#she's too good for how they're writing her

[flofaiiry]

Washington's Finest — Bucky Barnes x Reader

SUMMARY: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out

WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader is a sex worker (referred to as a call girl & hooker), age gap (reader is in law school so mid/late twenties), reader's parents are dead, most likely incorrect info about nda's & how they're used, swearing, probably an overuse of italics oopsie, so much kissing, breast&nipple play, oral f!receiving, reader attempts to fake an orgasm (spoiler it does not work), fingering, mentions of masturbation, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bucky is kind of condescending, teeny bit of dacryphilia, big dick!bucky, little bit of manhandling, unprotected p in v sex (don't do that!!!), creampie. not proofread!!!

WC: ~7k

NOTE: sorry to all my Pitt & Shawn Hatosy followers that this isn’t your regularly scheduled content, I just got this idea after watching one too many Bucky edits and had to write it !!!😁😁 also I apologize if I portray sex workers in a negative light at all, that is not my intention at all!! I heavily based reader on Laurie from The West Wing, which is admittedly a pretty old show, but I tried my best & I hope you enjoy!!!

Bucky, the junior congressman from New York, knows the reputation that politicians have cultivated. He knows the stereotype of the dead-beat husband who steps out on his wife with a prostitute when he's in D.C., then acts all lovey dovey back in the home state.

He thought since he was single, he could avoid this dilemma. This career ending adultery and solicitation scandal that so many before him had walked into. He thought that he could find some girl to take home at a bar and get his rocks off that way, but that proved to be a harder task than he thought. Everyone in D.C., knew him. Everyone in Brooklyn knew him. Everyone everywhere knew him.

It was nice at first, but now it was starting to get annoying.

Fucking his fist in the shower quelled off the physical urges- and even that was starting to lose its efficacy. But what getting himself off didn't satisfy were his mental and emotional needs. The need to be seen, to be felt, to be touched, to be loved. Bucky wanted that.

But he wasn't going to get it anywhere in this town- or this country for that matter.

He'd heard enough stories through hushed conversations outside committee rooms & caucuses to know that Washington's Finest was the best, most reliable high end escort service in DC. The preferred choice for most politicians on Capitol Hill who dabbled in the art of the extramarital affair.

So, one afternoon when he was feeling especially in need- he made the call.

"Washington's Finest, you've reached Elena, how may I direct your call? The woman's voice is sweet and almost robotic sounding. Bucky isn't sure if it's actually a real person or one of those automated recordings until it starts speaking unprompted.

"Hello?"

He clears his throat, "Yeah. Hi. Um- booking."

Elena makes a little sound of acknowledgement before speaking again, "Alright sir, your call is being transferred, I'm going to place you on a brief hold, please stay on the line!"

As soon as she finishes talking, a smooth jazz music floods through the phone and into Bucky's ear. It's nice, familiar. Just as he thinks he might recognize the song, he's met with another woman's voice.

"Good evening this is Washington's Finest, you've reached booking! I'm Paulina how may I assist you?" She speaks, that same sort of uncanniness present in her tone.

"Hi. Yeah, uh I'd like to book- I guess."

"Great! Well then you're in the right place, may I just get a name to make the reservation?"

He hesitates, wondering if he should give his real name. Paulina seems to notice this.

"It doesn't have to be your name, sir. Just any name that we can refer to you by for the booking."

He doesn't say anything. Paulina fills the silence again.

"Rest assured sir, we deal with many high profile customers, our privacy policies are top notch to ensure that your proclivities are kept-"

"Steve." He blurts.

"I'm sorry?"

"Steve. My name is Steve."

Why he just offered the name of his best friend? He doesn't know. But at the moment it's the only name coming to mind so it's gonna have to do.

The woman on the other end smiles almost audibly.

"Alright then, Steve. What service would you like to book with us?"

"Shit, I uh- I don't know. What... services do you have?"

There's a ruffling of papers, a click of a mouse, then her voice again. "We offer three main packages: the One Night, the Weekend Getaway and the Week Long All-Inclusive. Many first-time customers choose to start with the One Night, helps them to find a girl they connect with to book longer services with in the future."

Bucky nods, then remembers she can't see him. "Right. Okay, sure, yeah- the One Night sounds good, let's do that."

"Great! Sounds good, let's get you all reserved - when were you thinking to book your service?"

