right?”

he shakes his head as he wipes his other eye, face still buried in the crook of your neck

every other monday, you bring jun to daycare and his father picks him up there at the end of the day. the following monday, it’s your turn to pick him up from daycare and keep him for the rest of the week until you have to drop him off again and not see him for the coming week

it’s the easiest way of doing week-week with your ex husband without having to see him.

your ex-husband…

min yoongi.

it’s been a little over a year since your divorce

you’ve seen him a few times since and it was only ever in regards to jun

well.. about 3 weeks following your divorce you’d have sex with him a few times but thats it. its been a year since

you’re bitter about the divorce but you can’t be too bitter

not when it was your idea to divorce to begin with

what else were you supposed to do? you were at home, taking care of everything and your husband was buried in work, gone all the time

such a typical fucking marriage

that you did not need nor want

the months leading up to your divorce were the worst, eventually the reason that made you snap

it was almost like living with a roommate who you barely saw

you weren’t worried about infidelity

no that wasn’t it

it was just the worry of your husband slowly falling out of love with you and you escaping before that theory could become reality

he was surprised when you slammed the divorce papers down onto his desk but he didn’t fight you

he didn’t protest, he didn’t pry, he didn’t do anything. asked how you two were going to handle jun and it came down to week-week.

now with a calm jun in your arms, you slowly shove the shoes onto his little feet before grabbing your purse and heading out the door of your apartment with your son in your arms

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

like clockwork, it’s the next monday and time for you to pick up jun from daycare

it’s only noon so you’ve got time to clean around the house before having to pick jun up

until your doorbell rings

hm?

you weren’t expecting anyone today

you wrap the thin bathrobe around your naked (bra and underwear) body, having just come out the shower

you cautiously open the door to be met

with

your

ex husband

holding your son

holy shit

what the fuck

you haven’t seen this man in months

sent him a few texts here and there

but its been so long since u’ve last seen him

why is your heart

stuttering

in its rhythm

absolutely just

pounding

against your ribcage

your sons head leaning on yoongi’s shoulder, diaper butt perked up on his forearm

yoongi’s hair has grown a lot, ends tickling his shoulders and neck

white dress shirt and black slacks

he uhhh

looks pretty good.

too fucking good.

a frown creeps onto your brows at the sight in front of you. “what’s going on?”

“daycare called me, said he’d been vomiting. he’s burning up,” he replies, not protesting when your worried face lunges at your baby and take him from your exhusband’s arms

“why the hell didn’t they call me? they know he’s supposed to be with me this week.” your son is sound asleep in your arms, your hand gently rubbing his back as you walk further into your apartment

yoongi stays in the entrance but closes the door behind him to keep the cold out

“i don’t know. they just called me and i went to go pick him up.”

ugh he’s so nonchalant with everything

you glance over your shoulder at him. you start, “why didn’t you call me then?”

at this, he frowns. “i brought him here cause i didn’t want to worry you over the phone. is there a problem?”

of course he wants to make this into a bigger deal than it is.

of fucking course

“for fucks sake,” you mumble as you shake your head and lie your son down on the couch, surrounding him with pillows and blankets

“update me on his condition. i have to go back to work,” yoongi says as he opens the front door

“yeah, don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” you mutter under your breath as you fetch your thermometer to take your son’s temperature

yoongi scoffs but doesn’t say anything else before he leaves

but then

you realize that

yoongi could

potentially

fix

the small problem

you’ve been struggling with

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

your son has been sick the past few days, holed up at home and complaining about not seeing his friends on his birthday

he had a whole birthday outfit planned and snacks that he was going to share with everyone which he can’t do now

“what do you want for your birthday, baby?” you ask as you stroke his head

“daddy,” is all he says

“you’ll celebrate your birthday with daddy next week. what do you want to do with mommy?”

“i want daddy and mommy.” he continues to play with his airplanes as you blink at him. he’s never demanded you two be together so you have no idea how to even process this

“daddy is busy tonight, baby.” you stroke his cheek

he drops his airplane. “call daddy.”

