#please if i am missing something please tell me

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ motive . . . m.s

in which . . . you and matt meet at a party and go back to his apartment, just expecting him to be another player and nothing more, come to find out theres something real behind his motive.

warnings . . . smut, a bit of angst, oral, (fem!recieving) dry humping, kissing, use of pet names.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #3

you don’t do this kind of thing.

you don’t let boys with soft lips and prettier eyes talk their way past your carefully constructed boundaries. you don’t fall for sweet words whispered in the back of dimly lit parties. you especially don’t fall for guys like him. the ones who flirt like it’s a sport and smile like they’ve already won. but then matt walks in with that crooked smirk and careless confidence, and suddenly, you’re rewriting your rules.

he finds you nursing a drink on the balcony, the bass from inside pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. his voice is lazy when he says, “figured you’d be out here.”

“figured you’d be inside,” you shoot back, not even looking at him. you feel him come closer, his presence like gravity, tugging at your spine. “what, and miss you trying to play hard to get?”

you roll your eyes. “who said i’m playing?” his laugh is low and close to your ear now, warm and teasing. “you do know that just makes me want you more, right?” you finally glance at him, take in the way his curls fall across his forehead, the way his shirt clings to his chest like it was made for him. he’s too good-looking for his own good. for your good.

“you want me, huh?” you tilt your head. “why?” he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks at you like he’s trying to undress your intentions, your doubts, your game. “is this a trick question?”

“depends. are you just trying to get laid?” his eyebrows lift, caught somewhere between amused and impressed. “what if i am?” you blink, not expecting him to be that honest. it’s…refreshing, kind of. frustrating, too. because you don’t want to like how his honesty turns you on.

“then you’ll need a better pitch than that,” you murmur. he steps in closer, not touching, but almost. “i could give you a better pitch,” he says, voice dipping, “but i’d rather show you.” you exhale slowly, trying to ignore the heat curling low in your stomach. you want to know what his motive is. you want to believe it’s more than just one night, that he’s not like the rest. but even if it is just one night, you’re starting to think you wouldn’t mind.

“you always this forward?” you ask. he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “only when i really want something.” and god help you, you want him, too. so, you follow him to his car, trusting your gut. he begins driving once you buckle your seatbelt, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly lopsided.

when you get there, his apartment is clean, dimly lit, music playing low from some playlist that sounds suspiciously curated. he tosses his keys on the counter like he’s done this a hundred times before, but there’s something different about the way he watches you tonight, like he’s trying to memorize you. “you nervous?” he asks, stepping closer.

“should i be?”

he grins. “depends on what you think is gonna happen.” you cross your arms, ignoring how your body buzzes with anticipation. “why don’t you tell me what you think is gonna happen, matt?” his eyes darken. “i think you came here wondering if i was just another player.”

“and?”

“and i think you already know i am.” he pauses, hands sliding up your waist. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t want you just as much as you want me.” his fingers dig in, pulling you closer until your chest is flush with his. his breath is hot against your cheek. “we don’t have to lie to each other. not tonight.” his honesty cuts through the haze in your head like a match to gasoline.

so you kiss him. and it’s electric.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your back, threading through your hair. he tastes like mint and sin, and he kisses like he’s trying to make you forget every boy who came before him. you pull his shirt over his head, fingers trailing over the lean lines of his torso, your breath catching when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred. his mouth traces the column of your neck, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. he doesn’t ask for permission, he knows you want this, but he still waits for that look in your eyes. the one that says yes.

you give it to him without hesitation. he backs you into his bedroom, lips never leaving yours, his hands teasing the hem of your top. when he pulls it off, he stares for a second too long, like he can’t believe you’re real. “beautiful,” he mutters, almost to himself.

you shove him down onto the bed, straddling his lap with a wicked smile. “still think this is just about sex?” his eyes gleam. “i’m starting to think it might be more.” you begin to grind against him slowly, watching him unravel beneath your hands. he’s all breathless groans and hushed curses, every nerve lit up like a fuse. “shit baby..” matt groans, looking up at you as you moved your hips, feeling his erection through his jeans. you were in nothing but a bra and your soaked panties.

“what? gettin’ tired already?” matt chuckled, grabbing you and flipping you both over so he was now on top. matt spread your thighs, leaning down and tugging your panties off with his teeth, slowly sliding them down and off your ankles. “gonna show you m’not playing around when i say i want you.” matt mumbled, he was gonna show you his motive.

you moaned as matt flicked his tongue against your clit, slowly and teasingly lapping his tongue around your wetness. he pressed a kiss to your clit, making you jolt. he was taking his time with you, and he was going to make this unforgettable. he continued to hold your legs open, getting lost in your slick, his lips were coated with your wetness. he brought his thumb over, stroking your clit a few times. and that was all it took the make you come undone. “fuck, oh my gosh—“ you cried out, cumming on matt’s tongue. he collapsed on the bed next to you, giving you some breathing room.

after, tangled in his sheets, bodies slick with sweat and breath still uneven, you find yourself tracing patterns across his chest. he’s quiet, but not in that usual post-hookup way. he’s looking at you like he’s still figuring you out. like he’s not ready to let you go yet. “so,” you murmur, “was that all part of the plan?” he laughs, lazy and satisfied. “if it was, it worked.”

“but what was the plan? just sleep with me once and ghost me after?” he frowns slightly, then leans in to kiss your shoulder. “honestly? i didn’t have a plan. i just knew i wanted you.” you tilt your head. “and now?” he brushes your hair back, his touch unexpectedly soft. “now i think i might want more.” you stare at him for a beat, heart thudding. “you sure you’re not just saying that?”

he laughs again, pulling you closer. “maybe. or maybe you’re just different.” you rest your head against his chest, letting the silence stretch. you don’t know what this is, or where it’s going, but for once, you don’t feel the need to ask. not tonight. tonight, you’re okay with not knowing the motive. you just know it feels good.

© delilahsturniolo

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN? | DRABBLE

→ PAIRING: brother in law!jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ WARNINGS: oc being a damsel in distress, emphasis on distress, mentions of insomnia, handyman!jk because he got us all feelings things, oc driving him insane (quite literally), whipped jk, flirty jk, unholy thoughts (can you blame her?), suggestive, kissing, fluff, domestic moments

→ W.C: 5.5k (whoops)

→ A/N: request from a cutieful ask that I accidentally deleted 😭😭🤦‍♀️ I'm so sorry anon I really hope you see this!! This was the ask for more context or if anyone's curious (I really hope I did it justice): "since you said you accept requests for drabbles etc.-or did you or am i making this up lol- i’d like to request a little thing. since i want y/n to understand how jungkook fits her life so easily, i imagined a little scenario in my head where something in her house gets broken and she can’t fix it by herself and gets it even messier and everything, and jungkook comes in and being a perfect handyman. Like literal husband material. Would fit in her house so well omg don’t judge me please you know what i mean right? Maybe she’ll get struck by a lightning and finally understand how jungkook is perfect for her and stops treating him with only little’s “i don’t hate you”😭😭😭 like helloo that is the most husband thing ever don’t live apart live together!!! plus handyman jk got me feeling things in my head ngl lol don’t judge me I’M SORRY HAVE A NICE DAY!💌"

Fridays didn’t feel like Fridays anymore.

There was a time when they smelled like oven-warm pizza and the kind of laughter that made your cheeks hurt.

They arrive tranquilly now, slipping in like a breeze through the kitchen window, brushing past your ankles before vanishing again.They were tired, you presume. Dragging their feet behind a week’s worth of lectures and papers, staff meetings and half-hearted nods in break rooms with bad coffee.

Tonight is no different. You return home just shy of the rise of moon, the university car park already thinning out as you sling your bag over your shoulder, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of your limbs. Your bag slumped onto the floor, missing its usual hook, but you didn’t bother correcting it. You barely managed to toe off your shoes when you enter inside, your mind already curled up beneath the comfort of your duvet, not asleep, but still.

The warmth here is a familiar fondle. The scent of coffee beans lingering from the blurry kind of rushed morning, a sweater thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch, your favorite mug turned upside down on the drying rack. You nudge your shoss beneath the bench for some dignity, and hang your lanyard on the little ceramic hook shaped like a leaf--a flea market find you told yourself you didn’t need, but bought anyway.

You tell yourself you’ll spend the night in. Maybe watch reruns of that one reality show where couples decorate homes under a tight budget, even though the drama feels scripted and the contestants are always suspiciously good-looking. You’re too tired for anything else. And sleep isn't exactly your best friend. Hasn't been for years and the slender orange bottles in the bathroom shelf only help so much.

But you'll try to make peace with it. You'll pour yourself some tea. You'll pretend to rest.

You shrugged off your coat and padded into the kitchen, your socks catching on the cool tiles. Your mother had sent a whole box of chamomile tea and though you had deemed the purchase dramatic and unnecessary, it had become a part of your routine, even had helped. Maybe not with the sleep exactly, but with the ritual. The motion of it. Perhaps there was something about the way the steam curled from the mug, about the soft floral taste blooming on your tongue.

You flicked the kettle on with one hand, digging through the tea box with the other, thumb brushing over foil packets and paper tags. You were just reaching for the mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle, the one you never threw out because it had once been Minho’s favorite—when it happened. A sputtering hiss, like the dying breath of an appliance on its last leg. You freeze.

You pad toward the sound with the kind of dread that only adult independence teaches you. The overhead light flickers as you walk in—rude. You flick it again, squinting into the sudden brightness, only to be met with the absolute betrayal of your faucet spurting water like it’s trying to reenact a geyser, sounding alarmingly like a cough—if sinks could cough.

You turned, slowly. The faucet gave one last shake like it was shivering, then spat out a violent stream of water that shot sideways—directly across the counter and onto the floor.

“Oh, come on—!”

It happened fast. One second you were watching, horrified, and the next, you were slipping on the tile, a yelp caught in your throat as you stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding a face-first dive into the cabinet doors. Water sprayed in chaotic, unholy arcs, and all you could do was scramble for the towel drawer and grab anything vaguely absorbent to try and... do what? Patch it? Mop the mess?

The kettle beeped softly behind you, as if offended that you weren’t paying attention.

You drop to your knees, arms full of misguided hope and whatever towel you had on hand. You tug open the cabinet beneath the sink, only to be greeted with a far more dramatic leak than you were prepared for. It's not just dripping—it’s running, and you don’t need to be a plumber to know that water should not be forming a shallow puddle across your kitchen tiles.

Still, you try.

From what you learned from that one experience ages ago. Atleast it felt like it. The last time this had happened, Minho had still been here. Not that he was a great help. He had crouched down next to you, equally clueless, wearing an old college hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and a flashlight clamped between his teeth. The entire operation had failed in spectacular fashion—he had twisted the wrong knob, somehow made it worse. You remember him saying, “This is why plumbers make so much, sweetheart,” shaking his dripping bangs out of his eyes like a soaked retriever and you both ended laughing so hard you forgot to be mad.

You wedge the towel beneath the pipe, curse softly when it does absolutely nothing, and press your palm against the cabinet in frustration. It doesn’t help. “No, no, no,” In fact, the towel slips, sending a fresh arc of water across your shirt, soaking you down to the skin.

“Cool. Great."

The kitchen light above you flickers again. The universe, it seems, has a flair for theatrics.

And somewhere deep down, as water laps against the hem of your slacks and frustration coils behind your teeth, you think that maybe you should call your father but even if he dropped everything, it would take him hours. And any plumber worth their salt wasn’t showing up past eleven on a Friday night.They’d quote you something ridiculous and half of them wouldn’t even show.

You sat back on your heels and stared at the faucet as if it had personally offended you.

“I just wanted tea,” you said to it, as if it cared.

The towel slipped again. A fresh wave of water hit your calf.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

When you opened them, you stood, sedate and careful, the weight of water squelching in your socks. The kettle had long since finished boiling, and the kitchen now smelled faintly of wet cloth and chamomile. It hit you then. Sharp, stupid, and far too late.

You were going to have to deal with this yourself.

You looked around the mess—water creeping toward the rug, the under-sink cabinet now a tiny swamp—and, you felt like stomping on the floor.

But you didn’t. Descions. Descions.

Instead, you walked toward the living room, your wet socks squelching softly on the floor like some small betrayal with every step. To your phone.The living room lamp glowed with its usual mellow burke, casting a familiar amber tepidity against the old armchair and the book you never finished last week.

You considered, briefly, knocking on a neighbor’s door. There was that older couple two houses down, always kind, always offering extra tangerines from their tree. But it was too late. Every window was dark. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people stayed up. It was made of quiet porches, retired teachers, and families who went to bed after the ten o’clock news. You didn’t know many of them by name.

Besides, no one young lived here who had a wrench or a better idea or just... two working hands and a sense of plumbing.. Not anymore.

Your thumb hovered over your contact list. You scrolled aimlessly at first, names passing in a blur—colleagues, an ex-classmate from grad school, your old roommate who now lived somewhere with palm trees and said things like “detox weekends."

You paused when the screen stilled on him.

Jungkook.

The last message between you was just hours ago. You tapped it open, heartbeat hitching like it always did when you saw his name.

Jungkook [10:03 PM]:

"I can come pick you up."

You had replied right before you clocked out. The university halls had been emptying, and his voice had played in your head, low and patient in a way he rarely was with anyone else. But you had remembered his mother’s voice too—her mentioning something about an urgent meeting, his father stressed, something about a time-sensitive deal.

So you had told him no.

You [10:04 PM]:

"I heard mom talking about some big deal tonight. Focus on that. I’ll be fine, I promise."

Jungkook [10:05 PM]:

"I want to focus on you, angel."

You’d stared at that one a little longer. Your reply had come thorough.

You [10:06 PM]:

"I’ll be okay. Just heading out now. I’ll text you when I reach."

Jungkook [10:06 PM]:

"Send me your location anyway, yeah?"

And you had. You remember the map loading. The little pin that showed you halfway between the library steps and the bus stop, your tired feet dragging. You had gotten home. You meant to message him.

You just… hadn’t.

And now you thumbed over his contact again, chewing the inside of your cheek.

Would it be selfish? What if he hadn’t wrapped up work yet? What if that deal was still unfolding across tense boardrooms and cigar-stale air, with his father pacing like a panther? You didn’t want to pull him away from it just because you couldn’t tame a faucet. You should figure this out alone. You could figure this out alone.

Your phone buzzed before you made a decision.

A message. From him.

Jungkook [11:40 PM]:

"Tell me you've reached home, angel."

Your stomach twisted. Guilt blooming like mold in the back of your throat. You opened the message and typed quickly.

You [11:41PM]:

"Yes! Sorry. I got in and just crashed a little. Long day. I forgot to text."

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Jungkook [11:43 PM]:

"Live location. Again."

Your fingers hesitated. You frowned. That was odd. He sounded off. Sharper than usual. Not even the quietly protective version of him that surfaced on late walks or busy subway platforms. This was tight. Worried. Paranoid? You don’t wanna argue with that.

You tapped the map again, sent your updated location.

Your phone lit up again the second after, not even giving you the chance to type out and ask if he's good with his hands? (He is.)

Jungkook [11:43 PM]:

"I'm coming over."

You stared at the message. Read it twice. It was… certain. No question mark. No soft preface like he usually gave. Not like, “Should we stop by that bookstore again?” or “Feel like something sweet tonight?” No, nothing of that sort. He sounded definite.

You [11:45 PM]:

"Wait, now? Why? Is everything okay?"

Jungkook [11:46 PM]:

"It will be after I see you."

You sat back against the armrest, stunned silent for a second. And then, unexpectedly, your chest loosened. Not all the way. Not enough to erase the mess in your kitchen or dry your clothes or make you feel less like a walking soggy dishrag. But enough to let the weight shift, to let something else settle in.

You didn’t have to ask.

He was just coming.

You didn’t even get the chance to ask.

There was something wild and lovely in that. And you had no reason to say no.

If anything, your knees were starting to ache and the towels weren’t doing much and if one more cabinet decided to leak, you might genuinely lose it.

You padded back into the kitchen with an exasperated sigh, hair tied up in a lopsided bun, wet socks thrown in the laundry basket and sleeves shoved past your elbows. The faucet was still dripping—not a full-on spray anymore, but enough that you had to keep a rag pressed under it while kneeling on a folded towel, praying the water wouldn't reach the hallway. The bucket you’d shoved under the sink was nearly full now.