"I, um- whenever?"

"How about tonight?" She asks, tapping away almost violently at the computer.

He nods, once, twice- like he's trying to convince himself to go through with this. To stoop down to a level he swore he'd never reach. "You know what- sure, let's do tonight."

Paulina continues with the booking, going over various policies regarding payment and acceptable conduct with the girl he books. Then, she gets to the names. There are three girls with availability tonight:

Anya.

Peggy.

And you.

Peggy's out immediately- way too much baggage associated with that name. He eliminates Anya next, sounds too harsh to him.

Leaving him with you. A girl with a name that rolls of the tongue, who will be showing up at his brownstone in a little over three hours

You get the call a few minutes after Bucky hangs up, Paulina tells you that someone named Steve has requested your company tonight, and you're to attend an address in Alexandria at 9pm sharp.

You get ready as usual, wondering if this Steve will be another senator or congressman stepping out on his wife- citing the 'stress of the job,' for pushing them apart, or if he'll be some rich old guy with nothing better to do with his money, or maybe- a secret third option. What that is, you're not sure yet- but a girl can dream, can't she?

Either way- the routine never strays. Makeup, hair, lingerie under an unassuming outfit (men love it when they get to feel like they're unwrapping you). You're out the door by 8:30 and catch the bus to the address sitting in your email.

You get there a few minutes early, so you sit on a bench a few doors down until your phone reads 8:59PM. Then you start down the street to your assigned place of business.

You climb the steps then knock on the door a few times. A second later the door's swinging open. You recognize the face from the news, and from the museum, the former World War 2 hero turned Congressman.

Bucky Barnes.

Not Steve.

You weren't surprised. Didn't feel catfished. 90% of the time the name you're given isn't legit, but one given by the customer to maintain certain degrees of separation.

"Congressman Barnes," you say, nodding your head slightly to greet him.

He says your name in the same tone, but different- like it's more foreign to him. "Please, call me Bucky." He half smiles, stepping aside in the doorway though still terribly unsure of himself.

"Bucky," you repeat, stepping into the house through the open space next to him. "This is a nice place," you hum, kicking off your shoes while he shuts the door behind you. "Thanks," he replies.

"You want something to drink?" He asks, beckoning you to follow him into the kitchen. You do. "Oh, just water is fine, thanks. And ice if you've got."

He nods, filing your preference away then walking over to the fridge to pull out a pitcher, then a cupboard for a glass.

"So," you say, walking around to the opposite side of the kitchen island as him, "what got you calling up Washington's Finest?" He shrugs, sliding a glass full of ice water to you. You mouth a thanks before bringing it to your lips and taking a sip.

"What's anyone looking for when they order a hooker." He says, blunt as ever. You almost choke on the drink, setting it down with a thunk before coughing the water from your windpipe.

"Sorry- is that not what you're called?"

You shake your head, "no, I mean- hooker's not wrong it's just, we prefer call girl. Evokes a nicer image."

"Right. Call girl." He repeats, nodding his head.

You take one more sip, washing down any stuck remnants of liquid from your earlier near-asphyxiation. "So sex?"

"I'm sorry?" He asks.

"That's what most people are looking for when they order a hooker." You repeat his words back to him, earning a smile from the man. He nods, "can't argue with that logic."

He still hasn't answered your question.

"So... sex?" You try again

He coughs, like he was caught off guard. "Yeah, sure. I guess."

He says the words like they're true, but the look in his eyes says they're anything but.

"Right, okay." You reach into your purse and pull out a thin stack of folded paper. “Got a pen?” You ask, setting them both down on the counter: one in front of you, the other in front of Bucky. He quirks an eyebrow, “yeah,” then opens a drawer to retrieve one, “what’s this?”

“NDA,” you say plainly. He scoffs, “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head, “it’s nothing personal, just company policy.” You reach into your bag once more to take out your own pen, “it’s to cover both of our asses.”

He follows your lead, signing his name on the various lines and not bothering to read all the legal jargon. “Both our asses?” He questions, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s.

You nod, not once looking up from the page. “Mhmm, that way if I get drunk and start blabbing about all the congressmen I’ve slept with and your name comes up, then you can sue or whatever.”

He watches as you flourish the pen along the paper, marking your name and initials down, then meets your eyes when you slide the forms away. His brows are furrowed, “you get drunk and run your mouth a lot?” He asks, tone half joking.