“but–”

“i want daddy.”

the exasperated sigh that leaves you is almost painful as you reach for your phone

jun is just staring at you with his arms crossed and a frown on his little brows

having to dial his number on a wednesday at 5pm

ugh

how embarrassing

he picks up after the 2nd ring and you put it on speaker

“hello?”

“daddy.”

“oh, what’s up, buddy? my birthday boy. you feeling any better?”

“yesh.”

“that’s good to hear, daddy was worried about you, you know.”

“yesh.”

“daddy’s gonna do lots of fun things with you next week. are you excited?”

“yesh.”

“okay, that’s good, baby. i’ll see you soon, okay?”

“daddy, wait.”

“hm?”

“daddy come eat with me and mommy.”

?!???

“jun,” you mumble in a warning tone

“huh?”

fuck sake.

“i want daddy.”

“i don’t think mommy would like that, buddy. we’ll do something fun next week.”

“no, i want it for birthday, daddy. mommy also want.”

you shoot a stern frown at jun but he simply doesn’t care

“can you give mommy the phone, jun?”

“mommy hears you.”

“y/n?”

you sigh quietly as you rub your eyebrows.

“yeah?”

“what’s going on?”

“i’m not sure where this is coming from but jun wants to have dinner with us.”

it’s quiet on the other end. “tonight?”

“yes, tonight, yoongi. it’s his birthday and he’s been holed up for days with no one but me.”

“i know, i know.” a soft sigh leaves his lips. “i’ll be there at 7.”

your heart almost skips a beat

“see you then,” you say as you hang up

fuck.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

you get ready

you don’t even know why you’re wearing makeup and have your hair done wearing that dress that dress that yoongi likes so much

you’re doing it for your son’s birthday of course

and not because you’ve been contemplating asking yoongi a specific question

as you smooth out your dress and help a very nicely dressed jun sit at the table—that is filled with all of your best home made foods

the door rings

and your heart continues to pound out of your chest

you slowly walk up to the door and open it up, meeting eyes with your exhusband

clad in a simple black suit and his hair nicely styled with one side tucked behind his ear, he’s holding a bag and a bouquet of roses

your eyes shift to the roses with a quirk in your brow

“these are for jun,” he mumbles as he impatiently waits for you to step aside which you eventually do

he kicks his shoes off and hands you the bouquet before jun hops off his seat and runs up to his father

yoongi drops the plastic bag he’s holding onto the floor and hunches over to catch jun, raising him up and holding him in his arms. “who’s turning 3 years old today?”

“me?” jun replies, uncertain

“of course, you, silly! not daddy, right? are you crazy? is jun crazy?” he jokes as he pokes juns belly and nips at the crook of his neck, making jun laugh and giggle as he tries to resist

it warms your heart to see jun so happy

even if he was a shit fuckin husband

he’s always been an exceptional father

“come on, food’s gonna get cold,” you say as you walk up to the table, sitting in your usual spot

yoongi and jun join you shortly after and you have a nice dinner

together

as a family

:(

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

sitting at the table with a bottle of wine screwed open

jun on the floor in front of the tv with the new big toy he got from his father

you glance at yoongi who wipes his mouth with a napkin before shifting his gaze toward you

“i’ve missed your food,” he comments as he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “thanks. it was really good.”

you nod. “thanks for coming.”

he shakes his head. “whatever jun wants, jun gets.”

you chuckle quietly and take another sip from your wine. you’ve been building the courage to ask yoongi that one question for almost an hour now

“yoongi,” you start as you place your glass back down on the table in front of you

he tilts his head to the side, an indicator that he hears you loud and clear

“you know,” you say as you take a deep breath. “jun aches to go to daycare. because he’s lonely.”

yoongi simply blinks at you, seemingly wondering where you’re going with this

silence

it’s so quiet for several moments, only the distant sounds of jun playing with his toys and spongebob playing on your tv reach your ears

“he’s lonely, yoongi,” you reiterate

he frowns this time, titling his head for a second in utter confusion

“i don’t understand what you want from me. i do my best to make time for him, you know th–”

“i’m not talking about me or you.”

you stay quiet after that, hoping he’ll figure it out on his own

he doesn’t though, just places his arms on the table, leaning further over it. “what are you getting at, y/n?”

the usage of your name sends a current of electricity up your spine

heats up the back of your neck, cheeks and your ears

“what i’m trying to say is…” you sigh as you bring your hand up to scratch the back of your head, looking away for a few moments

you gather your courage

make eyecontact with him

and part your lips to say;

“would you be willing to give him a sibling?”

to be continued.