“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wrench tighter. “Just cooperate for once, you stupid little—” The knock came—two sharp raps, low and firm. The kind that didn’t ask for permission, just announced itself.

You startled, bumping your shoulder into the edge of the cabinet with a muffled curse. You stood up too fast, nearly slipping on the wet tile again as you shuffled your way toward the door, leaving a trail of soggy towel behind you like the saddest version of Hansel and Gretel.

When you opened the door, the hallway light spilled over the man in front of you—and for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Jungkook looked… wrong. Not bad. Just undone.

His hair was mussed, not in that calculated, magazine-cover way but like he'd dragged a hand through it too many times. His under shirt that complimented his navy blue suit jacket real nice was half-buttoned, slightly crooked, and the faint glint of moisture on his collarbone made you think he might’ve walked part of the way in the rain without noticing. Or maybe he’d driven with the windows down. You didn’t know.

But it was his face that startled you most.

There were creases that hadn’t been there earlier. Between his brows, along the line of his jaw—like worry had clawed through the muscle. His lips were pressed into a firm line, but his eyes—God, his eyes—landed on you like an earthquake landing on calm soil.

You opened your mouth to speak, maybe to ask what was wrong, but he beat you to it.

“Jesus, y/n.” He crossed the space in two strides and hauled you into him.His arms came around you, sudden and firm and full.

He pulled you to his chest like he needed to feel you breathe. You didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. Your cheek bumped against his chest and a sound of confusion spilled out of you, the worn material of his shirt warm under your skin, and his breath stuttered above you. You wondered if he hadn’t been breathing right. You wondered why.

Your forehead barely brushed his collarbone. He smelled like wind and smoke and his usual cologne, but the sharp edge of it was dulled by warmth. You didn’t even know what to say at first. Your hands fumbled before curling into the fabric of his coat. Your heart beat a little faster. “Jungkook…are you okay?” you managed, a little breathless, a little confused.

He didn’t answer immediately.

You felt it more than heard it—His chest rose again. Slowly this time. Not panicked. Just… relief. You felt the faint tremor of it, the way he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. His hand at your back tightened, his other curled lightly around your shoulder, fingers flexing once, like he was still checking you were really there.

"You gave me a fucking scare." He rasped against your temple, low and rough like tension left him one muscle group at a time.

Your brows pulled together, breath catching. "What?"

"Your location glitched." His hand curved around the back of your head, his voice dropping to your ear. “Said you were halfway to some fucking bridge, then blinked out. You didn’t text, you didn’t call—” He closed his eyes for a second.

You blinked, contrition and some sort of realization crashing into your chest like a tidal wave.

His grip tightened as if remembering it. "I think I broke half the traffic laws in this city trying to get to you." he muttered, jaw clenching as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Red lights. Lanes. Might’ve clipped a side mirror. I don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Oh my god,” Your voice went small. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I thought I sent it properly. I didn’t mean—”

He looked down at you then, brows still furrowed, frustration still etched into his face, but it was laced with something softer. Quiet worry. A tension he couldn’t seem to shake off even now, not when you were in his arms and clearly fine.

“I thought something happened to you,” he said, quieter now.

You couldn’t hold his gaze for too long. The penance burned too hot. You ducked your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, cheeks going warm. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“You should be.” he muttered, but one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head. It took you a second too long to realize your fingers were still curled in his coat in an embarrassing grip.

Inevitably, you did pull back—just enough to catch your breath, to speak properly.

But his eyes didn’t leave you. They tracked you, unwavering.

And then they dropped.

His brows furrowed again, more subtly this time, like he was recalibrating. His eyes skimmed your form with a confusion you couldn’t quite place, until he paused halfway down, raising a lone brow.

You followed his line of sight and—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Your dress shirt had soaked through somewhere along the way. You’d been too distracted, too frantic, to notice that the thin cotton now bore a dozen little damp spots where stray faucet spray had kissed your chest and abdomen. The fabric clung in places it shouldn't, half translucent under the low light, revealing the outline of the camisole underneath, and your cheeks went hot in record time.

Your eyes widened. You stepped back fast. “Shit—oh, god, the kitchen—” you breathed, half to yourself.You turned abruptly, feet splashing against the wet tile again, panic reigniting as the sound of dripping water resumed its dominance in your ears.

Jungkook followed. Of course he did. His long strides eating up the hallway carpet before he stopped at the kitchen threshold.

You, for lack of a better word, flung yourself inside and the sight that greeted you was even worse than before. The bucket was near overflowing. Towels had started slipping from their makeshift barricade. Water gleamed beneath the fridge now, threatening to reach the living room carpet. You cursed again, louder this time, and bent to wrestle the mop back into place even though it had already given up.

There was a beat of silence behind you.

Then Jungkook’s voice, dry and unimpressed: “What the hell happened in here?”

You turned your head, heat rushing to your face, your soggy sleeves dragging like guilty flags. "I didn’t mean for it to get this bad. The faucet handle cracked while I was making tea, and then it wouldn’t stop leaking. I tried to turn it off underneath, but I think the valve’s jammed or something, and then I slipped, and the towels weren’t enough, and—”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face now. Exasperation flashing over his features—but not directed at you, not exactly. More at the mess itself, at the helplessness it had clearly stirred in you.. "Baby."

"I know I didn't do great." You wipe your hands on your thighs uselessly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then—with that bone-deep steadiness you had come to expect from him—Jungkook moved. Sliding off his suit jacket with one smooth pull, the fabric whispering against itself as he tossed it over the back of a dining chair, careless in a way he never was in public.. His undershirt clung to his shoulders in a way that made your stomach tilt.

Then he undid his watch with practiced fingers, slipping the leather strap open before placing it gently on your counter, far from the puddles.Quiet. Like he had done this a thousand times. Like fixing your mess was just the next item on his list. The silver caught the light, but your eyes didn’t linger there long. They trailed upward. To his arms.

The moment he reached for the knot of his tie, you forgot how to breathe properly. He reached up, his fingers working the knot loose with one practiced twist, tugging the fabric from his collar slowly. His throat flexed as he did, and you felt something shift in your stomach. The black silk slipped from his collar like a sigh, and your eyes followed it. His sleeves rolled up.

That’s when the stuck breath made a movement. Stuttered in your throat.

Ink emerged from beneath the fabric-those familiar lines, curves, the dark threads of his tattoos curling up his forearms like they had grown there, like they belonged. They caught the light and your memory all at once. Your mouth went a little dry.

His voice low, almost careless, as he crouched beside the sink. “Where’s the valve?”

You blinked. “Um. Under—under the cabinet.”

The same hands that had once made a mess of you in entirely different ways, in stolen moments, now curled around a rusty wrench.

"You need to do nothing." He gave you a brief look over his shoulder. “I’ve got it.” I've got you.

You stared. Blankly. Still half-dripping, still overwhelmed. "Do you… actually know how to fix that?”

A small, sardonic huff left him, like he found your surprise kind of insulting. He looked at the wrench—smaller than his palm, honestly—and turned it in his hand before answering.

“One of our safehouses in Daegu had pipes older than me,” he said, voice low, casual. “No plumber, no hot water. I figured it out. Got pretty good at it too. Don’t act so surprised.”

"I'm not. I know you've been good with your hands." You're not being cheeky when you say this, and are definitely not filing away the movement of his hand as he runs a practiced palm along the copper pipe.

Jungkook glanced up then. His eyes looking at you again—his gaze heavier this time, traveling down your soaked sleeves to the water-darkened hem of your shirt that clinged stubbornly to the side of you, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You sound like you’re remembering something, angel."

You turned quickly, heat crawling up your neck, your voice tumbling out too fast. “I’ll go change.”

Jungkook chuckled behind you. Low, deep, satisfied. Your silhouette vanishing behind a bedroom door with the softest click. He didn’t realize he was still listening for your footsteps until the silence settled in, heavy and warm and whole.

It was the first time in a long while that he’d been in your home like this. Not standing stiffly by the entryway waiting so he could steal you away.Not brushing fingertips against yours in a room half-full of people who didn’t know better. But here.

He let his eyes wander.

The place smelled like you. Something sweet, something quiet. A little bit like cinnamon and tea leaves and the faintest trace of your shampoo, clinging to the walls like memory.

His gaze drifted as he adjusted the position of the pipe, letting it drain into the bucket beneath. He didn’t rush. He didn’t want to. The metal pipe groaned as he tested the pressure, the familiar resistance grounding him. It was easy, this—manual labor. Straightforward. You tighten what’s loose. Replace what’s worn out. Drain what’s overflowing.

If only the rest of life were that obedient.

The photo frames caught his eye next.

They were perched on the shelf beside the kitchen door, slightly crooked from where you’d bumped them a hundred times, probably too tired to fix them. His knees ached slightly as he shifted for a better look.

The first was a wedding photo. Your wedding photo with his brother kissing your cheek. You were by his side, the most beautiful, your eyes squeezed shut, mid-laugh, a smear of cake icing on your chin.

Somehow, instead of jealousy, instead of resentment or guilt or the thousand other things he’d prepared himself to feel, what rose in him now was something fonder.

Before he could read more of the notes sticked to the fridge, you walked in, in softer clothes—an old cotton shirt that had seen too many laundry days and a pair of worn drawstring sweats that swallowed your ankles. Your hair was still damp at the ends from where the faucet had christened you earlier, but your skin was warm, your breath easier.

Your hands rubbed at your arms as if still chasing the chill away, but your eyes found him instantly. Crouched in front of the sink, sleeves rolled up, inked arms flexed in motion as he twisted the wrench one last time.

You watched the slow ripple of muscles beneath his skin, the way his jaw ticked in concentration, how his thumb brushed the valve like it mattered—like the faucet had personally wronged you and he was going to make it pay for its sins. There was something magnetic about the way he worked—focused, assured, steady like he belonged exactly here, doing exactly this.

“Is it… better?” you asked, voice soft, tentative, almost afraid to interrupt.

He didn’t turn, but you saw his shoulders relax at the sound of you. “Better than it was,” he murmured, tightening the last screw with a grunt. “Still leaking a little. I’m gonna seal the joint. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold.”

You nodded. And then you stepped forward without thinking.

“I can hold the light,” you offered. “Or the bucket?”

He blinked once. “You know I've got—”

Your shirt pooled at your wrists when you pushed up the sleeves. "I know."

He glanced up then, eyes catching on your legs first—his eyes always had a way of pausing before they moved—and then up to your face. A slow blink. A flicker of something unreadable behind his gaze. But it softened when you sank to your knees beside him, close enough for your thighs to brush.

He passed you the flashlight without a word, and you angled it as best you could while he unscrewed the makeshift clamp he’d used. Your shoulders brushed. His hand bumped your knee. You didn’t move.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his gaze shift again—upward, this time. Toward the shelf by the kitchen door.

He was looking at the oldest photo. The one most guests skimmed over. Minho in the middle with his mouth wide open in laughter, arms slung around Jungkook and her both, pulling them close like they were parts of himself. Jungkook’s hair had been longer then, messier.

That photo had never made sense to others. Why he was in it. Why the three of you looked so stitched together. But you’d always known. Jungkook had been there. Not just in the periphery of your memories, but rooted in them. Always just close enough to feel like something vital.

He turned his head then, catching your gaze, that made the tips of his ears turn pink and averted his eyes back to the situation in his hands so quick, you assumed it was to hide the color before it got any more prominent. You suppressed a giggle. Cute.

You looked back at the photo, softer now. “That was the summer he dared us to eat all the ice cream in one sitting.”

Jungkook’s lips twitched. “You threw up. On my shoes.”

You grinned, head tipping back just a little. “That does sound like me.”

“Got it,” he said suddenly, wrench twisting one final time, the valve clicking into place. The pipe stilled. No more dripping.

Relieved and stupidly proud, you said. "You actually did it."

“I said I would." He confirmed.

"Just had to find the right valve. It’s mostly just pressure build-up now.”

You didn’t really understand what that meant, but you nodded anyway, watching his hands as they moved, shoulders finally sagging with something like satisfaction as he leaned back against the cabinet door and sank onto the kitchen floor fully, legs stretching out across the wet tile without care. His hands—damp, calloused, smudged faintly with sealant—fell to his thighs, fingers flexing once, then going still.

He looked… tired. In that content, bone-deep sort of way that follows after fixing something with your own hands. There was a smear of dust on his cheek, his shirt clinging to his frame in places from residual dampness. But his jaw was loose now, his brow no longer furrowed, and the sharp concern in his eyes had faded into something tamer.

You watched him for a beat longer than necessary. "I could make you coffee." You offered, gently.

His head turned slowly to look at you, blinking like he hadn’t heard right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, already rising to your feet and brushing off the knees of your pants. Pretending it's not a excuse to have him longer.

for a second, he just processed, like the idea hadn’t occurred to him. And then his lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Okay. Yeah, I’d like that.” Pretending he's agreeing not because that he'd get to stay around you more.

You moved through the space like you’d done a thousand times before—reaching for the coffee tin from the cabinet, setting the kettle to boil again (this time with crossed fingers), and pulling two mismatched mugs from the drying rack.

You poured the dark roast into one mug and the steeped chamomile into your own, then carried both back toward the floor where he still sat, one knee bent, arm slung casually over it, eyes trailing the edge of your bookshelf like he was trying to memorize every title. He looked so at home, it hurt a little.

You sank down beside him, passing him the coffee, fingers brushing, fleeting but lingering just long enough. He murmured a quiet "thanks, baby" and took a sip, eyes falling shut for half a second.

Your though dipped to his wrist.

The thread. Still there.Faded, frayed, stretched just a little thinner than it once was; all crooked knots and uneven loops, a charm shaped like a crooked star dangling lopsided from the string.That same dumb knot you tied when you were kids, tangled so tight neither of you could undo it without scissors.

Your nose scrunched. “It’s going to fall off if you keep pretending it’s not ugly.”

Jungkook glanced down like he didn’t even know it was there. Like it had become part of him. He flexed his wrist, the fabric barely clinging to the bend. Then he said, almost immediately. "It's not ugly."

You gave him a look. Is it?

Jungkook took a slow sip of his coffee. “A little angel once told me to never take it off.”

You rolled your eyes. “That angel was, like, ten.”

He leaned back against the cabinet again, looking at you sidelong. “She knew what she was talking about.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just looked—really looked—and saw every year layered across his face. The boy, the teenager, the man. The moments between. And how maybe you weren’t so different from him.

His eyes slid toward you again, a subtle flick of attention like the tug of a thread. “What’re you drinking?” he asked, nose twitching, playful.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

He nodded at your mug, brows pinched slightly in thought. “That’s not coffee. I smelled it when you handed it over. Doesn't seem like mint, either."

You raised a brow. “What, are you some kind of tea sommelier now?”

"Just curious, angel. Smells like flowers."

You opened your mouth to respond. You really did. The words were halfway to your tongue—about how it was a new chamomile blend, how your mother sent it to you from some little organic store that also sold hand-knitted socks and lavender bath salts—but before you could speak, Jungkook leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even planned, you were sure. His hand didn’t even touch you. He didn’t brace your face or cradle your jaw like he had in other moments-those aching, desperate ones.

Your breath caught-stolen in the way it always had been with him. His mouth brushed yours-warm, careful, lips parted just enough. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your hand hovered somewhere between your mug and your lap, suspended like your pulse.

His mouth was doing all the grab and push.

He coaxed yours open, suckled at your bottom lip like he was trying to draw the flavor from it. Tenderly sucking at your bottom lip before he bit it, just barely, like he couldn’t help himself.

A sound escaped you, half-breath, half-surprise.

He pulled back just a fraction. And when your eyes fluttered open, he was already looking at you with that maddening calmness of his, like he hadn’t just unmade you with his mouth.

“Chamomile,” he said, deadpan.

"W-What?"

He didn’t look even the slightest bit ashamed while licking the taste from his lips. "With a little honey. Suits you."

You scramed for coherence. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you’re flushed.” He smiled into his mug. "So pretty when you're flushed, angel."

You scoffed into your own mug, taking a long sip of tea you no longer needed to explain.

Fridays are forever changed. Perhaps, they are now for laconically returns and falling over people who never stop feeling like native land.