You smile, “I don’t, but some of the other girls aren’t as careful, like to brag about their customers ‘n such.” He hums, sliding his own papers forward to stack on top of yours.

“You good? Ready?” You ask, putting your pen and the papers back in your bag. Bucky replies with a borderline shaky sigh. You squint, not normally the reaction you get from customers. “Everything okay?”

He nods, slow and unsure. “How does this work exactly? Do we just… start?” You shrug. “It can work however you want it to work. We can do whatever you want to do.”

“What if I want to just… talk first.”

His behaviour is a refreshing contrast to the men you normally deal with- their minds are set on getting your clothes off the second you walk through the door.

“That’s fine,” you smile, “we can talk.”

He nods and exhales, like a weight’s just come off his shoulders. “So,” you start, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Right,” he says, like he forgot that having a conversation would require actual talking.

“Um. What got you into…” he trails off, looking for the right words, “this line of work.”

You laugh, “oh this is not my dream job, believe me. I’m just doing this to get through law school, only got one year left. I’m getting out of this business the second I pass the Bar.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, he clearly wasn’t expecting that answer. “Wow, law school. You go to GW?” You shake your head, “Georgetown.”

“Damn. They've got a good program over there.”

“I know,” you nod, “and expensive.”

“Ah,” he mouths, “hence the…” he gestures between the both of you, referring to the situation at hand.

“Exactly.”

“Parents can’t afford to help you out a little?”

You shake your head, “it’s not that they can’t afford it, they-” you stop yourself with a sigh. Any other customer would get a rehearsed answer about why you’re in this business, but any other customer wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place. “My parents died a few years ago, bank gave me a hard time with the inheritance — not that it was a whole lot, and there wasn’t very much left over after I paid off their house & some debts.”

He gives you a sympathetic look, the same one everyone gives after you drop the dead parents bomb. You give him a look that brushes off whatever empathetic sentiment he's conjuring up before he can say it. You shrug, “wanted to go to law school, couldn’t afford it, found a way to afford it. That’s all it is.”

He still doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking into your eyes like they’ve got some answer he’s been looking for all his life.

“I’m not proud of it,” you add, starting to rationalize and he quickly starts to shake his head.

“Oh, I didn't mean to imply that you should be ashamed or anything- I mean, fuck I’m the one who- I don't know, hired you? if anything I should be ashamed.”

You huff, “don’t be, you’re... different.”

Bucky smiles at that. “Different?”

“Yeah, most other customers have one thing and one thing only on their mind when I’m around but,” you shrug, “I don’t know, you don’t? I guess? You care about more than just the sex, I mean. At least I think you do. I hope you do."

You add the last part under your breath- you're not even sure why you add it- you know better than to feel anything more than a tolerance for one of your customers.

“Call me old fashioned, I guess.” He jokes. Some of his nerves appear to slough off when you laugh.

“Yeah, something like that,” you reply.

The room falls into a sort of silence, coming about after your laughter fizzles out. It's not awkward though, just like you're both weighing the options of what to say next.

"How about you?" You fill the air with your voice, the question catches Bucky off guard. "What about me?" he answers.

"Why Congress?" You shrug, "being in the history book once isn't enough for you?" It's teasing, but the question behind it still stands: why politics?

He raises his eye brows, bringing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Wow. Okay. Calling me an attention seeker?"

You tilt your head, "most of you are. I don't know why else anyone would chose a job where your employer is the fucking general population."

"First of all," he starts, corner of his lip raising in a challenging smirk, "they're called constituents- I work for the great people of Brooklyn, thank you very much."

You laugh, "right, right, constituents. I ask again, why spend your life doing such... thankless work? I'm telling you, 90% of these congressmen & senators have some small dick insecurity or something and need some big, powerful job title to make up for it."

Bucky scoffs, taking a few steps around the kitchen island to stand beside you now, you turn to face him, leaning your side against the countertop.

"Well, I definitely don't have that problem," he says, leaning in close against your ear. His voice sends a pulse down your spine that's received between your legs- husky and low.

He pulls away from you and spots the way your eyes had fluttered just barely shut in response to his breath against your skin. You blink- once, twice- trying to adjust to his new proximity to you. "I guess I had just spent enough of my life hurting people, and I wanted what life I have left to be spent helping 'em instead." He mutters the words, searching through your eyes like he lost something in them and if he looks hard enough he'll find it.