⇠ PREV. ⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ NEXT ⇢

— enjoyed it? you can always show your appreciation by buying me some coffee if you want ☕︎♡

— follow me on twitter and instagram for free exclusive content like sneak peeks, scrapped content, brain storming and to better interact with me ♧♡

— 🍀

@pamzn @jknoah @ahgasegotarmy116 @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[peanutbuttergirl1932]

The Heartstress

Prince! Geto Suguru x fem! reader Royal AU!

Warnings: sluff, slow burnish??? , angst, smut, war, and parent loss

Synopsis: Heart's Haven is a hidden sanctuary where Y/N, a talented seamstress known as a "heartstress,", mends both literal and emotionally broken hearts. The kingdom, though victorious in war, lies in ruins after the death of the King, leaving his son, Prince Geto, to inherit the throne. Emotionally shattered, Geto seeks solace at Heart's Haven, unaware that it may offer him more than just healing for his heart.

Introduction:

A faded, pink sign sways gently in the breeze, its edges fraying from years of exposure, the words "Heart's Haven" barely visible through layers of dust and time. It hangs crookedly from an old iron hook, clinging to the crumbles of a forgotten building, lost to the world and nearly swallowed by nature. The wood creaks with every gust of wind, like the whispers of long-forgotten souls, as nature’s symphony of birds, rustling leaves, and distant streams fills the air with a strange tranquility.

Far from the bustling kingdom and the grand castle that looms in the distance, this abandoned place holds secrets, stories of broken hearts, and whispered promises. It is here, nestled in the heart of the forest, that the only seamstress in the nation resides—an energetic and bubbly figure known for her skill in mending the broken hearts of those who seek her out.

The outside of her shop is quite interesting but rather frightening but its questionable exterior fails to mirror the beauty of its interior. The space is small but cozy, with flickering candles scattered throughout the room. The shop is filled with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, overflowing with soft fabrics, cotton, and silks in every shade imaginable. Each piece holds a story, imbued with a quiet magic, waiting to be woven into something new.

Around the room, the walls are adorned with small, delicate tapestries depicting hearts—some whole, some torn—woven into intricate patterns. There are also framed portraits of past customers, some of whom smile gently, while others hold more interesting expressions…

Sitting on a beanbag in the middle of the room the heartstress, Y/N, She’s dressed in a simple, flowing dress in earthy tones, its fabric soft and comfortable, perfectly suited for her work and surroundings. A delicate silver charm in the shape of a heart dangles from a thin chain around her neck, a small reminder of the work she does, and of the healing she offers. Her gaze is fixed on the newsprint in her hands, her eyes tracing the words carefully. The paper is the most recent edition of the kingdom’s official newspaper.

'The day has finally arrived! Victory at Last: Our Nation Triumphs in the War!'

At what cost? Contradictory to the calmness of shop the nation is in ruins. A once a proud and thriving nation, it now stood a shadow of its former self, scarred by the devastation and loss it had endured. The streets of the capital, which had once bustled with laughter and the rhythm of daily life, were eerily quiet. Why?

The King had been a pillar of hope in the kingdom loved by all, especially in the years leading up to the war. They were not just rulers they were symbols of hope, guiding the kingdom with wisdom and love. The king despite his age, had insisted on leading the army in one last effort to secure peace, knowing that their presence would inspire their soldiers. The King had been struck down in a final charge, his body falling on the front lines, surrounded by soldiers who had fought with all their might to protect him. The king's oldest son: Prince Geto, is soon set to inherit the throne from his father under the worst possible circumstances. His father, the steady hand that had guided the kingdom through times of peace and prosperity, was gone. The death of the King had shattered him, but it was the void left in his heart by Queen Vespera that made him feel like he was drowning. For now in his place stood the Queen a woman who had never truly seen geto as anything more than an obstacle to her ambitions.