[puck-luck]

andy! how about an americano with frat!jack 🤭🤭 I miss him

- 🧢

“This sucks,” Jack complains, spinning in his wheely chair. He pushes back from his desk and twirls until the chair stops on its own. “I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored, you just don’t want to study.” You tap your pen on the textbook in front of you, looking at Jack with an unimpressed glare. “This is kind of important, J.”

“It’s not that important. I’ll still pass if I get a C. I could get a C in my sleep.” He tosses his pen up in the air and catches it again. “Let’s do something.”

“I am studying,” you tell Jack. You highlight a line on your study guide and read it out loud to Jack. “‘How does the Modigliani-Miller theorem affect a company’s Weighted Average Cost of Capital?”

Jack points at you with the tip of his pen. “Doesn’t. M&M doesn’t matter when it comes to WACC. Can I fuck you?”

You sputter on a cough, shocked by how brazen he is. “Oh my God, Jack, no.”

“You need to loosen up for a second, take a break before you try and cram more information into that pretty head of yours. We’re losing brain cells, baby. You taught me everything I know about WACC.” He swivels over to your side, tugging the arm of your desk chair until you’re facing him. “Get up, I want to ‘wacc’ this ass.”

You groan at the pun. “Really? We’re in the study room.”

“So what? Would you be more comfortable in the bathroom?” Jack asks, feigning chivalry. He tucks his hands beneath your knees and pulls you towards him.

You kick in his direction, nearly catching Jacks’ elbow. “We’re studying.”

“I’ll quiz you after. Or you can keep studying while I do something,” Jack bargains. His fingers dip between your legs, sliding up the inseam of your athletic shorts. “Please? I’m so bored.”

“You’re not going to stop asking until you get your way,” you say knowingly. “Are you?”

Jack grins. “Nope. I’m very persuasive.”

“Hm, just like all frat boys,” you ponder. “You don’t know what no means.”

Jack pulls his hands back and frowns at you. “Stop it, I’m not doing that.”

“I mean, you’re pressuring me. Aren’t you?”

“No,” Jack drawls, groaning in annoyance. “Don’t, you’re making me feel like an asshole. I’m not pressuring.”

“Sure sounds like it to me.”

Jack sits back in his chair and spins away, covering his face with his baseball cap. 

You chuckle at his dramatics. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready for you.”

Jack studies for maybe five of the next fifteen minutes, torn between trying to look busy and pleased that he gets to fuck you like he had planned. He taps the table with his pencil, playing the drums as he pretends not to look at you.

When fifteen minutes are up, you close your textbook with your pencil still inside, marking your spot. You push it to the side and hop up on the table, spreading your legs for Jack to wheel between. 

His hands are greedy as he meets you, squeezing the meat of your thighs as he bites his bottom lip and zeroes in on your cunt. “Do I get to fuck you on the table?”

“You get to eat me out on the table,” you correct. You turn Jack’s baseball cap so it’s backwards on his head, then you tweak his cheek. “How about that?”

“Ugh, you know I don’t like that,” Jack says. “Let me fuck you.”

“You know, I could go for more studying,” you tell him. You cross one leg over the other and hum noncommittally, shrugging. “I don’t feel ready for this exam.”

“If I make you come with my mouth, can I come inside you?”

“Yeah, later though.”

“Sick.” Jack digs his fingers into your waistband and drags your shorts down, taking your panties with them. He surges forward with his tongue out and ready, looking the same as he does when he’s drunk and gearing up to grab the beer funnel for his keg stand.

You place a hand on the back of his head, encouraging Jack closer. His hair curls under the brim of the hat, shaking out as he licks up your slit. His tongue jabs at your entrance, blunt and probing. He hums in satisfaction, nodding up and down so that his head is doing most of the work. 

Jack likes to say that he���s not good at eating pussy, but when you incentivize him the right way, he’s very into it. His button nose hits your clit as he moves, his vigor replacing any fancy trick that an orally motivated man could use. 

He wraps his arms around your middle, tugging you right to the edge of the table. Jack slurps, his tongue curling and folding as he eats you out. You let your eyes flutter shut and your head fall back, sighing softly.

Jack grins and sucks your clit into his mouth, lips pursed around the bundle of nerves and shooting sparks through your abdomen. 

“Ugh, been thinking about this cunt all day,” Jack says happily. “So tight. Can’t wait to feel it around my cock.”

[ultralightpoe]

Cold Cases And So Forth- Eddie Munson

Authors Note: the second part was so long that I split it into 2. I’m not quite done but this part should be a hoot -Ultralightpoe

Warnings: cursing, slight signs of depression, getting “hit” with a car.

Word Count: 8+K

Description: The reader and Eddie are on a mystery break due to obvious reasons.

Main Master List - - Stranger Things Master List

Previous Part: Nancy Drew

[Thank You For The GIF @dailystrangerthings ]

Enjoy!

Haven’t read the first part? Find it here

The Case Of ….. Nope. No More Cases.

“The piece you did on the bathrooms was…..” Brenda Carlton begins, dark eyebrow raising as she slams the most recent school paper on your makeshift desk, her french tip nail pressing into the words in a three motion tap before dragging it up to point to you. You glare at her hand the entire time, narrowing your eyes at the rose gold ring that glints under the cheap lights of the school. “It was something…”

Boring was the word she was looking for. Utterly boring. You had nearly fallen asleep while writing it. The question was why your rival at the school paper seemed bothered by the fact that you wouldn’t be writing any hard hitting exposes anymore.

“Switching from two ply to one ply was really messed up.” You shrug, turning back to the photos you had in front of you, randomly pushing them around in hopes that if you looked busy enough she would leave you alone and find someone else to bother. But she doesn’t, instead she stays there tapping her nails in an impatient manner as you struggle not to roll your eyes. “Is there something I can do for you Brenda?”

“Yes actually.” She huffs, flicking some hair behind her shoulder as she follows you through the journalism room. “You can tell me what the heck is wrong with you.”

“A lot as I’m told.” You snip, looking for something to do. Anything to do, you needed to look busy to avoid this conversation and to avoid eye contact.

“Does this have something to do with Munsons new girlfriend?” She blurts, and you try not to react, but nothing can fight off the way your body locks up at the mention. And she catches this detail, of course she does. “Oh it so does.”

“Can you fuck off Brenda?” You snap, turning to her with a glare before trying to correct yourself. “I mean, I just meant-”

“Oh I get it now. Eddie dumped you cause he’s got the new girlfriend who is all like hottie with the body. Barf. And now you are all sad and aren’t doing that sleuthing thing.” She yaps, turning to where Nancy Wheeler currently sat staring at you both. “That’s so sad…. Isn’t it Nance?”

“It’s…..”

“Sad. We get it. I get it. Can everyone please just….. find something else to be doing with their time?” It’s another lame attempt, and you were sure your eyes welling with tears would just make it worse, yet when Brenda looked at you something changed on her face. She straightened her posture a bit, fixing her sweater and clearing her throat before pushing out a folder she had been carrying. You grab it quickly, pulling it to you and nearly ripping it up once you see one of the teardrops land in the corner.

“This is your assignment. As much as it pains me I wanted to give it to our best writer, so if you can get your head out of your ass and give me a good expose on the missing prom queen I’d be so grateful.” She huffs, turning in a fluid motion and stomping off while you set the folder down and open it up to a pretty smile looking up at you.

You were assigned a prom queen for your next piece. A prom queen that probably had a line of friends and plans every weekend. A prom queen that wasn’t so odd.

Leave it to Brenda Carlton to kick a girl while she’s down.

“What am I supposed to do with an empty folder that has one photo?” You scoff, slamming a hand down and moving to find a trash can to shove this photo into before Nancy Wheeler interrupts.

“Hawkins tries not to talk about her too much. You should try the library yearbooks.” She supplies, grabbing her bag and hefting it in one fluid motion. “I think people all wrote goodbye messages to her in it.”

“Right.” You nod, shoving the folder in with the rest of your school books in attempt to seem natural. Casting a side glance to the doors you would be exiting from here in a moment.

Call it paranoia but your heartbeat accelerates when you see a figure leaning against the wall next to the door, the longer hair recognizable even through the foggy glass. Stupid.

If routine was followed he still would have had 30 minutes of his meeting, if this was 2 weeks ago you would have walked to the theatre doors and read a bit while you waited for him. But this was not 2 weeks ago and you really wished he wasn’t out there.

“Here.” Brenda hisses, snapping your attention to where she and Nancy currently stood holding up a window by the sink. “Hurry up Nancy Drew.”

And you do, dashing to the window, putting all your work in your bag before tossing it out and looking to see how much of a fall it is. “Just two stories.”

“Is that supposed to help her Nance?” Brenda hisses.

“Why are you helping me?” You blurt, preparing yourself to climb out, tying up your hair as both girls blink at you.

“I would have given anything for someone to save me from the awkward debacle of Tommy and I getting caught at lovers lane in between town borders.” Brenda admits, cringing a bit. “My god. Hopper was so awkward, and then he accused us of carving into the tree right next to Tommys car and by the time we got back to town everyone knew including Carol and-”

“Message received.” You nod, climbing the sink and pushing your legs out the window. “And I really appreciate it.”

And for the first time ever Brenda Carlton helped you, and you closed your eyes to jump.

…

As it turns out jumping from a 2 story building hurts, more so the knee you landed on hurts and the rest of your body was merely a dull ache. But you would take a hurt knee and sore limbs over having another heartbreaking conversation with Eddie Munson any day of the week.

It’s kind of ironic how it all came about, and it’s embarrassing just how right he was. Every single day you have wanted to call him, for two weeks now. You get the urge to pick up the phone, and you always do, but halfway through his number you remember what he said and always end up slamming the phone back down. He was right, if you couldn’t go two damn weeks without going crazy then he was right.

And when the only person you talk to doesn’t want to talk to you anymore it becomes easy to realize just how lonely a person truly is.

You were not ready to have this argument with Eddie again, because he was right. The second he removes himself you are left with nothing, no one. He. Was. Right.

Codependent. Odd. Annoying. Clingy. Obsessive.

“You okay, kiddo?’ Your dad calls, pulling you from your thoughts as you look up in a panic to see him getting out of his car. “Why are you limping?”

“I fell. Why are you home so early?”

“You fell? On one of your cases? I don’t want you doing anything dangerous-”

“I’m not on a case.” You correct, feeling like you just got punched in the gut again. “I don’t do those anymore. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was worried…. About you.” He admits, reaching in to pull out a bag of fast food. “I brought dinner home. Maybe you can tell me about what’s bugging you.”

And at dinner you find a boring excuse for why he thinks you’re acting weird. Stress from school work, the weather, anything to get him off your back. He eats it all up, smiling in relief that you weren’t involved in anything dangerous before kissing your head and leaving you to clean up the dinner mess.

Once you are in bed he shuffles in with an ice pack for your knee, looking around the room. “Something different in here?”

“Nope,” You lie, shrugging a bit as his eyes narrow before he nods and leaves. But if he really looked he’d have seen the empty bookshelves, void of all your mystery novels. No more nancy drew, goodbye agatha christie, sherlock holmes can rot in the trash. And normally hanging from that bookshelf is another addition that has been thrown away. Your sleuth kit.

You were done with that life. Since it was so…. Odd.

-

The Case Of The Nasty Library.

“I just think that tutoring might be a good use of your freed up time.” Miss Harwood, your science teacher for the semester, had offered and you had stupidly agreed to it. The entire week you had been dreading this moment, sitting in the tutoring center of the library, tapping your pencil and watching the time tick by in a taunting manner.

Because the tutoring center is completely empty, and had been for the past 40 minutes.

You were just about to give up and leave when the door to the library squeals as it’s opened, making you sit up quickly with a smile already plastered on your face in hopes to make a good impression until you spot who had come in. Gareth, the very same Gareth from Eddie’s stupid DnD group.

He seems to realize you’re the only person in the tutoring center, and when you expect him to roll his eyes and leave he instead gives a tense nod and comes to sit at the round table you are currently sitting at. And just when you think it can’t get worse he attempts a smile and a “Howdy Nancy Drew.”

You roll your own eyes, snatching up your bag and pencil to try and make an escape as he stands quickly with extended palms. “Wait okay, wait. I really need help with my math homework and you’re the only tutor her-”

“I’m not a tutor.” You rush out, the lie sticking heavy on your tongue. He blinks at you before a smug expression covers his face.

“You’re not a tutor? Which means you’re here for tutoring?”

“Yup.” You shrug, taking this chance to walk away, only two steps in and your knee is screaming in pain so instead of walking to the doors like you initially planned you divert and walk to the back, hidden behind the shelves as Gareth groans out somewhere near the tables. You loiter for a moment, debating if there was a back door before your eyes flag on the yearbooks on the bottom shelf in the far corner, and since you have time to kill avoiding Eddie’s friends like a coward you might as well look.

You toss your backpack down, pulling out the folder that is a little crinkled now before checking the name and year. “Holly Sampers…. 1971.”

But, just your luck, 1971 seems to be the only yearbook missing….. The slot it was once held is still there.

“What are you looking for?” Gareth asks, scaring you enough that you jump a little, yelling out and hitting your head on the metal of the shelf above you making him curse out and move to help you. “Jesus.”

“Can I help you with something?”

“My homework.” He replies, and you think he is being an ass for a moment until you look up and see an actual smile on his face, not one of those awkward fake smiles.

“I can’t.” You shrug, moving to stand up, ignoring his hands that reach out to help you. “And since a tutor isn’t going to show up I have to go.”

“Is that your new mystery?” Gareth teases, making you turn back. “Holly Sampers and the missing tutor?”

“So funny Gareth.” You smile, this one is all fake and poisonous. “You should tell that to your friends.”

And you feel like you won a bit when his face falls, turning to leave once more, limp and all.

…

The joy of your win doesn’t last long, an entire night to be exact, because come early morning Eddie Munson is standing by your locker with crossed arms and a glare. You spot him from down the hall, turning quickly in an effort to escape before he calls out your name in an aggravated huff.

“I already saw you.” He snaps, hands flying in an aggravated manner as he remains leaning. “And I will chase you but I’m not really in the mood so if you could-”

Knowing he won you turn back, charging for your locker and practically shoving him to the side when he refuses to move. He barely moves, his mouth opening as you get your door open, eyes widening just an inch as you push the door into his face to block him out and grab your books.

“Okay, I’d like to avoid a broken nose today, thank you ve- Hey. Come on.” He snaps, watching you close the door and turn to stomp off, coming to follow you. “Are you really making this a big fight?”

“Shove off.”

“We never fight like this. Come on. And then I gotta hear from Gareth that you’re getting tutored? And you’re limping around?” You nearly laugh at how betrayed he looks, brown eyes wide and lips downturned as he keeps pace with you, hands digging through his bag before a familiar folder is pulled out and you stop in your tracks. “And now you’re looking into Holly Sampers?”

“It’s not-”

“Is that how you got hurt?! You were looking into this bullshit?! Is that why you haven’t called me back?” It’s funny, it really is, that two weeks ago you had walked home sobbing and now Eddie is standing before you acting like HE got his heartbroken.

“Would you cut it out?” You snap, snatching the photo back and trying to smooth out a crease. “This is for the paper, it’s just a memory piece or something.”

“Quit lying-”

“I’m not! I’m not lying.” Your voice is getting louder as you wave the picture around. “This is for the paper. Go run and tell your friends now! You guys can laugh about it all you want. Nancy Drew the boring journalist. Just FUCK OFF!”

You had gone years without cussing, and within the last two weeks you had racked up quite the tally of bad words. Never once in your history had you ever cussed at Eddie let alone yelled at him like you just did. Until now, and the second you both hear it echo in the hallway it’s like a startling realization of what is happening.

You weren’t friends anymore.

You had gone from being head over heels for Eddie to wanting nothing to do with him in the same way he had made it clear he wanted less of you. Less is more. More is less. But in this case, with your heart clenching the way it was and the shaking in your hands you just wanted nothing. Nothing at all.

“Wayne is doing his birthday dinner this we-”

“I’m busy. Plans. You can come up with whatever excuse you want since we both seem to know what a pathetic loser I am.” You smile, but it just feels empty, and you don’t feel like you’ve won when you walk away. You just feel like you’ve been a fool for most of your life. Wondering how long Eddie had been waiting to get rid of you.