Then his eyes flick down to your lips, for a split second- like he's wondering if he should kiss you or not. But when he shifts just marginally away from you- it seems like he's decided against it. Your breath catches in your throat when he shifts, a jolt of borderline disappointment passing through you.

"Kiss me."

The words leave you before your better judgement can tell you otherwise. He wasn't expecting that.

"What?"

You swallow. "Kiss me," you repeat- more sure this time.

"Kiss you?" He asks like he's trying to make 100% sure he heard you right.

You nod once. "Kiss me. Please."

Bucky absorbs the words, then brings a hand up to push a strand of hair behind your ear. He drags his fingers down your jaw, before cradling his hand there at the nape of your neck. His calloused fingertips sit just at the back of your head, then he presses them into your skin and draws you towards him. He pulls you in until your lips are just barely brushing against his.

His lips are dry- not chapped, not rough- but dry like they're looking for something to quench their thirst. They're a stark contrast to your own, meticulously glossed over in that perfect shade that brings out your eyes just right.

Then he kisses you- finally, he kisses you. It's painfully soft, and you're immediately craving more. You bring your own hand up to the side of his face, tangling your fingers into his chocolate brown hair as you deepen the kiss.

He hums into your mouth as his eyes fall shut, and brings his other hand- the metal one- to your waist, pulling your body flush against him. You thought it'd feel harsh, mechanical even, but somehow his touch still manages to be soft.

Suddenly all you can think about is what those fingers would feel like inside of you.

You take your other hand up to the other side of his face, pulling him impossibly closer to you, taking a deep inhale when you do. The air you bring in is mix of second hand smoke and vintage cologne, it's undeniably him.

That snaps the last strand of Bucky's control, the last little thread that had him holding on to any chivalrous sense of decency. He's desperate for you. He thought he was in need of connection- of touch, but the second you walked in his door?

He needed you.

More than he'd ever needed anything else before.

He travels both of his hands down to the backs of your thighs, and picks you up in one seamless motion. You're shocked at his strength at first, but them remember who you're dealing with: Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier- he could probably throw you around like it was nothing if he wanted to.

And God, you really hope he wants to.

You wrap your legs around his waist once he's lifted you, and he starts to maneuver you through his house. Walking masterfully through the expanse of hallways within the brownstone without breaking away from the kiss for so much as a breath.

He pushes the door open with your back, taking one hand from under you to flick on the lamp just enough so he can see where the bed is. The dark orange light from the fixture floods the room, bouncing off every available surface & enveloping your bodies in an auburn blanket of warmth.

He lowers you down onto the bed with ease and crawls over top of you. He presses one last firm kiss against your lips before pulling away. His breathing is heavy and ragged, and you can't help but notice the faint blush on his cheeks when you open your eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, his tone serious, "I know it's your job to say yes, but- do you want this?" If you say no he'd stop, of course he would, but right now he is praying to every higher power that you'll say yes.

No customer had ever asked you that before- asked the woman beneath the call girl what she wanted. And even if they did- it always came with the silent expectation that despite whatever you might want to say deep down, the answer would always be yes.

You nod, still breathless from the exchange earlier- but that's not enough for Bucky. "Words," he whispers, ducking his head down to the crook of your neck. "Tell me you want this, want me," he says, words muffled against your skin as he kisses it softly.

"Want this," you say, still nodding furiously, "want you."

He groans against your neck, raw and desperate. The vibrations ricochet down your body, landing with a throb between your thighs.

Bucky roams his hands down your body, and slides them under your shirt, splaying his fingers against your stomach. One hand's warm, inviting, sultry. The other- cool and unnaturally smooth. But both are soft, and the juxtaposing sensations makes you squirm.

"Fuck, you are so beautiful," he mumbles, tugging at the hem of your shirt then pulling it up over your head. You raise your arms to allow him to slide it off of you, leaving your chest covered with just the skimpy black lace bra you picked out before you left.

He travels his kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone, and across to the top of your ribcage. He moves down your chest, following along the geography of your sternum until his face is buried between your breasts.

One of his hands comes up to cup over the material, inner knuckle of his thumb brushing perfectly across your nipple. You gasp at the new contact, desperate to feel more of him- everywhere.