There was a sound of hooves hitting the gravel, the creak of a carriage pulling to a stop just outside the shop. The door opened with a creak, and the bell above it chimed DING DING DING, signaling the arrival of a guest.

@peanutbuttergirl1932 2025

yayyy my first fic i hope whoever reads will enjoy what is next! :D The actual chapters will come out in bulk (consisting of 25k+ words in a few days)

[joelsgoldrush]

wip wednesday: "epiphany" (worst!logan x fem!reader)

third time lucky because i posted this twice with different passages and none of them seemed to satisfy the overachieving monster i am 👹 but let's forget that detail.

this fic is making me crazy... in a good way. i'm enjoying the whole process even though imposter syndrome's hitting harder than ever </3

thank you @moonlight-prose for tagging me 🫂💗

also tysm to @lubdubology because she’s an amazing beta (sorry for tagging you again and again 😭 don’t mind me)

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished. That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day. Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable. Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place. The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun. Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment. He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind. Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself. Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out? Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes? The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.  Instead, he listens.  You play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen. He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll. None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

no pressure tags: @zloshy @princessanglophile @hauntedhowlett @wlwloverwrites + whoever wants to post sth they´ve written

[rollup2theparty]

—₊˚⊹♡ boy next door! sungchan

❦ seeing your ex after rough breakup can be tough, but everything is made easier when your 6 ft tall neighbor steps in as your fake boyfriend

౨ৎ SHORT IMAGINE (gn!reader x j.sungchan)

⟡ fake dating au (fluff)

note! this is sth i wrote at a whim a year ago, plz look pass the imperfections

three months, a few boxes of kleenex, and whole lot of takeout food after your worst heartbreak and you're still in a runt. the passing whispers about that 5"7 jerk's foreign conquests post-breakup hasn't been very helpful to your healing process either. the world was a blur and you barely had any energy to decipher your living conditions or take a good look at the cute neighbor who just moved in next door.

until one morning in the warm breeze of the summer sun, you woke up feeling... fine? your cheeks bore no residue of tears, you had a spring in your step, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, you had a inkling feeling that you were going to have a great day (your first one in a while). your euphoric state of being is interrupted by a fleeting sight in the corner of your eye. your unfortunate habits that accumulated from march to june has attracted an unwanted guest, the monster of your nightmares, your single worst fear, a cockroach.

you leap and dash out of your flat, in a state of panic you rap on the door of apartment 305. the owner of the dog barking through the paper thin walls greet you at his doorstep, you physically lift your head up to lock eyes with a titan's offspring blessed with a model's physique and a charming deer-like appearance. your hysteria pauses for a split second to admire the doe-eyed adonis who's staring back at you with a visible question mark. after you take another second to condemn yourself for not introducing yourself sooner, you work up exactly three words "help, please, roach" to which he nods and emerges out of his room with a half a pair of old slippers like a soldier prepping for battle.

the scene back in your living room corner was like a blockbuster, you stopped yourself from drooling while standing barefoot on your leather couch, choosing to ignore the tiny screeches of fear coming from the kind gentlemen who introduced himself as jung sungchan.

just when you thought your misery was over, you hear your doorbell ring and a familiar voice. terror rushed through your blood and bones, and your paranoia was confirmed when you open the door to a midget man in a suit and holiday tan, bombshell model in hand.

"hey, did you get my text. im here to pick up my things-... and you are?" shifting his vision to the semi stranger on your couch.

"he's my um- boyfriend?" you look at your neighbour with a silent plea. to your pleasant surprise he rises from the sofa with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a knowing grin, he circles one hand around your waist and another out for a handshake with the man he towers over. "nice to meet you. im sungchan."