…

Lunch hour was spent in your own version of a mental breakdown, which meant smiling at the bored librarian as your brain wrapped around every embarrassing moment you had experienced in the past 14 years, all of which you had never considered embarrassing until recently.

Had he been annoyed when he was the only one at your birthday party 8th grade year? Was he laughing on the way home how it was just your dad and his uncle singing happy birthday?

“I was looking for a yearbook. I’m doing a memory article for- I just need to see who checked out the yearbook for 1971.” You explain, blinking as she blinks back at you.

“Of course dear. Give me a moment.” She stands, brown skirt swishing at her ankles as she steps down from the help desk and heads to the back. You tap your knuckles on the counter and pretend to care about things in the library.

The purple couches looked new.

He probably thought you were clingy when you brought the snacks for an impromptu movie night when he moved into Wayne’s…. And when you stupidly tried cleaning his room.

You nearly groan at the memory, turning until you spot a new poster. Wow. So nice, keep looking at the poster and get out of your head about-

When you went to the trailer park for Halloween, he had never actually asked you to come. Idiot.

Or the spelling bee, every morning you went to sit by him and -

“Dear?” The librarian calls, giving you an odd look. “Are you alright? I’ve been calling you for a moment.”

“I’m fine. Just so much schoolwork.”

“Oh. Well you need to take care of yourself you know? My daughter gets the biggest stress acne, or at least that’s what she claims it is. I think it’s a mix of all that makeup she’s putting on her face. Back in my day-“

“Who checked out the yearbook?” You interrupt, trying to place a smile on your face.

“Oh! Right. My records show that it was never checked out. Should be on the shelf, if not it was stolen.”

“Someone stole a yearbook?”

“Oh! You’re doing one of your little mysteries?! Nancy Drew cracking the case of the-“

“Missing tutor, missing yearbook. Missing the point.” You scoff, walking off without so much as a goodbye. It didn’t make sense, who would steal a yearbook?

It’s not like any of the students here truly cared about those yearbooks, often times they are used as decoration, no one really cared about classes before them. Unless of course it was someone who was in that class.

Which would lead to a teacher.

Which teachers at the school were here in 1971? Only 2 would have been in that class. But there were at least three that have been teaching here since the 70s.

If you had your sleuthing kit you would make a list of names and - no! No. No. No.

This was not a case, merely a book probably used as decoration and thrown out.

No more Nancy Drew. You were sick of being laughed at. And you were going to hold your word on that until you spotted the yearbook. You had taken to sitting in the back row of your English clash, that was currently being taught by Mr. Daniels who HAD gone to school here in the 70s. And when you stretched, a totally normal stretch, you took a brief look around the room just to see. And see you did. The corner of the book was peeking out from behind a file cabinet to the side. Odd.

You stare at the book until the bell rings, making you jump a bit as Mr. Daniels walks to the door to say goodbye to everyone. He had his eyes on the entire room, he would see you reach to grab the book. So you were a bit screwed.

Just as you were beginning to come up with ways you could sneak back in a male voice pulls your attention, and all you can do is blink when Joseph Storm smiles at you. “You need me to distract him?”

“If you wouldn’t mind?” You smile back, already moving closer to the file cabinet as Joseph moves to the front, tripping right in front of Mr. Daniel’s and drawing his attention just long enough you could match the yearbook before rushing out of the classroom.

“Did you get it?” Joseph asks, excitement on his face when he catches up to where you stood by the windows.

“Get what?” Another voice butts in, Gareth moving to stand by you both.

“The yearbook.” Joseph points to it, watching you flip through before coming to stand at your side to peer down with you. “What were you lookin for?”

“Just…. Her.” You explain when the prom page comes up, pointing to her picture before thumbing at the words written beneath her. “Missing. But not dead. What’s that mean?”

“Holly Sampers. She’s the prom queen that went missing AT her prom-“ Joseph begins before Gareth is cutting in, a wild look to his eyes. “Yeah! She told her friend she was going to the bathroom and like vanished without a trace!”

“Right….” Joseph nods. “They searched for weeks. Didn’t find anything connected to the case went cold.”

“Okay…. So why would Mr. Daniels have stolen this yearbook from the library?” You question to yourself, flipping through the pages to see if there are anymore handwritten messages as Gareth nods wildly.

“Good question! You know who might be able to help? Eddie. Eddie comes up with the best ideas-“

His voice cuts off when a letter falls from the pages, dragging all of you to look down to the floor. Gareth and Joseph reach to snatch it at the same time, Joseph just barely making it before he stands up to hand it to you.

“Nancy Drew, got her spark back.” He winks, fixing his backpack on his shoulder. “Let me know if you need a ride after school. I’m dying to see how this mystery unfolds.”

You can’t fight the flush that spreads through you, body heating as your heartbeat accelerates, just barely fighting the urge to cover your mouth as a nervous giggle spills out, watching him walk down the hall with a couple looks back in your direction.

“What the hell?” Gareth blurts, looking offended as you turn to him. “What the hell?”

“Is there a reason you’re here?”

“You told Eddie you’re not investigating!” He blurts, pointing an accusing finger at you as if he’s calling you a witch during the trials. “You lied!”

“I’m not. This is for the memorial piece-“

“Oh don’t you start that spew with me Nancy Drew.” It’s funny how one moment you could be blushing at the nickname and the next feel just as miserable about it as you had days ago. “You got that look in your eye. The look that means Eddie is about to be missing campaign night to run around town with you-“

“I’m not investigating.” You sigh again, moving to walk away, rolling your eyes when he follows. “And you don’t have to worry about your friend missing more campaigns. He and his girlfriend can disappear for all I care. You’ve got him till the end of time.”

“That’s not true. The second you call he’ll rush off-“

“I won’t call.” It was the truth, so when you turn to face him you don’t feel bad about lying. “I’m done with all that. No more clingy freak.”

“No one said clingy or freak.” He grimaces, face getting a little red. “And no one is saying you can’t-“

“I won’t call, Gareth. I swear it.” You even cross your heart, making a motion of locking it up and throwing away the imaginary key before heading off.

And the second you are out of his sight the letter is torn open in your hands, pages unfolding as you walk through the halls.

So here’s a question. Why would Mr. Daniels steal a yearbook? Better yet, why would Mr. Daniels be hiding a love letter written to a missing girl dated the day she disappeared?

-

The Case Of The Threatening Call.

The letter sits on your desk by your science homework, and you are pointedly ignoring both as you fold laundry, yet the small issue with ignoring things is ignoring them never actually works. Instead you just sit there and think about them non stop as you obsess over ignoring them.

It isn’t until you hear the phone ring, folding your last shirt, that you look back to where they sit, debating on if you should at least get the homework out of the way.

“Hey! Phones for you!” Your dad calls from down the stairs.

“I’m busy!” You call back, not bothering to head for the door.

“It’s Eds! Says it’s really important! I’m not taking another message from this damn boy so get down here.” For someone who was claiming you had been clingy a couple weeks ago the tables sure have turned. You are thinking of saying as much when you head down and grab the phone, and you nearly do until the receiver is just to your ear and you panic, slamming it back on the dial quickly before blinking at it. Damn you were brave. Not a coward at all.

That is until the phone rings again and you jump back.

“Dad!”

“I’m not your receptionist!”

With a roll of your eyes you pick it up, dragging it to your ear. “Eddie I’m bus-“

“Quit looking into the prom queen.” A raspy voice sounds out. “Quit while your ahead. Or you’ll be gutted just like her.”

This time when you hang up the phone it is pure panic, shaking hands and shortness of breath, slamming the receiver down so hard it sounds out through the house before you are rushing upstairs to your room again, throwing the door open.

You notice it immediately, the open window and the lack of a familiar envelope on your desk.

Shit….. they even took your science homework.

-

The Case Of The Nap Time.

It had been a long night after that, from checking all the locks 4 times and making up a bed on the couch which confused your father to no end. And even when you were laying on the couch you still jumped and panicked at every slight sound. Every creak, every wind gush hitting the windows.

You had gotten no sleep that night.

Nor the next night.

Or the night after that.

Running on coffee stolen from your dads morning pot and sugary drinks, damn near on a crash but paranoid enough to try and stay awake.

Someone had threatened to gut you, someone was in your house.

What if they did something to Holly? And what if they had done the same to you?

It all came crashing down the night of your prom, you were wearing a peach style dress with tons of frills, a simple scarf tied around your neck that kept snagging on everything as you ran from someone. Someone with wide shoulders and -

The sound of slamming wakes you from a dream you hadn’t even known you were having, and you look around in a panic as you realize that you had fallen asleep in the library of all places.

“We came here to say sorry.” Jeff sighs, giving Doug a glare as the textbook that had just been slammed to wake you up is in his hands. “We weren’t being fair. Eddie just wants us all to-“

“You sound like you rehearsed this.” Gareth interrupts, making Jeff turn his glare to him. “What? You do!”

“Then let’s see what you have!”

“Fine. Eddie is really sorry and we are sorry for being asses too. There, all better! Come on Nancy Drew. Let’s go get Ed-“

“You liked Trish.” You note, blinking at him through the fog of your nap. “You liked Trish and now that I’m not crazy clinger he’s hanging around more and she’s hanging around him most of all.”

“I wouldn’t-“

“You’re wearing her bracelet.” A cute purple and red friendship bracelet. One quite like what Dana Mitchell wore everyday. They must be friends. Gareths hand comes up to cover the bracelet, giving you an odd look. “Don’t bother lying. I can see the puppy dog look on your face. Like recognizes like.”

“Damn Gareth. She got you.” Jeff laughs until Gareth punches his shoulder.

“I gotta get to class..” Doug growls out. “And I don’t want to be on Munsons shit list when this goes sideways.”

With that he is off, rushing out while the other two take a seat across from you.

“We propose to share Eddie 50/50.”

“I’ll pass.”

“40/60.”

“I’m not gonna sit here and bid on someone’s time when they’ve made it clear they don’t want me to.” You scoff, pushing your book forward.

“That’s the thing. He’s miserable now.” Jeff growls, rolling his eyes. “Whiny. You you you. Everything is about you. You like this for breakfast and if the two of you were hanging out right now you would be cracking this joke.”

His words make your heart beat pick up, until you remember just how quick Eddie was to snap at you the other day. Always around me. Always attached. So codependent.

“Can we just save the drama?” You whine, beginning to form a headache.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Gareth blurts, giving you a judgy look before Jeff nods with him.

“I…..” technically they had woken you up, and you could say that. But you’re so tired. “Someone was in my house. I have been struggling to-“

“Someone was in your house?” Gareth snaps, leaning forward.

“It’s no big deal. They just took something small. Nothing else.” You rush out, already regretting this.

“The letter. They took that letter didn’t they?” He rushes out, already beginning to stand. “What else?”

“Nothing-“

“Liar.” Jeff adds.

“Fine. I got a call. It was just a prank- where are you going?”

“To get Eddie?” He says it like it should be obvious, like Eddie was the next choice. You immediately shake your head.

“No. Come on. It’s fine.”

“You know we gotta tell him. Otherwise he’s gonna be pissed off.” Jeff explains.

“You don’t. Really. Come on. Isn’t tonight your campaign stuff? You want him there for that right?” You know you got them the second Jeff narrows his eyes.

“Fine. But we tell him tomorrow morning.” He snaps, grabbing Gareth by the shoulder and hauling him out.

Perfect. You just had until tomorrow morning to solve this cas…… problem. Solve the problem.

Step one. Lovers lane. Which Mr. Daniels had asked Holly to meet him in the letter.

You waited until after school, and after dinner, then you snatched up your bike and got ready to head over there, a shakey feeling in your stomach.

The first two blocks were easy, the third is when you realized you were being followed, so you tried speeding up with the pedals, taking last minute turns as the car following you sped up.

You take a quick cut into the alley, expecting to lose them, only when you come out the other end the car is there, hitting your bike as the brakes squeal out. You go flying over the hood, hands finding purchase on the glass of the front window before before rolling forward at the force of fhe brake, flying off the hood and onto the street below.

“Fuck! Are you crazy?!” Gareth yells, hopping out the driver side to come help pick you up off the street. “Come on. I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No im fine. You barely got me.” You rush out, standing to punch him in the face. He yells out, falling on his ass and holding his nose as you stare down at him. “Why are you following me?!”

“Oh my god-“

“Were you the one that called me?!”

“No! Fuck! No! Don’t hit me again!” He panics, sliding back on the sidewalk to avoid you. “From all the stories- fuck I’m bleeding.”

“Wasting my time!” You warn.

“Fuck! Okay, Eddie is constantly talking about you and from everything he’s said I knew you wouldn’t just let it drop. And so- ugh- I ditched DnD to come find you which wasn’t hard cause you were already sneaking out!”

“So you’re here to what?”

“Help?”

“You’re gonna help me?”

“Just get in the car..” he snaps, standing up to haul your bike, which now has a dented tire. With no other choice to get in, watching him toss the bike into the trunk before getting in the drivers seat, using his flannel to try and stop the nose bleed.

“Who taught you to hit like that?”

“Wayne.” You mumble, looking out the window as you remember the night he taught you and Eddie self defense. It had been right after the Halloween parade when you had been chased by someone in a zombie mask until Eddie hit them with a rake.

“Where were you heading?”

“Lovers lane.”

“I’m not driving you to lovers lake. That’s in the woods-“

“Lane. Lovers Lane. It’s from older times. Where they used to go.” You groan, moving to open the car door before he stops you, starting the car. “Why are you helping me? Shouldnt you be laughing at me?”

“We never meant to…… Eddie is just really cool and we always kinda saw you like a goodie two shoes.” He explains, driving down the road. “We didn’t really want to get along with you. And every time Eddie missed a campaign we always blamed you. But Eddie constantly talks about you, his entire planet orbits around you.”

Yeah, you think. What bullshit.

“I wouldn’t say that.” You huff, trying to ignore the tight feeling forming in your throat or the way your voice breaks a bit. “He was pretty truthful and nasty that day at the diner.”

“Nasty? Maybe. But truthful? Not even close.” Gareth sighs. “We had been bashing on him pretty hard. Had been making fun of him, calling him lovesick and stuff.”

“Is it really that big of a laugh to think me likable?” You snap, trying to swipe away a stray tear quickly. Of course they made fun of him for those things, with you always hanging off of him like a lovesick puppy and all. It was embarrassing. “Was I that easily read?”

“No. We just knew he-“

“Up there. You can drop me off there.” And he is quick to pull over, watching you jump out quickly and move to grab your bike. Only he hops out and goes to help. “What are you doing? I got it from here.”

“Bullshit. I’m not leaving you here alone.” He huffs back, giving you a glare. “Leave the bike. Look at what you came to look at.”

You nod, hating that this is where your night led, turning to go look before stopping short. “I don’t have my bag.”

“So?”

“It has my flashlight. And camera.”

“I….. I might have one.” He walks around the car, digging into the passenger box before pulling one out, handing it to you. It seems natural, and you wait for a snippy response until you realize he is waiting on you to lead the way.

This is when it gets awkward. You’re so used to Eddie, the way he hovers and looks at things over your shoulder. Gareth? Not so much. He’s jumpy, every sound makes him freak, which is making you feed off his energy. He keeps a hand on your jacket, wound tight like a dog on a leash as you look around.

“Why are we here anyways?” He asks, flinching when you step on a twig.

“It was in that letter. Mr. Daniels wrote a love letter to Holly the day she disappeared asking to meet here. I want to see if there is anything saying they might have .”

“Hasn’t it been like 10 years? And no one comes here anymore. We go to lovers lake now.”

“That’s not true. People who are embarrassed or don’t wanna get caught by classmates come here. Like Brenda and Tommy-“ you stop before remembering what Brenda had said to you that day. Her and Tommy had gotten caught and Hopper accused them of carving in the tree. “Look at the trees. For a carving”

It takes a minute before you spot it. H.S. + B.C. Carved into a tree. “That looks fresh.” Gareth notes as you run a hand over it. “And deep. Someone must add to it a lot so it doesn’t disappear.”

“You’d really have to love someone for that.” You ponder, staring at it.

“What the fuck?!” Gareth panics, his entire body moving as he rushes to remove his shirt, turning his back to you. “What just bit me?!”

“I don’t see anything!” You rush back, looking at his back.