That sound only encourages him, emboldens him, and before you know it he's tucked his fingers underneath the thin material and is ripping the bra in half at the front seam. He pushes it aside and you shrug off the straps.

This bra was in your all star rotation- it was by far the most flattering one you owned. You should be upset, should scold him with something along the lines of making him buy you a new one, but right now you could not care less about that.

You're yanked from your train of thought when you feel Bucky's lips close around your nipple. His tongue swirling around the bud and teeth grazing it ever so gently. You arch your back, heaving your chest against him by consequence

He brings his hand to your unattended breast, squeezing and grasping at the flesh in just the right spots before pinching at that nipple.

“Please, Bucky,” you whimper, rolling your head back into his mattress while your fingers tug at his long dark strands of hair.

You feel him smirk against your chest, before he picks back up his head and slots his lips onto yours again. “Wanna taste you,” he says through kissing you, “can I?”

“You don’t have to, I’m-“

“I want to,” he cuts you off, “please?”

You nod, slow- but incredibly sure.

“O- okay. Yeah. Sure,” you breathe.

He smiles- like really smiles, then kisses you again1 before descending once more down your body. He leaves wet open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your chest and torso, hands working on undoing the clasp of your pants so he can push them off once he reaches the waistband.

He tosses the garment haphazardly somewhere in the room, before hooking his fingers through the band of your panties.

“This okay?” He asks, eyes hooded with lust as he looks up at you for your consent.

You nod- pathetically quick. “Yes. Please.”

The ends of his lips quirk upwards as he pulls the thin lacy material from your legs. It’s too slow- painfully slow. You wish he’d rip them off like he did with the bra.

Once they’re off, Bucky kneels on the floor in front of you, and hooks his arms under your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. He presses his lips to your clit, leaving a tender kiss over it, before licking a long steep stripe up your slit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands finding his hair again like there’s some kind of magnet drawing them there. You pull his face against your cunt, forcing his tongue into your hole and knocking his nose against your clit.

“Oh my god,” you moan, arching your hips off the bed and even further into him before he plants you by the hips back into the mattress. He delves his tongue inside you, prodding eagerly through your slick and fucking it in and out of you.

It feels good- feels so good- but it’s not enough.

Your instinct takes over though, months of experience in appeasing men and making them think they’re bringing you to the edge to stroke their ego.

You tone up the moans, raising your volume and repeating Bucky’s name like a mantra. All things to signal that you’re getting close. Your tugs at his hair turn to pulls, thighs pressing around his head, as you lean into the act of an impending orgasm.

It’s not that you didn’t think he could get you there- it’s that you didn’t want him to wait.

“Fuck, Bucky- ‘m gonna cum,” you whine, squirming under him relentlessly. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps lapping at your cunt with his tongue.

“Shit- I- fuck, I'm coming, Bucky I'm-" you cut yourself off with a pornographic moan. One perfected through numerous uses, it's always believable. Always makes the man feel good about himself that he 'made a woman cum.'

Bucky doesn't buy it though. Not for a second.

"No you're not," he says, voice stern and words getting muffled against your pussy. The stubble lining his jaw scrapes at your inner thighs when he speaks.

"Does this not work for you?" He asks, pulling away from you and caressing your thighs. You shake your head, "no- I'm sorry it's not that, I just- it doesn't matter if I feel good or not. You're the customer." You prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him.

His hair is disheveled from your hands being rooted in it, his chin and lips coated with your slick.

"Who the hell told you that?"

You shrug, "just common sense I thought."

He scoffs, "yeah well fuck that. Tell me what you want me to do. What you need me to do to get you there- for real."

"To be honest- I don't really know," you start.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow, "you don't know?"

You shrug again.

He sits back on his heels, sigh heaving from his chest. "Well, how 'bout this- when you touch yourself, what do you do that makes you cum?" The question's awkward, but for some reason you don't feel opposed to answering.

He traces his vibranium fingers up and down your inner thigh. The cool metal makes your muscles tense. "I want to make you feel good," he says, "but I can't do that if you don't tell me how to go about doing it."

You release a shaky exhale before you speak.

"I need something... inside."

Bucky smirks, "yeah? What's something?"

You shrug, "anything, really. Fingers, toy, dick."

He laughs at that, shaking his head before looking back up at you and leaning back in.

"Well how about," he starts, voice dangerously slow and fingers inching back towards your core, "I give you my fingers now, make you cum on those 'n get you all stretched out for me... Then, I give you the other thing."