“Look harder!” He snaps, and you take to feeling for a bump before a pair of headlights makes you both freeze. “The light. Turn the light off now!”

You do as he says, but not before adding “they are right by your car. They know people are here.”

“I will not be dying with Nancy Drew in the woods. Let’s go.” He snatches your arm, attempting to hide you both further, squatting behind a bush like idiots. The sounds of doors slamming fills the air and Gareth flinches while you paw at the ground beneath you for something to fight with. Your hand ends up finding…. A ring?

“On the count of three we run. Got it?” Gareth whispers and you nod, then the idiot doesn’t even count he just books it. Launching into the night with you trying to keep up.

You break the tree line, and see the freedom of his car before a blur of motion and someone is attacking Gareth. Tackling him to the ground until they both slide and you see Eddie pulling his hand back to punch.

“Wait stop!” You call, rushing to stop his arm as Jeff moves to intervene as well, both of you shoving Eddie off. “It’s Gareth. You’re attacking Gareth.”

“I’m fucking aware.” Eddie barks out as Jeff pushes him back again, his eyes wild and fists still clenched. You move to help Gareth up, turning him to inspect the damage on his back, scraped up pretty bad. Most of them bleeding and “Hey. I see the bite mark.”

A slight laugh pulls from you as you touch the mark a little bit before another blur of motion and Gareth is pushed from you with Eddie’s back in your face.

“I should break your jaw.”

“What did I do?” Gareth questions, face pinched with confusion.

“You ditch DnD after giving me shit for weeks, Jeff here tells me that you came to find her and-“

“You’re attacking me cause I missed DnD?!”

“I’m attacking you cause you’re at Lovers lane with your SHIRT OFF!” Eddie exclaims, the zipper of his leather jacket catching in the light. “And you obviously know you’re doing wrong with the way you were trying not to get caught!”

“His shirts off cause he was bit by something.” You interject, pointing over Eddie’s shoulder until he slaps your hand away and turns a slight glare at you. “And he only brought me cause he hit me with his car.”

“Hit you with a car?!” Eddie exclaims, a vein popping in his forehead before his gaze travels across you looking for something. His hands fly to your jaw, thumbs rubbing softly as he inspects. “Are you hurt? Anything hurt? Your eyes are dilated- her eyes are dilated Gareth-“

“Her eyes are not- she hit me in the face!” Gareth protests before Eddie spots your bike.

“How hard did you hit her?!” He lets go of you to pull at the bent tire, turning and all but growling at Gareth.

“She was sneaking out after being threatened!”

And just like that Eddie’s glare is turned to you. “Threatened?!”

“Oh barely.”

“Someone broke into her house-“ Jeff adds, and Eddie looks damn near ready to shoot himself as his eyes close and hands come up to rub his head.

“Someone. Broke. Into. Your. House. And you were threatened? Yet you’re still out biking around town? Why didn’t you call me…….. or- you could have called me.” His eyes open as he glares at you, and you hate the twisted feeling forming in your gut at the look, beginning to make you feel guilty.

“You made it clear you didn’t want me to-“ you start, even though the argument feels useless in this moment. It’s especially useless when Eddie rushes you, pushing your back into what you now recognize as his van as his face comes level with yours. “Enough.”

“You’re the one that-“

“Enough.” He repeats, glaring. “You’ve made your point. We will sort it out later. Right now you tell me everything.”

“I already told you-“

“She was looking into Holly Scampers. Realized the yearbook from that year was stolen and then found it in Mr. Daniel’s room. Then that Joseph kid distracted him so she could steal it and then he flirted with her like an ass and was all ‘Nancy Drew got her spark back’. -bleh- you know? And then she found a letter and that Joseph kid asked if she needed help -bleh- and then the letter got stolen and now she’s here and we just found a carving in a tree.” Gareth explains, making Jeff laugh with the impersonations of Joseph. Eddie? He didn’t laugh, in fact he didn’t take his eyes off you.

“Anything else you wanna add?” He mutters, looking up at you through his lashes.

“Nope.”

“She fell asleep during study hall today-“

“Gareth!” You groan. “Apart of sleuthing is shutting your damn mouth!”

“How was I supposed to know that? No one gave me a rulebook and you hit me in the face!”

“After you hit me with your car!” You argue, moving to push past Eddie though he doesn’t allow you, casting a side glance at the boys before turning to glare at you.

“We’re done. Get in.”

“No. I’ll go with Gareth.” You argue, only to see Jeff already hopping in his car. “Fucking traitor.”

“Just get in. I’ll take you home.” He repeats, opening the passenger door for you with a tense smile.

“Right home?”

“Yup.”

“No detours?”

“None.”

“You promise?”

“Swear it, Nancy Drew.”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap, taking a deep breath in before moving past him to get in the car without glancing back. He, aggravatingly so, waits until your buckled and even stops to inspect a cut on your knee before slamming the door and rounding the car.

“It smells terrible in here.” You scoff, leaning as far away from him as possible and rolling down your window.

“I need to get a new air freshener.” He explains, fingers reaching up to flick the old one. “Had other things on my mind recently. Believe it or not.”

Yeah, a gorgeous girlfriend that your best friend is in love with you think bitterly before leaning your head against the door frame and letting the night air hit you.

Your eyes snap awake when the door moves open, looking around in a panic before they land on where Eddie stands with a grimace, hand extended to help you out of the van. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You ignore his hand, hopping down on your own before stopping short. “You said no detours. Right home.”

“I did.” He smiles innocently, closing the door and locking it before walking up casually, his feet crunching on the gravel beneath him.

“This isn’t my home.”

“Ah, see there’s the problem. I said home. I never said which home.” He fakes a grimace, snapping in an “aw shucks” manner before heading to his porch with a bounce in his step. You, with no bike and no car, are doomed to follow. He makes a show of unlocking the door, bowing as you pass him to get in with a “milady”.

You don’t laugh or smile, simply walking in and spotting Wayne’s empty chair.

“Already at work.” Eddie explains, making a show of locking the door before moving to check all the windows. “Come on.”

“We can stay out here.” You snap.

“Or we can go to my room where I have the bandaids.”

“Or you can grab the bandaids and bring them out here.” The thought of entering his space, the space you were once comfortable in and the space that he probably spends with his girlfriend, sounded like the last thing you wanted to do. Your chest felt tight and your eyes burned with tears as you turned away to pretend and look around even though nothing had actually changed in the three weeks since you’d been here last.

Right before the last day of the burglary case when you had eaten cereal with Eddie on the living room floor while Wayne sang off tune in the shower.

“I don’t wanna fight with you.” Eddie sighs. “I hate fighting with you.”

“I don’t really need the bandaid.” You shrug, hands melting into your pockets. “It’s just a simple cut.”

“Please.” He whispers, just loud enough for you to hear before moving closer to herd you in. “Just come get a bandaid.”

And so you follow, trudging through the hall to his room and shuffling in before him, noting the lack of any messes. And then you realize just how spotless his room was. Eddie Munson cleaned his room.

Of course he did. He had a girlfriend now, he’d want his rook to be clean. The realization hits you like a freight train, imagining Trish looking around the room in her own eyes. Getting to see Eddie and getting to see his Knick knacks.

“If you want to sit-“

“I’m good.” You rush out, cheeks heating up as you refuse to look at the bed he had been gesturing to before he gives you an odd look and pulls out the desk chair. You don’t say anything as you sit down, letting the wood dig into your back while he sits at the end of the bed and pulls your leg to him.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” He breathes out, letting his fingers roam around your knee near where the cut ended up, like he was trying to x ray with just his vision. “You got hit with a car.”

“A love tap. I think Gareth and I bonded from it. We’ll share fond memories one day. Remember that time you love tapped me by lovers lane?”

“Can you please stop referring to it like that? How about buddy tap? He- no that doesn’t sound better.”

“Gareth love tapped me hard. So hard my knees shook.” You tease, a smile cracking your face, only for it to die out when Eddie doesn’t bother laughing. His jaw is tight, and he’s inspecting your knee like it’s the last thing on this earth before reaching to grab a bandaid and cover the cut, fingers ghosting your skin before you pull back.

“You done? I’m all patched up?”

“What’d they say?” His voice is croaky, but his gaze is intent. “On the phone?”

“Nothing much. Wanted to chat about the weather.”

“Come on.”

“They said they were you. They called and my dad picked up, they said it was an emergency and that it was you but when I came down I hung up. So they called again, and said to stop digging or…. They’d gut me.” You finish admitting it all in a rush, but he’s heard it based on the way he hisses.

“It was me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. The call before them. It was me. I called. I said there was an emergency. You hung up on me.” You shrug, and a smile nearly makes it onto his face before he’s back to glaring. “They threatened to gut you? And you’re still out looking into it?”

“Well not really. Gareth and Jeff threatened to tell you and gave me until tomorrow so I went to find whoever did it tonight.” You explain, looking down to your hands to pick around your nail.

“Whyd you tell them and not me?” His voice is strained, and you can tell he’s struggling to make eye contact where you keep avoiding it.

“They cornered me at study hall. Woke me up and-“

“They should have told me.” Eddie growls, and you huff at it. “You should be nice to Gareth. He saved my life tonight.”

“He hit you with a car.”

“Love tapped.” You correct.

“Buddy tapped.” He seethes, reaching up to flick your nose. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Study hall.” You smile, leaning back in the chair. “You?”

As if noticing your glances around the room he turns to look around himself, scratching at the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. “Ah well. I’ve- I cleaned it for-“

“You know Gareth likes her, right?”

“Who?” He blurts, eyes laced with confusion.

“That Trish girl. He likes her. So you should be careful about rubbing it in his face.”

“Trish? Rubbing what in his face? That she’s annoying?”

“Gareth thinks you’re dating her.”

“Gareth hit you with a ca-“

“Love tapped.”

“Buddy tap- enough. No more talking about Gareth. You’re stalling sleeping.” He huffs, pointing a finger at you. “I see it.”

“I’m not sleeping here. You can take me home.”

“What? So you can not sleep there? Come on. I’m not stupid.” He argues, eyes narrowing. “You saw me lock all the windows. You know that any cars are gonna be heard on the gravel outside and anyone coming from the back has to go through Lenny.” He lists, making you smile at the mention of the dog that lives with his neighbor. “You need sleep.”

“Fine. I’ll take the couch.” You snap, moving to stand before he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not making up the couch for you princess. Wayne will be back by 5. You can sleep on the bed. I’ll stay above covers.” He offers, moving to his closet to toss you a shirt which you blatantly ignore and let fall to the ground as you take off your boots and move to his bed.

You had given easily. Far too easily. If the edges of your vision weren’t beginning to blacken you’d have put up more of a fight.

Tomorrow. You promise. Tomorrow you’d yell at him.

And it’s easy to fall asleep, under his covers with your face shoved in one of his pillows, knowing he was near and someone would have your back if anything went wrong.

That was so damn tragic about the whole thing.

-

I ended up splitting io the second part into multiple cause it was so dang long yall.

Want more?

[sweetstrawberryys]

“Say Something, Mi Vida”

Summary: After a heated argument, you go silent on Alejandro — and he completely loses his mind. Now he’s trying everything short of skywriting to get you to talk to him again.

Rating: Pure comedy fluff, soft romance, and a lot of love and begging.

---

You hadn’t spoken to him in four hours.

Which, in Alejandro time, was equivalent to a century.

“Mi amor,” he said from the hallway, voice dramatic and pleading. “Please. I am begging you. I will sleep outside like a wet dog if you don’t answer me.”

Silence.

He tried the door.

Locked.

“Ay Dios… you locked me out of the bedroom?” He put his forehead to the door like he was dying. “You wound me.”

Inside, you sat on the bed, arms crossed, lips twitching with barely-contained amusement. But no. You were firm. He had yelled — not cruelly, but enough to hurt. And now he could sit in his dramatic silence until you were ready.

Meanwhile, Alejandro was in full telenovela meltdown mode.

He slid a handwritten note under the door. In cursive.

“Mi vida, you are my heart. Without your words, I am a man adrift. Lost. Dead inside.”

You snorted.

A moment later: a second note.

“Also, I apologize for yelling about the coffee machine. It was my fault. It is always my fault. You are perfection incarnate.”

Now you were giggling — but still silent.

Alejandro’s voice piped up again. “Okay, what if I serenade you?”

He cleared his throat dramatically and began singing badly off-key through the door.

“Besameeee, besame muuuuucho—”

A pillow smacked the door from inside.

“Oh, she moves! She throws! My beautiful, angry flower is blooming again!”

Finally, you opened the door just enough to stick your head out. Your expression was flat.

“You’re annoying.”

He gasped, clutching his heart like he’d been shot. “She speaks! Gracias a Dios! I missed your voice, mi cielo. Don’t ever leave me in that emotional desert again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You yelled at me about a coffee machine, Alejandro.”

“I yelled at the coffee machine,” he corrected. “You were in the blast zone. I was wrong. I was an idiot. I would die a thousand dramatic deaths to undo it.”

You gave him nothing but a look.

“…I’ll give you unlimited back rubs for a week.”

Silence.

“And I’ll let you reorganize my entire closet in peace.”

You squinted.

“And I’ll call my mother and tell her you’re the boss.”

“…Fine,” you said, stepping back so he could come in.

He surged forward and scooped you up like a man returning from war.

“Never do that to me again,” he groaned into your neck. “I was a shell of a man. The ghost of Alejandro.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you laughed, letting him kiss all over your face.

“You love it,” he grinned.

And, well… yeah. You did.

Masterlist

[madamejadex]

Hi Madame Jade. I was wondering from one Domme to another if you could help me with how to deal with brats. You see, I’m always struggling in how to answer them. My partner she is so quick with her mouth and sometimes I can’t come up with something good to say back and it makes me feel like I’m failing. Can you help me with some good comebacks. Like she usually tries to bait me like I’m not the boss of her, dare me to punish her, or telling me I’m not tough enough to handle her, or don’t need my rules. I mean it’s not all the time but sometimes shes in a mood and I want to give her a good time. If you don’t want to answer thats completely fine.

She/her 37 can I have 👠?

Hi there, dear.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before here on my blog, I’m not what one might call a brat tamer, nor have I spent much time intentionally seeking out brats. But I’ve certainly enjoyed a bit of defiance from partners in the past, and some of it could easily fall under the umbrella of bratting, depending on how loosely we define it.

So, there are likely other Dom/mes on Tumblr who are more equipped to help you, and I encourage you to seek them out to get more guidance. But I’m more than happy to share what I do know. I’ll offer some ideas to comebacks and energy to the examples your partner’s been using, since I know how tricky it can be to meet that energy without losing your center.

I hope some of the below can help.

"You're not the boss of me." (leans in, calm and devastating) "That’s cute. Let's see if you're able to say that while you’re on your knees, choking on the proof that I am."

"You gonna punish me or just glare all night?" (voice low, and dangerous) "Watch your mouth or lose the privilege of using it."

"You're not as tough as you act." (steps forward, voice flat) "No. I’m tougher. But you’ll learn that when I’m in your head, fucking you without laying a single hand on you."

"I can handle whatever you throw at me." (a pause, then slow and sharp) "Then open your mouth. Let’s test that theory."

"I bet you like it when I’m difficult." (smirks) "No, baby. I like watching your attitude evaporate the moment my fingers slide between your legs."

"Maybe I’ll top tonight." (deadpan) "You can’t even keep eye contact when I say your name. Sit down."

"What if I misbehave on purpose just to get your hands on me?" (slow and wicked) "Then I’ll tie you up and leave you untouched. Maybe then you’ll learn the difference between craving me and earning me."

"I always get the last word." (mocking smile) "Of course. It’s usually 'please' or 'I'm sorry, Mommy.'"

"Is that all you’ve got?" (dangerously soft) "You’ll be sobbing my name before I answer that."

"You’re not my mother." (leaning in, with a glare) "No. I'm worse. I'm the woman you obey, even when you hate how much you crave it."

"Maybe you’re just scared I’ll take control." (tilts head condescendingly) "Darling, you can’t even manage your own mouth. What exactly do you think you’re qualified to take?"

"Make me." (cooing) "Aww, baby. That’s precious. Do you want a sticker for saying something bold?"

"Maybe I want to be punished." (quiet, smug) "Of course you do. Needy little things like you always want what they can’t handle."

"You hate when I disobey? Maybe don’t give me orders then." (voice lowers) "Try that tone again." (waits a beat) "Go on. I dare you."

"Wow. All that stern talk and still no punishment? Starting to think you’re bluffing." (Without looking up) "If I punished you every time you craved attention, you’d never stand again."

"You need to lighten up, Mommy." (eye contact locked) "And you need to learn when to shut that mouth before I close it for you."

xo Miss Jade

[gofu-kurself]

eddie can’t get it right. he’s really trying to figure out the riff to fucking, please, please, please—of all songs—on his guitar but it’s not clicking.

billy sits reading eddie’s copy of the hobbit on their shitty couch, sprawled on his stomach and kicking his feet like the secret cutie patootie eddie knows he is.

“close, munson. almost got it,” he says without taking his eyes from the book.

eddie can’t help but smile and throw his guitar pick at billy’s face, giving up on actually trying for now, “and how the fuck would you know what it’s supposed to sound like, hmm? you listen to sabrina now?”

eddie leers at the way billy’s neck slowly flushes a deep scarlet.

“fuck off munson, we both know steve doesn’t play shit else at the moment.”

“well then help me out sweetheart, what am i missing?”

billy finally turns his head away from the book and looks at eddie, “‘m not a guitar savant fuckass, you’re just missing the little,” he purses his lips and eddie can’t help but watch at the way his throat constricts around nothing as he hums, “m-m-mmmm-m.”

“ooooh right, right. the m-m-mmmm-m part. gotcha. yeah let me try that real quick,” eddie brings his right middle finger to the neck of his guitar and the other to strum pitifully at the strings.

“real mature,” billy says while raising his eyebrow.

“my wonderous humor is lost on you!!” he wails dramatically, no actual weight to the words, “stevie woulda been crackin his cute ass up at that move,” eddie pouts while continuing to slide his middle finger up and down the frets of his guitar.

“you don’t think this ass is cute?” billy says with a returned pout as he pops it out obscenely from where he’s splayed. he pretends to go back to reading.

“that ass is a public disturbance, and you know it,” eddie chuckles at himself, “well, maybe more of a private disturbance, if you know what i mean.”

billy keeps ‘reading’ his book, but eddie can see the way his broad shoulders shake a little from how he’s trying to keep his laughter under control, “nah munson, no idea. what ever could you mean? i think you’ll have to explain—or better yet, just show me?”

“oooo a kinesthetic learner. you wanna get educational, hargrove?”

“im alllll about the academics, baby” billy says through a smile as he wiggles his ass and the book in his hand simultaneously.

eddie sets his guitar down gently and slides off the kitchen chair he was perched on. he lets his knees thunk onto the soft rug of their living room, slowly digs his hands into the crinkly threads on the ground and lets his hips wave in an overly seductive way as he crawls toward the couch, “well, ya know. im so dedicated to academia that i stuck around for a few extra years.”

“ahh,” billy breathes out like he’s never been more bored, “so you can stick something somewhere? was starting to think you can’t do anything but run your mouth.”

eddie reaches the couch and just takes a big fucking chomp out of billy’s basketball shorts clad ass because 1) goddam and 2) he’s being a little bitch and needs to be humbled.

billy’s affronted whine and the way the book smacks onto the armrest makes eddie feel like he’s on fire. he grins into billy’s meaty upper thigh and hums the riff billy had so kindly taught him how to master on guitar.

“munson. i swear to god if you don’t get on me in the next five minutes im calling steve and telling him to leave the gym right fucking now cuz i need something—” he’s cut off with a heavy oof and the full weight of one eddie munson plastered along his back.

eddie hums please, please, please into billy’s skin and lips and dick while they fool around on the the couch until steve gets home twenty minutes later. he’s sweaty from the gym and breathing hard, like he ran home.

eddie looks up from where he’s perched on the carpet sucking billy off in surprise.

“oops, may have preemptively texted steve cuz i thought you were just sooo busy with guitar,” billy says all demure from where he’s reclined against the couch cushions, shirt rucked up to his armpits from eddie’s wandering hands.

“you think he’s more academically inclined than me?” eddie says as he stares and vastly appreciates the way steve’s weathered grey t-shirt sticks to his pecs with sweat. he moves his hand up and down billy’s cock as he beckons steve over with the other.

“cmon stevie, billy’s been such a good teacher while you’ve been gone. bet he can impart so much knowledge unto us.”

“the fuck did i walk into?” steve questions, mostly to himself, as he sheds his shirt and approaches the couch with a bitchy swagger that should be illegal. in eddie’s opinion.

“a learning experience—you’re lat—“ says billy before letting his head jerks onto the back of the couch with a huff as eddie licks a stripe up his dick.

“mmm sorry babes,” he jokes while squinting at his fancy sports watch thingy, that has numbers the size of the sun, “wont happen again,” steve laughs before planting himself next to billy on the couch. he draws billy into a heated kiss with one hand and runs the other into eddie’s hair to tug playfully at the roots.

and if eddie hums please, please, please while sucking billy off, and if steve starts humming along while marking up billy’s neck, and if billy cums while they’re doing it. well…that would just be the most darndest thing wouldn’t it???wouldn’t it????

[godricgryffinsnore]

neville longbottom x fem!reader who helps patch him up after a particularly bad punishment from the carrows. and they’re talking abt the upcoming war, and neville says something like “it doesn’t matter if i die, nobody needs me.” and reader’s just like “i do, i need you.” (yes, this is inspired by katniss and peeta in catching fire) and it’s just superrrrrr angsty 😞

Ashes Don’t Breathe, But You Do ♡ : A Neville Longbottom Fan Fiction.

pairing : Neville Longbottom x fem!reader

summary : In the shadow of war, a quiet bond grows between two hearts learning to hold on. When the world threatens to fall apart, they find refuge in each other—and the strength to keep going when hope runs thin.

warnings : Graphic depictions of injury, War themes, Emotional distress / PTSD undertones, Mentions of death, Angst with comfort, Mild language, Canon-typical violence, Healing after trauma. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : UGH!!! ANON! You really did send me a request to play with my mind. This was really hard to write, since i still tear up every time the Hogwart's war is mentioned. So, I really hope you enjoy reading this. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST, BEAUTIFUL!!! I am honored to write for you, honey.

word count : 1.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @roseschoices

The Room of Requirement had never been quieter.

Even in its strangest shapes and sacred spells, it had always hummed with life—muttered laughter, whispered rebellion, snatched kisses between trembled fingers. But tonight? Tonight, it was a tomb, and Neville Longbottom sat like a ghost inside it, bleeding on the floor.

You knelt beside him, breath shaking with more fury than fear, your wand pressed lightly against the deep gash along his side. His shirt had been shredded—Carrow work—and the angry red blossomed in slow, defiant waves. Blood had dried under his fingernails. His lip was split. There was something jagged about his breath, as if his lungs were apologizing for still trying.

“You’re lucky I found dittany,” you murmured, your voice trying not to crack as you healed him, even though your fingers trembled with fury. “You’re luckier I didn’t go after Amycus myself. I was two seconds away—”

“Don’t.” Neville winced, but the warning in his voice wasn’t from pain. “If something happened to you…”

“You’d what? Sit here and brood dramatically in a blood-soaked shirt?”

He almost smiled. Almost. But then his eyes grew dark again.

You could see it—the quiet kind of grief. The kind that doesn’t scream but seeps like rot into the bones. The kind that whispers this is all I’ll ever be. And Merlin, you hated it.

“They’ll kill you next time,” you whispered. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. Simply. Quietly.

There was silence again. Thick and ugly. The air in the room turned heavy, like it had lungs of its own and they were collapsing.

Neville looked down at his hands. “It doesn’t matter if I die.”

You froze.

He kept talking, as if the words weren’t a blade. “No one needs me. I’m not Harry. I’m not smart like Hermione, or brave like Ron, or—hell—even Luna can see the world in a way that’s... beautiful. I’m just... here. Doing what I can. And when I go—” his voice cracked—“when I go, nothing changes. The war doesn’t stop. The world doesn’t mourn.”

You slapped the bandage against his side a little too harshly. “Ow—bloody hell!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, standing up with your fists clenched. “Was that painful? Did it hurt? Because you know what hurts more than a cracked rib, Longbottom? Listening to someone I—someone who matters—tell me that his death doesn’t.”

He looked up at you, stunned. Soft brown eyes wide, confused, guilty.

“Nobody needs me,” he whispered again. Childlike. Broken.

“I do.”

The words silenced even the air.

Neville blinked. “What?”

You sank back down to your knees, your breath a fragile thing. “I need you, Neville. I need you to laugh when things feel like dying. I need you to remind me that there’s courage in being kind. I need you to live. For me. For all the kids hiding under their blankets praying tomorrow isn’t their last day. For the ones who are too scared to fight. For the ones who will come after us and never know what you did—but will be alive because you did it.”

You reached for his hand, brushing your fingers against his bloodied knuckles. “Don’t you dare say you don’t matter. Not to me. Not to anyone who’s still breathing because you took the hit instead.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched like he was trying not to cry.

“...But I’m not enough,” he whispered.

“You’re everything,” you said, voice trembling. “Neville, you’re the heart of this castle. And when the war ends—when the dust settles—it’s your name they’ll remember. Not because you were perfect. But because you were good. And you stayed.”

He looked away, biting his lip. “You sound like Dumbledore.”

“I sound like someone in love with a stubborn Gryffindor who doesn’t know how to stop getting hurt.”

That made him laugh—just a little. A weak, battered chuckle. “I’m really not very good at the whole ‘hero’ thing, am I?”

“You’re terrible at it,” you teased, leaning your forehead gently against his. “But you’re mine.”

His hand found yours, squeezing like he’d drown without it. “You really need me?”

“I need you like air, Neville Longbottom. I need you like the world needs the sunrise after too long in the dark.”

And when he kissed you—soft, trembling, desperate—it didn’t taste like victory. It tasted like survival.

And for now, that was enough.

── .✦

The Great Hall had become a battlefield of bones and breath.

Smoke curled through broken windows like dying prayers, and blood smeared the floor in ghostly patterns, dragging along the stone like it was trying to spell out the names of the dead. There were bodies—too many, too young—and somewhere between the crumbling staircases and the shattered walls, Neville Longbottom was bleeding again.

But this time, you weren’t there to stop it.

He stumbled against a pillar, clutching his side. A curse had torn through him, jagged and ruthless, and he could feel the life sliding out, pooling at his feet like some kind of quiet betrayal. Every breath was a war. Every blink, a surrender.

“You’re not done,” he whispered to himself, voice raw.

You weren’t anywhere in sight. The last he’d seen of you was your silhouette against green fire, wand drawn, face fierce and terrified all at once. Then the dust swallowed you whole, and he’d lost you.

Maybe forever.

He sank to the ground, body folding like parchment, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself think it might be easier to let go. Just sleep. Just drift. The battle would go on without him. It had to.

And then—

Your voice.

In memory. In heartbeat.

“I need you like air, Neville Longbottom.” “I need you like the world needs the sunrise after too long in the dark.”

He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Of course. Of course you'd come back to haunt him when he tried to give up.

“I remembered,” he whispered, to the air, to the blood, to you. “I remembered you said you needed me.”

He clenched his jaw and forced his fingers to curl around his wand. His knees screamed in protest, but he pushed himself up. Stand, Longbottom. Stand because she told you to live.

There was fire again—screams and spells and the high, cold laugh of something ancient and cruel. But Neville didn’t run. He stood.

And then you appeared, sprinting through the smoke with your robes torn and your hair matted to your face, your eyes wide with a kind of panic he’d never seen in you before.

“NEVILLE!”

He barely had time to breathe before you collided into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, your breath hitching against his neck.

“You’re alive,” you gasped, touching his face like you couldn’t believe it.

“You—” he choked out, pulling you closer. “I thought—God, I thought you—”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, brushing tears from his cheeks, not even knowing when they’d fallen. “You’re the one who looks like you lost a fight with a mountain troll.”

He tried to laugh. It came out a wheeze. “I nearly did.”

And then his voice cracked. “I wanted to give up. Just for a second. And then I heard you. In my head. You saying you needed me.”

Your lips trembled, and you pressed your forehead to his, just like before. “I meant it, Neville. I still do. I always will.”

There was a beat of stillness in a world of noise. A sacred silence where love lives despite the ruin.

And then—through the flames and fear—Neville kissed you again. Not like before. This time, it was fire meeting fire, defiance carved into lips that refused to say goodbye.

When he pulled back, his eyes were burning. “If I die tonight, it’ll be for you.”

“No,” you said fiercely, gripping his collar like a lifeline. “You don’t die tonight, Neville Longbottom. You live. Because I’m still breathing. And I will always need you.”

And somewhere, far above the ash and agony, a piece of the sky broke open with light.

── .✦

It’s quiet again.

But this time, it’s the good kind. Not the silence of a battlefield, but the hush of early morning—the kind that cradles you instead of burying you.

The war is over. The castle still breathes in broken bricks and scattered glass, but somehow, miraculously, so do you. And so does Neville Longbottom.

He’s kneeling in the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, soil clinging to his skin. There’s a stubborn little sprout in the middle of his palm, and he’s coaxing it into life like it’s a miracle. Like he’s not the boy who held a sword. Like he’s just a boy, now.

And you—you're watching from the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, unsure how to step into peace after years of war.

He looks up.

Smiles.

And that’s when you cry.

Neville drops the trowel immediately, hands dirty and shaking, and rushes to you.

“Hey—hey, love,” he whispers, cradling your face in those soil-stained hands, as if you were a flower just as fragile. “What’s wrong?”

You choke on a laugh, even as the tears fall. “Nothing. Everything. You. Me. This. The fact that we’re still here.”

He swallows, something heavy caught in his throat. “I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

“I did,” you say. “Because I couldn’t let you go. Not when I needed you.”

And then, like the moment demands it, you press your lips to his—gently, reverently. No rush. No war. Just a breath shared between survivors.

When you pull away, his eyes are damp.

“I used to think love was something meant for other people,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with old wounds. “I thought I was just a name on a list, another boy with dirt under his fingernails and a target on his back.”

“You were never just anything,” you whisper fiercely. “You were the one who stayed. When the others fled. When hope bled out. You were the one who stood in front of the fire and said ‘not today.’ And then you came back to me.”

He chuckles softly. “Covered in blood, probably concussed.”

“And still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Neville leans forward until your foreheads touch again. It’s become your sacred gesture—your way of saying we’re still here.

“You still need me?” he asks, quieter than before. Like he’s asking the stars for permission to believe.

You nod. “More than ever. Not because I’m broken. But because you’re the place I heal.”

He exhales shakily and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You stand there, tangled in each other, while the greenhouse warms with morning light.

Outside, the first daffodil of the season unfurls its yellow head, unaware of what the world’s just been through.

Inside, you and Neville bloom again.

Together.

[oofmybad]

The morning after

synopsis: Billie picks you up from hospital. ⚠️ HEAVY TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ please do not read this if you know you can’t do it rn. look after yourself!!!

warnings: heavy angst, discussions of suicide attempt, bestfriend!billiexfem!reader, mentions of weight loss, mentions of vomit and blood (none actually), no fluffy resolution, if i missed anything PLEASE tell me.

a/n: this story goes against like every single one of my writing boundaries lol. but it just happened to me so it’s all that’s on my mind. i originally didn’t write this for tumblr, just for myself. but i haven’t been here on ages so this is what you get for now. again, please do not read this if you are feeling even a little bit sensitive!!! i’ll be back with something happier soon.

billie

reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry you felt so bad.

It’s ok. Not your fault.

Silence.

Thanks for picking me up.

No problem.

 

The car ride is delicate except for the wind blowing through our hair and the hum of the engine. Windows down. It’s a sunny day. A backpack and yesterday’s soiled clothes curled on my lap in the passenger seat. I gaze out the window, feeling the sun seep into my sunken skin. An arm draped over the window frame. Noticing now that I have two blisters in the pit of my elbow – where the cannula forced its way in. Unwelcome but necessary. Another fight I put up but lost.  

 

I can feel her peering over at me. Eyes asking me what she’s not brave enough to. I answer her in silence, offering a tight smile. Shrugging out as much positivity as I have in me. Trying not to let the disappointment that I’m still here show on my face. She sees through it though. I can tell.