You swallow hard, the anticipation building like a knot in your chest.

"Deal?" He asks, tip of his index finger brushing right above your clit. Your breath hitches when you nod. He smiles, "good girl. Now let me make you feel good."

And with that he disappears back between your legs.

Bucky wastes no time and gets right back to business. He wraps his lips around your clit like he never left, and pushes one finger into your tight cunt. He watches eagerly for your body's reaction, indulging in the way your head tilts into the mattress and your eyes roll back in the socket.

"That feel good?" He asks, the vibration against your pussy adds a new layer of pleasure. You nod quickly, "yes- fuck, feels good."

"Good," he smirks, adding a second finger into your hole and curling them inside you, then sucking harder at your clit. The moans slipping from your lips this time are angelic- ethereal, Bucky thinks. They're that beautiful because they're real. The sounds are a tangible demonstration of how good he's making you feel.

You don't notice when he adds a third finger, or when he brings his thumb to rub little circles at your clit, your senses are too bombarded with all the other inputs to register those little changes.

What you do notice, however, is how quickly you come tumbling towards the edge this time- the real edge, the brink of orgasm, not the metaphorical one you created to stroke the egos of your other customers.

Bucky notices too. Notices the way that when you're really close, you don't get louder, but get quieter- your jaw dropped open but no sounds to be heard. The way you clamp your eyes shut and grip onto his hair and the duvet for dear life. The way your hips writhe under him, desperately and subconsciously trying to create more friction for yourself.

He notices it all.

But his favourite thing he's noticed thus far, are the pretty noises you make when you do cum. No showy, perfectly defined moans, but little breathy whimpers that bleed into louder cries of his name as your release gushes out around his tongue.

Music to his ears.

"That's it, just like that, good girl," he coaxes, working you through the high. He gets lost in the way you taste, the noises you make- all of it.

What he doesn't notice that you've already come down from your first high, and so he doesn't stop. Just keeps laving at your slit, sucking at your clit and pumping three thick fingers inside your cunt until he's sending you hurdling towards a second orgasm.

"Oh my- fuckingGodBucky," the last words tumble from your lips in a single syllable as you cum again onto Bucky's tongue. He dips his mouth down, lapping up every last drop of your release like it could grant him eternal life.

When he finally pulls away, hands resting on your thighs to stop them from quaking, he sees the wet marks down your cheeks, and the new crystalline beads forming at the corners of your eyes.

He stands up quickly, a little concerned and hovers himself back over you again. "Hey," he speaks, voice soft, "you okay?" He brushes the hair from your face and the tears from your eyes.

All you can do is nod, breathing too heavy to form any words at the moment. After a second you speak, "felt too good." Bucky laughs, "too good? That sounds like a challenge."

You raise your eyebrows before tracing your eyes down his body, settling on the very evident bulge between his legs. "You did promise me something..." You trail, dragging one finger against him through the jeans. He lets out a strangled sigh at the tiniest bit of friction.

You smirk at your effect on him, before tugging him down to press your lips to his. You taste yourself on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth, you should be a little grossed out- but you could not care less.

The only thing on your mind right now is getting him inside of you.

You pull him to lie next to you, then roll yourself on top of him, straddling over his bulge and grinding your cunt against him. You moan into each others mouths, Bucky's hands find your ass, squeezing and groping at the flesh while yours move to the buttons of his shirt. Undoing them greedily- unapologetically eager to see what he looks like with nothing on.

He moves his arms to let you slide the shirt off of him, leaving him in just a white tank top which he sits up slightly to take off. You can't help but gawk when he's finally topless. Your eyes wander shamelessly over the expanse of his chest and you trace your fingers along the grooves of his muscles, lingering on the little scars and marks like you're trying to commit them to memory.

"Kids these days don't learn it's not polite to stare?" He says, snapping you out of the trance-like state his shirtless figure put you in.

You scoff, "what's not polite is looking like this and expecting me not to look." You lean down and press a kiss against his lips, "I'm just a girl. I see pretty abs & arms and I stare." You sit back up, shuffling down his legs to sit over his knees, then bringing your hands to undo the button and zipper on his pants.

He raises an eyebrow, "I have pretty abs and arms?" He asks, bending his knees to let you slide the slacks down and off of his legs. You stop dead in your tracks, fingers hooked into his boxers but not pulling them down yet- not when he just said that.