 

We pull up to the front of my apartment. Scaffolding from the roof down obstructing our view. I look up at the door, dreading what leftovers I am about to find. Vomit, maybe. Hopefully no blood. The handbrake wrenches up, pulling me out of my thoughts.

 

You’ll come over after you shower, won’t you?

Sure.

I have sunshine and food. You must be hungry.

 

I know what she’s referring to. My skin is green, and my breath smells acidic. I’m smaller than when we last met. She’s kind not to comment.  

Sounds good. I’ll be over in an hour.

Great.

 

I crawl out of the car, holding onto the frame. Still a little dizzy. The door slams shut harder than I intended. I turn my head, offering a warm smile, warmer than the last. A wave, too.

 

Thanks, again, for the ride.

 

Just a smile from her.

 

I climb the stairs to my second floor apartment, pushing the fire door open. It takes more might than it normally does. I feel frail today. Dropping my bag down, stuffing my laundry into the hamper. Rid myself of the dirt from the road. The water trickles through my scalp. Hot. soaking in its wake. My head dips back, consuming my whole head. Face submerged. I wonder how it would feel to go like this. The fight between me and water. Who would win? Water, probably. Best not to chance it.

 

I pull up the shorts folded in half on my bed. The cotton sticking to my freshly moisturised legs. Sitting on my hips, baggier than the last time I wore them. Makes me think of that one lyric in Streets of Philadelphia. I continue. Slithering into a tube top. The elastic bunching around my shoulder blades. Deodorant leaving white streaks. I pull it flush to my body, scraping off the marks as I go.

 

Facing the mirror, disappointed to be standing here once again. Wishing there was no reflection to look at. Suppose I should comb my hair now.

 

I’m still not sure what one does the day after. It’s not my first. But I still haven’t mastered it yet.

 

I rake through my now clean hair, the bristles squeaking as they pass through. I feel my hairline tugging back with each stroke. Sweat forming on my forehead from the effort that my unwieldy hair elicits. Reaching for the hair oil, I pump. Once, twice, three times. Enough to cover the lengths.

 

I stretch my strands straight as I weave my fingers through them – lacking the desire to care for curly hair right now. I mould them into something I can cope with. Straighter, easier to deal with. I’ve found that other people feel the same way about my hair. Liking me more the straighter I pull it. I make eye contact with myself, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to stop relaxing my hair. Letting it exist outside of tight restraints. Facing the mirror, time to think.

 

I’m not sure I can keep doing this. Keep starting again, that is.

 

Before any more big thoughts emerge, I trudge down the road. Feeling fresher than I did an hour ago. But my mind cannot be renewed with such ease. I let myself in with my key. she’s always been so open with me. Intimate and giving. shark greets me, blissfully unaware of the last forty-eight hours.

 

Hi.

Hi!

 

I put my bag down on the couch.

 

Would you like something to eat?

Maybe in a moment. Thanks.

There’s some pasta and homemade pesto; You-friendly.

Thanks.

 

I head to the kitchen. I guess I should eat. She seems to think I need to. I smile at the thought of her making pesto without the nuts or parmesan. Knowing it’s not as nice but she did it anyway. I click the hob on, waiting for the coated pasta to reheat in the pan. Standing in front of the hob. Purposeless. Waiting. I take the food off the heat too early. Deciding that it’s too warm out to eat properly hot food, anyway. I make my way back through to the garden.

 

On the back patio, there’s evidence of what she was doing before she came to collect me. Before she got the call.

 

You’ve got a whole salon going on here.

 

I try and strike up casual conversation. Overwhelmed by the silence. Unsure if I should bring it up. Probably not.

 

Its good isn’t it. I’m doing my toes a green – shocker! –

but I did my fingers this light purple. Lilac, really. Look.

 

She presents me her nails, fanning them towards my face.

Nice. I love it.

 

We sit in silence again, retreating to our usual spots in the garden. Me in direct sunlight, her hidden in the shade of the bushes. Each dog perched at each of our ankles. I eat in silence. Far too conscious of my fork scraping the bowl – I know no one cares as much as I do. Yet, I leave the sauce untouched at the bottom of the bowl in an effort to be as quiet as possible. I get up, once again, taking my dishes inside and washing them up in the sink.

 

Walking back into the front room, I pull out a script from my bag. I’m behind already because of the last few days. No more time to lose. I’m no actor or anything. Not yet, at least. It’s fun to dream about what could be. Who I could be. I highlight what’s poignant to me. What sticks out. Nothing yet, really. I’m just highlighting for show.

 

Why’d you do it?

 

I pause. Contemplating which answer to give her. The real one, or the one that rings less alarm bells.

 

I don’t know, really. I just lose control sometimes.

Over your emotions?

Mhm.

You know I love you, don’t you?

Yeah.

We all love you. Finch, Claud, mom and dad. The dogs.

 

Silence.

 

We’d miss you too much.

…I’d miss you, too.

No, you wouldn’t.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to say.

I don’t want you to say something, I want you to stop feeling so sad.

Sorry.

Stop apologising.

Sorry.

She laughs at that.

 

You’re a menace.

You love me, though.

I do.

[papathe5th]

Please, please, please write about reader getting spit roasted by c and v

COME TOGETHER (TOGETHER AS ONE)

.* .* 🐀* . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *•* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🐀* . *.

Papa V Perpetua x GN!Reader x Frater Imperator

Words: 3200

Rating: E (explicit)

Tags: power imbalance; degrading language; sweet talk & dirty talk; a bit of praise & a bit of degradation;

.* .* 🐀* . *. .* .* 🦇 * . *•* .* 🦇 * . *. .* .* 🐀* . *.

You’ve been supervising the renovations for Frater Imperator’s office for the past five months. Tonight, you’ve been summoned in person in his temporary working space.

“Here, dolce.” He’s been repeating the line for the entirety of those five months. “My final notes.”

The actual final note was passed to you by a Siblings of Sin that has been working with you side-by-side for five long months: Frater Imperator wanted you to meet him in his office tonight. Alone.

Tonight, you came to him alone. But he already had company.

Papa V Perpetua was wearing his clerical robe, the same black silk garments you’d admired during Black Mass this evening. He filled them well, yet you found yourself undressing him in your mind as you had every night since his return from preaching the Skeleta psalm around the globe. 

You’ve been finding yourself in the chapel every night after the end of his sermon, enjoying the silence alongside him.

This evening, Papa sat in the pew next to you like he had in your fantasies. Like he had seen himself in your fantasies. And he asked you: “Is there something you wanted to tell me?” It didn’t sound like a question, his voice didn’t raise on the last word and his left eye never let you look away.

“Yes, Your Unholiness” you confessed and watched the eye twinkle like the Evening Star. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

“What am I doing in your dreams?”

“You’re at the pulpit. Your psalms inspire me. Your voice follows me in my sleep.”

“Is preaching all I do in your dreams?” 

The eye shot into yours, and entered the orbit like a burning comet. He had made it inside and could see what was hiding in the back of your mind. 

“No, Papa.” You couldn’t lie to him, but you couldn’t come clean about impure thoughts. He wasn’t the only one starring in them and you doubted that it would please him to hear it. And you wanted to please him. 

His arm was perched on the back of the pulpit, and you felt its heat behind you. He turned up the temperature when he slipped his gauntlet atop your clothed shoulder and slid you closer. 

“Was I doing this?”

His mouth caught yours before words could be formed on the tongue. Not that you had the words for the experience of exhaling your very soul into Papa’s hungry maw. When he breathed life back into you, he had yet to grant you back all of your senses. Or your sense. The words you tried to swallow down your throat then tumbled out of your tongue: “Yes, Frater.”

“What was that?” 

Papa peered into you, pushing through and threading to strip you to the bone. And you feared what he’d find underneath, so you slid to the edge of the pew and escaped his embrace.

“Forgive me, Papa,” you bowed, barely able to hold yourself straight. “Please forgive me.” Your head was down as you watched your feet speed out the chapel door. 

Tonight, there were two twin stars shining upon you in the office you’ve dedicated almost half of the year to. Frater Imperator welcomed you in for the first time instead of you doing it for him. He bowed down and held the door open for you. 

When he opened it, Papa V Perpetua was sitting when on the sofa you and his brother had picked the night he invited you to look at the catalogue with him while sitting in his lap. 

Tonight, Papa’s lap looked inviting, his legs spread like his twin’s had been, stretching his satin skirt and giving you a peak at his ankles. The mitre was missing, but the mask was strapped on as it always seemed to be. The sliver of skin you spotted under the loosened clerical collar got you hot under yours.

“After you, dolce.” Frater followed you to the sofa and sat on the opposite side leaving you with the spot in between him and his brother. 

“Is there something wrong, Your Dark Eminences?” You swallowed, your mouth watering with their scent surrounding you. “Is the room not to your liking?”

Papa ripped your attention away from his brother and rival. “You’ve done a great job with the place,” he smiled ever so slightly, his black lips twitching to uncover his teeth. “I saw the sad state C’s office was in—”

“We’re not here to talk about your lack of artistic eye, V,” Frater fired past you and towards Papa.

“We’re here to talk about your jealousy,” he fired back.

“I am not jealous.” With his own lips pressed together so they wouldn’t stretch into a scowl, Frater caught your attention again. And, with a hand on your thigh, he squeezed your flesh and made your skin burn like he had earlier this evening, while you were perched on his lap. 

You never wanted the fondling or the feeling to stop, but his brother’s title came out of your mouth when he made contact with your sex through your formal dress. 

“We wanted to talk about what’s been going on between the two…the three of us.”

“I apologise for any offence, Your Dark Eminences,” you started reciting the script you’ve written and rewritten in your head.

Papa placed a hand on your shoulder like he had back when it was just the two of you in the pews. “You have nothing to apologise for.” His thumb circled the cramping muscles and you surrendered to the sensation, sitting back on the sofa, into the pillows. And, when he pulled himself closer, you fell against his satin chest. 

“You want my touch, dolce, that much is obvious.” Frater’s fingers reached the intersection of your thighs for the second time tonight. And, this time, they fell wide open for him. “But you want my brother’s, too.” 

“Such a greedy little thing.” You felt Papa’s words before he spoke them into your ear and they shot like lightning down your spine. His chest moved under your head as he inhaled , his nose digging into your hair. “What are we going to do with you?”

“What do you want us to do with you?” 

They were making you beg, that’s what they were doing. You didn’t want their touch. You needed their touch. “Please,” you whined, your spine winding as your back became a bow ready to break at any second. “Please.”

If it weren’t for Papa’s metal talons around your throat and Frater’s fingers sinking into the meat of your hips, you would’ve tumbled off the couch. They saved you from falling, but they also trapped you between the two of them, stretching your body on the length of the sofa. Frater Imperator held your hips high up his leg, his knee between your own thighs, while Papa pressed his chest into your back and held you in place by your throat. 

“Thank you.” You rubbed yourself against Frater’s tailored trousers, slowly so as to not disrupt his fingers' descent into your own trousers. Papa peppered black kisses in the side of your face. Your temple was first, then came time for the cheek to be stamped. 

“You like that?” He spoke against the shell of your ear. “You like my mouth on you?” He pried an answer out of you by pulling on your lobe with his teeth. 

“Yes, Papa,” you moaned, making more room for his mouth by trying to tilt your head to the side. But that tight grip around your throat wouldn’t allow it. And you moaned again.

“Oh, dolce.” Frater unfastened your trousers and you finally had his fingers on your flesh. There was still a layer of leather saparating the two of you, but that made the slide down to your sex a torture so tender you stopped humping his thigh and held your hips high in place. “You called me Papa when I pressed the right button.”

“And you liked it, C,” Papa chuckled into the crook of your neck, teasing the tendon there with his fangs. 

“Shut up, V,” Frater barked, but you felt the weight of his crotch on your knee and it was hard and heavy. “I’m trying to hear those sinful sounds again. I’m going to make you sing, dolce.” His gloved hand was working with your hot and wet sex and you thought it was better that way. 

In your dirty dizzy thoughts, you might’ve burned yourself if it was his bare flesh against yours. 

“Sing for us, angel,” Papa smiled into the side of your neck. Hiis black lipstick was now kiss marks all over your skin, framing the love bites he left behind. “I love this song.”

“Yes. It’s my new favorite song,” Frater laughed, his lungs sounding empty after. 

Between the twins, between the tongue running over your lips and ramming itself into your moaning mouth and the hand making your thighs tremble, you sang for them. 

“Dolce, are you gonna come for us?”

“Come on my brother’s fingers, you filthy little thing!”

And you came on the last note you sang, your body slack on the new sofa and your soul leaving you for the ceiling. 

As you settled down, Papa’s mouth kissed the crown of your head while he threaded his talons through your hair. Frater Imperator used the same hand that tortured you into oblivion to soothe you. He slowly stripped your bottom half of all threads and settled himself between your shivering thighs, then offered that hand to his brother so that he could taste your come on the glove. Through the tears of relief in your eyes, you saw Papa lave the leather with his tongue, his now nude lips wrapping around the middle finger. 

“Sweet, right?” He smirked, proud to have predicted the flavour of his dolce. “I told you.” He pulled away the hand and finished cleaning the taste of you off the glove, popping each fingertip in his mouth.

“The mouth is a treat, too.” Papa grabbed your chin with his gauntlets. “Try it.” Lifting your face and resting the back of your head on his chest, he presented your purses lips to his twin.

And his twin leaned in, latching onto them, licking them, suckling them and eating up all the sounds that came out of your mouth. “Mhm,” he finished up tasting you by sucking on your tongue, and moaning in approval. “E certamente dolce.” 

He was as suffocating as his brother, but you didn’t even bother to breathe while he was sucking the air out of you. Your soul was theirs for the inhaling. Though you’d soon come to know it wasn’t your soul they were trying to own tonight. 

They do not collaborate often, or at all. So you’ve been told. Yet Frater Imperator helped Papa V Perpetua by holding you while he worked on ripping off your clothes, running his sharp-ended gauntlets up and down your torso. And they even agreed in silence to turn you on your stomach in tandem. One pushed your cheek into the soft cushions, the other pulled you up on your knees and up your ass into the air. 

Frater Imperator rose from his side of the couch, caressing the globes of your ass with his gloves still on, denying you his bare skin. And Papa was even crueler with the cold grip of his gauntlet on you. He slid the sharp tips down your spine and made it arch under his teasing touch. His other tips were threading through your hair. 

“Shit,” you squeaked like a toy the twins were squeezing between them. “Oh, shit,” you smothered yourself into the couch, nails digging into the cushions.

“Who do you want inside that dirty mouth?” Papa hooked the corner of your lips with the end of his thumb, pulling your head up and then pressing the soft leather pad of it on your tongue.

“Fra…Pa,” you drooled over his digit, delirious and drenched in your own juices. You needed to be baptised by Papa’s. And Frater Imperator’s.

“Who is this Frappa? Frappuccino? Al Pacino?” 

Papa laughed. If it was at your sorry state or his twin’s reply to the syllables you failed to string together, you didn’t know. All you knew was that the two made too good of a tag team. 

“Put that filthy mouth to use.” Papa put a gauntlet through your hair to guide you towards Frater, his own erection covered in the string of spit he used to stroke it. “Spit on it.”

Papa pulled his thumb out , a thick thread of the spit they were talking about following the tip. His other thumb latched onto his other threads, removing his robe with a button popping pull and then pushing his trousers down his thighs. The saliva wetting his thumb made the glide of his hand down his thick, throbbing shaft smoother.

Frater manifested himself in front of you, manhood in hand, mirroring his twin. 

You did as you were told and was satisfied to see all the spit that you covered his cock with. And Frater had girth, so witnessing how he made all of it shine made you proud. And it made you prouder still to see him shut his eyes against the sensation. “Satanas,” he praised the Dark Lord, and then you. “Sei davvero un angelo.”

“Un angelo caduto.” 

Papa pressed himself against his brother, and brought your head closer to their heads. They were crying for your mouth and you were rolling out your tongue to welcome them in. “You can take both of us, can’t you, dolce?” Frater looked down on you, his cheeks looking as hot as you felt on the inside. Papa’s face paints were over his mouth now, most of it in the form of markings on your own face and neck. 

“Yesh,” you panted, breathing in deep and tasting them in the air. 

Your tongue was all the way out and wet and they bumped their weeping heads on it. The truth was you couldn’t take both their cocks at once, but needed them inside you. And they knew this, petting your hair, stroking your chin and pushing in slowly, sliding against each other's shafts.

“Easy, dolce,” Frater cupped your cheek and caress it, and stroking the bulge his brother made into the side of your face. “Breathe through your nose.”

“Suck,” Papa pulled at the seams of your mouth with a talon, stretching you around their girth. “Fucking suck on it.” 

“Who’s foul mouthed…foul mouthed again?” Frater teased, his breath short while he instructed yours.

“Sssshut up,” Papa sneered, the air they shared between them running low. 

And so was yours. 

Sucking didn’t shut them up, though it did get them both to groan, grabbing onto each other as to not lose themselves inside you.You were overwhelmed, overstuffed and overjoyed to have such an effect on their Dark Eminencies. And when you sucked for a second time and moaned deep in your mouth, Papa pulled at your hair again while his twin released your face.

“Are you touching yourself?” Frater huffed, his hand now reaching behind you and smacking your bottom to stop you. “How dare you?”

You were touching yourself. How could you not? The twins enveloped you with their scent and drowned you with their taste, but neither of them could fill you up. 

“You need a cock on the other end, too,” Papa V Perpetua spit out, spraying your heated forehead with a few flying droplets. “Don’t you, you whore?” He pulled out and slapped you with the cock you’ve been slobbering on.

“All you had to do was ask,” Frater Imperator cooed, cupping your ass and soothing the spot with the same hand that hurt it. He was dripping with your drool when he pulled out, too. Settling on a knee on one end of the sofa, he prepared your entrance with the excess from his erection. 

In front of you, his twin took a knee too. You craned your head towards his cock, tongue reaching for him. Even seeing you eager to take it all didn’t satisfy him. He slapped you with his shaft again. “I want you to use your words.” He dipped his dick into the saliva pooling on your tongue and pulled it away before you could close your lips around it. “Beg for us to fuck you.” 

“Please, Papa,” you whined, nuzzling his shaft as he settled it on your cheek. “Please, Frater.” You wiggled your ass while the other shaft gilded between your ass globes. “Please fuck me.”

“Oh, V.” The man behind you had the hot tip of his dick burning at your entrance. “Wasn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard?”

“Whenever you’re ready, C.” The man in front of you rolled precum on your lips like a balm. 

Who knew all it took for the twins to come together was you being between the two of them? You were so happy you could cry. And you did. You cried out for them with a cock in your mouth and one in your loins. You cried and the vibrations shook their Dark Eminences like an earthquake.

Frater Imperator stretched you out, slamming his hips against your ass until you collapsed into the cushions and he had to continue drilling you into the couch. 

“That’s it.” Papa petted your head like you were a good dog. And a hard-working whore. He was teaching you how to take his own cock down your throat after all. “Take his cock. Take my cock. All of it. Yes. That’s it. My filthy fallen angel. Take it all.”

His brother curled around your body from behind until the chill of his broach was right up against the small of your back. His hand came around your throat and got a hold of your jaw. “Si, dolce. Bravo, dolce. You look so sinful with a mouthful of my brother’s cock, dolce.”

You were being crushed and rebuilt between their bodies. You were being suffocated with one cock and stuffed with the other. And you are sure your soul was also being skewered by them because it exited your body and you came as it hit the ceiling. 

“There you are, angel,” Papa V Perpetua was the first to greet you back, his cool gauntlet against your burning cheek as he cupped it. 

You tasted salt and it wasn’t just your tears. His come was covering your face and he was careful to get it out of your eye as you blinked back to life. “How are you?”

“Thirsty,” you licked the tip of the talon at the edge of your mouth.

“There you go, dolce,” Frater Imperator kneeled beside his brother, he was holding a cup of water with a Ghost straw in it to drink out of while stretched out on the new sofa. Through the haze over your mind, you saw how disheveled they both were, hair sticking to Frater’s forehead as it fell on his temple while Papa’s make-up was mostly missing, the porcelain skin of his jaw peppered by a black stubble. 

“You shouldn’t move too much,” Frater cleared his voice, looking over you to your legs where the prints of his slaps still felt fresh. The cushions he settled under your ass were sure to be covered with his come. And yours.

“You should take a bath.”

“Can’t we all take a bath?” You asked before your conscious mind could even catch up with what was going on. “I…I didn’t…”

“Sure.” 

“Sure.”

They answered at the same time. And they looked at each other as if they were as surprised by the synchronicity as you and everyone else in the Ministry was.

“Why not?”

“Why not?”

[hashimasims]

~When Alaina went home~

Transcript Below the Cut

Alaina: COME ON EVER OPEN UP! DID YOU SERIOUSLY CHANGE THE LOCKS ALREADY?

Ever: What do you want Lain? Alaina: I want to come home Evs. OOOH Xena! Hey baby girl mama missed you!

Ever: AH! Don't touch her! I just watched the newest episode, at the animal shelter. Alaina: And? Ever: You hate animals huh? Then why did we go to the shelter ourselves to adopt Xena and Snuggs? THAT VERY SHELTER! Hell, you thought it was the greatest idea when I suggested it as "practice" for children of our own!

Alaina: I didn't mean it Evs. Ever: Clearly, so there will be no visitations. Xena is mine and I don't want you anywhere near us.

Alaina: I didn't mean what I said on the show Ever! I wanted to get far but I wanted to drop reasons that she didn't pick me everywhere! I wanted the audience to hate me. I was always going to come back to you. I never once kissed her Ever, never anything physical. Yeah I flirted but that was the name of the game, how was I supposed to know she was going to catch feelings so quick, THERE WERE THIRTY OF US!

Ever: Why did you do it? Alaina: I already told you: So I could cover our wedding.

Ever: I CAN COVER OUR WEDDING! I already told you to quit your job and focus solely on acting or find something else you're passionate about and I would take care of everything.

Alaina *voice small*: But I'm the one who asked you to marry me, how is it fair that you have to pay for it? Ever: It's a lot better than what you did to Deanna. Why didn't you just tell me Lain? Alaina: You would have tried to stop me.

Ever: I would have. But do you know what else would have happened when I undoubtedly failed? I would have supported you, I would have watched every episode and when anyone asked me what was going on I would have told them that things weren't working out and you left. I wouldn't have been blindsided by my friends heavily suggesting I watch the show but not telling me why.

Ever: And then when you came back we would have realized how much we really loved each other and had gotten back together. It's not ethical and I would have hated it but we could have been a team Alaina. Instead I was betrayed and made to look like a fool. Alaina: I didn't mean to Evs and I really am sorry I hurt Deanna, not that she'd ever believe me anyway. Please forgive me Ever, I love you so much. There's no other person in the world like you. I'd be the fool if I let you go.

Ever: You're right, there is no one like me, and I'm not going to be manipulated by you. You're not going to give a substandard apology and expect all to be forgiven. I am going to forgive you but for me not for you. It's a good thing I already made you a fool because I don't think we're going to get back together after this. I don't think I can trust you again.

Alaina: Ever, baby - Ever: No. Full stop. You need to give me space and if we can even maybe be friends again you need to respect that. If you truly lied about what you said during your "Cast Day" then when you get a new place I'll bring Xena to you but for now she'll remain here. Now leave.

Alaina: Ok Evs, I'll go, just . . . just don't close the door completely on us, yeah? Don't . . . I'll earn your trust back no matter what it takes. I do love you and I don't think I'll ever stop. Ever: Just be safe Lain.

[hollyoongs]

: ̗̀𝖡𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖭𝖤𝖶𝖲 ➛ hello everyone! I think I forgot to mention that I am now back in college (what a nuisance), but today I had my first class of "Communication" and my teacher spoke about artificial intelligence, briefly, and told the class something that I'm possitive that is going to stay in my head until i leave this world.

"Now there are courses that teach you how to write books with the help of this ai, and no matter how great it turns out, they'll always be missing something. The human touch. And yes, also texts that have been made without any of this technology are even detected as generated by artificial intelligence. But artificial intelligence will never change how genuine and pure it is to create a story, a work or even a quote with your brain, feelings and heart."

Wanted to share it over here because it's truly sad how AI has been consuming us (literature-wise), and tbh, it truly made me think a lot on the ride home. I've always loved creating, and despite writing not being in my 2015 bingo card, that made me fall in love with it. I loved that it came with me staring at my ceiling on a random school day in the morning with a plot, or from when I cried so hard that I couldn't breathe after a homework assignment of writing poetry for someone we love but we couldn't tell enough.

It reminded me of why I started writing in the first place at Wattpad (humble start). It was not to reach perfection or gain recognition, but because there was simply too much in my chest that not even my drawings could say it. Yes, I write NSFW mostly (and SFW), but I write messy and raw because that's how I process being alive. AI can generate polishes, almost flawless works, but I'm sure that it will never feel what we, writers, feel with every word we mean in it. It will never laugh as hard as it writes something funny, cry as hard as it writes a melancholic scene, or even feel every stage of happiness, shyness, or excitement as we do when we write about love, friendship, etc.

I'm sure that I'm not the greatest writer; I keep that in mind, but, fuck, I love how my chaotic and complex heart comes out with those fics. And that's what matters more than an algorithm that, to me, is simply an echo.

To my lovely writers, moots, anyone that reads this, please don't stop. Keep your heart out with writing stories, poems, whatever you feel like. Don't let the internet drown you; there's still magic in your works.

[senpaipsy-blog]

look, this is not a defence of the current system of the capitalist hellscape, but i see a lot of anarchists who regularly make very valid criticisms of the number of horrible people in the world (billionaires, conservatives, religious fanatics etc.), but their political views can be summed up as "if we just get rid of the government and the law, everyone will just be good and nice and help each other, and no one will do anything bad ever again :)". like, what's going to stop the racists, homophobes, transphobes and other bigots from just using that lawlessness to commit violent hate crimes without consequence? am i missing something? is there some part of the plan that's supposed to stop that from happening?

and no, i am not going to use the bullshit "humans are inherently selfish" argument conservatives like to use. humans are individuals. every single person is different. i'm sure there would be a lot of people more than willing to engage in mutually supporting one another because it is the right thing to do. there are a lot of good people in the world. but there are also a lot of bad people.

[jadewritesficshere]

Pretty

Eddie Munson x reader

Contains: no plot just filth, sub!Eddie Munson, bound hands, edging, slight overstim, cumplay, ass play, aftercare, pet names (Eddie is called Baby), no gender descriptors for reader (your thighs are mentioned but not size or shape just that Eddie finds them beautiful)

This is unedited I wrote this in a blur idk how many words maybe 1k ill add that at a later time

18+ only!

"You look so pretty like this."

Eddie shudders as he feels your breath against the back of his neck. He looks ahead into the mirror, pupils blown wide at the scene before him.

You sit behind Eddie. A saccharine grin on your face. His back is flush with your front, he can feel every inhale and exhale you take. Your beautiful thighs he wants to bite are on either side of his. Your ankles are locked around his, holding him in place. Eddie's hands are bound with his belt, resting on your thigh.

Eddie's shirt is pushed up, belly button piercing glinting in the low light. The red of his piercing matches the red on his face that runs down his neck. If he had his shirt off, you'd be able to see the blush bleed into the top of his chest. He shivers as you blow against his ear.

"Look how pretty you are Eds."

He lets out a whine as your fingers delicately trail his length. His cock is flushed a deep red, almost purple at the top from how turned on he is. Slightly curved to the left, the tip leaking so much cum he's practically glistening. Your fingers ghost over the slit and his hips jump forward, only for your touch to leave. Teasing him again.

It was torture of the best kind. He isn't sure how long you have been teasing him. Tears in his eyes from pleasure and annoyance. Your hand wrapped firmly around him bringing him to the precipice only to let go before he reaches the edge. Tantalizing touches that sway the line of not enough and too much.

"Say you look pretty Baby."

He gasps as your hand wraps firmly around him again, hoping you won't remove your hand again. His nails dig into your thigh, trying to grab hold of anything he can. He can feel your smirk as you press a kiss to where his shoulder meets his neck. "I uh I look pretty," Eddie's voice is raspy.

"The prettiest boy." You murmur. "The fuck the prettiest boy." Eddie whimpers. A tear rolls down his cheek and he watches as you swipe it away. "Color?" You pause. "Green so green please don't stop," Eddie babbles slightly, turning to face you. You smile sweetly as your hand forces his jaw back to facing the mirror.

With your ankles locked around Eddie's, you spread your legs, thus causing his to spread wide open. Its obscene, being fully on display. "Awh," you coo at him, making him whine. Eddie shivers as you slide your hand up and down his shaft, your other hand gently squeezing his heavy balls.

Eddie jumps as you trail your fingers lower. You lightly press against his hole, just enough for him to feel it. It takes him a minute to realize the moan he hears was from himself. His cock leaks another spurt of precum, dribbling down your hand as you continue to jerk him off.

You remove the pressure teasing his hole and swipe up the cum that has leaked onto your hand. You coat your finger with it before pressing against Eddie's tight hole again. Your gently slide your finger in.

Eddie can feel his eyes crossing as his mouth drops open. He can feel you pump your finger in and out of him in tandem with the hand that is stroking him up and down. "Gonna come for me? You look so good baby. Look so perfect like this," you kiss the shell of his ear. Eddie nods, barely able to open his eyes. Barely able to think of anything as he feels the warm pleasure spreading throughout his limbs.

His hips snap up as a loud whine leaves him. His brain goes silent as pleasure comes over him in waves. You never falter your pace, its almost too much as he keeps cumming. It's the hardest and longest he has ever come, it almost knocks the breath out of him. His senses hone in on the euphoria he feels, numbing his mind to everything but the pleasure.

He pants and gasps as he slowly comes back to himself. He's barely aware he's holding onto your thigh with a death grip. "Did so good baby, so good." You murmur. "Uh-huh." Eddie can feel his heart beating in his chest. His limbs feel like jello. He's pretty sure if he tried to stand his legs would shake.

You slowly move out from behind him (wait when did you stop touching him?). Eddie opens his eyes, tracking you as you grab a water bottle and wash cloth on the bedside table. You wet the wash cloth before wiping the cum off him. Eddie tries not to but jumps from still being sensitive. You murmur apologies, as if you have anything to apologize for. If Eddie's tongue didn't feel of lead, he would sing your praises.

You toss the wash cloth away and quickly undo the belt around Eddie's wrists. Even though there isn't a mark, you take your time massaging his wrists and hands. You gently place a kiss on the back of both of his hands. If he wasn't already completely in love with you, that would have done it.

Eddie can barely focus on your words, barely think through how good he feels. He's aware you are holding the water bottle up to his lips and he drinks greedily. You swipe away the water that dribbles down his chin.

Eddie curls into you, head against your chest listening to your heart. You slowly stroke his hair, comforting him. He's aware you're whispering to him, praising him. All he can think about is how loved he feels in this moment. How safe he is in your arms. How he can fully let go and know you have him. How he knows you love him with your whole being, just as he loves you.

[tacky-optic]

releasing my simple Jigen's Evil Exes compilation onto the world. there are. so many.

sparked by this post from @ctrl-lupin. colored by whether they were a dick or not. enjoy

Dynamite Joe ... Prison of the Past

Gallanco ... Pt 3. Ep. 6

Riat ... Seven Days Rhapsody

Crazy Mash ... Hemingway Papers

André ... Last Job

Brad Roark ... Pt. 6 Ep. 8

Hyena ... Alcatraz Connection

seven on the dot! simultaneously feels like way too many and not enough. surely there isn't any sort of referential joke to be made here....

[ping-ski]

not enough people talk about "dont turn the lights off" ngl. this song + the daycare theme song have been ON LOOP for me. on loop while i draw. on loop while i do chores and cook. on loop while i work. on loop if i need to concentrate on something- no ANYTHING. it's such a comfort to me. this song has a DEATH GRIP on me. WHIMSY UNMATCHED. you don't understand how much this song fuels me to keep creating DCA content for myself ohhh my god.

"lights on" doesn't even compare for me (WHICH OFC i like the song + with the recent release of "best friend" im still giddy)

which, i feel the need to add, this song is pivotal for my motivation to write EBY (wip dca fic im working on rn). like idk i feel invincible when this song plays ig lmao.