"You're joking, right?" He doesn't say anything, just stares at you with an amused look plastered onto his face, "Jesus Christ have you ever looked in a mirror, Bucky?" You shake your head through a laugh and finally pull his boxers down to free his cock.

You sigh at the sight of him. He's big- this you could assume from the way he carried himself. The confidence he exuded. The way he acted like he didn't have any physical detriments to compensate for.

But he's kind of- obscenely big.

You lick your lips and sweep your hair behind your ears and out of the way, before ducking down to take him in your mouth- but Bucky stops you before your lips even meet his tip.

"Not tonight," he says, "another time."

You raise an eyebrow, "another time?" He smirks, then pulls you up for a kiss, "yeah. Another time," he breathes, before pressing his lips to yours. Just from where you're straddling him, you can feel the head of his cock hitting dangerously close to your clit.

"I don't mean to inflate your ego anymore than it already is," you tease, pulling away to look down at him, "but- respectfully- how the fuck am I supposed to fit that inside of me?"

Bucky rolls his eyes playfully, then brings one hand to your hip and the other to wrap around himself, tilting it slightly so it lines up with your entrance. "You can take it. Don't worry." He moves you down by the hip just barely, you gasp when the very first millimeter of his cock prods into your entrance.

"Just take it slow, yeah? Take it slow."

He loosens his grip on your hips, allowing you to take the lead and decide how quickly you want to sink yourself onto him. You nod and plant your hands on his lower abdomen to steady yourself, before slowly- so, so slowly- moving down his length.

The stretch is unlike any you've ever felt before. A string of profanities floods out of your mouth and your head rolls back. Bucky's eyes threaten to close at the feeling of your walls hugging so tight around him, but he keeps them glued on where your bodies meet- watching intently at the way you swallow every inch of him inside of you.

"Just like that," he drawls, sucking in a breath and resisting every urge to buck his hips up and shove himself the rest of the way in.

"Holy shit, Bucky." Your breathing is ragged once you've finally sunk all the way down onto his length. The pads of his fingers are digging into the flesh of your hips, you're sure they'll leave bruises behind but all you can think about right now is how it feels like his cock is about to split you open.

"I know, baby, I know," he stutters, trying to maintain his composure as best he can. "I can't- fuck- too full, I can't," you shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes once again.

He pulls you down by the arm, lacing his fingers through yours then kissing you. It's soft, but only for a second. Before you know it he's sliding his tongue in your mouth and rolling you both over so he's on top now. He braces his forearms on either side of your head, and pulls away from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours.

"You want this? Hm?" He pushes a strand of hair from your face, "want me to fuck you?" His tone is cocky, he knows you want him, but he wants to hear you say it.

"Yes, yes- fuck, please," you whimper, still wholly consumed by the feeling of his thick cock inside you. He smirks, "atta girl," he presses one last kiss to your lips- needy and desperate, before drawing his hips back, then slamming them back into you.

You practically scream at his sudden movement, the pleasure and pain of the stretch blending together and making your vision all fuzzy. The pace he sets is slow, but hard. Unrelenting.

Bucky drops his head to the crook of your neck, biting and kissing at your clavicle. Out of the corner of his eye he spots your hand, desperately gripping at the thin linen sheets to ground yourself. He takes it in his, before pulling it to rest on his back. You nails dig in to the musculature almost instantly, summoning a deep groan from within him.

With that same hand, he takes your leg to sit around his waist, pushing himself even deeper inside of you. The new tilt of his cock now knocks perfectly against the spot inside you that has you seeing stars, drilling into it with every thrust.

The room is hot, your bodies sticky with sweat. The only thing you can hear is the sound of Bucky's hips smacking against yours, his breathy grunts in your ear with every rock of his body into yours, and your repetitive cries of his name.

The pleasure is everything. It's all consuming, earth shattering- but somehow it's still not enough.

"Please," you breathe, "need- fuck, go faster."

He picks his head up to look at you, "yeah?"

You nod, desperate- begging. "Need more, please."

Bucky scoffs, "need more?" He repeats- almost mocking you. You just keep nodding. "Well alright then," he grunts, and you can hear the smirk playing across his lips.

His next actions happen in a whirlwind. He pulls himself out of your pussy, coaxing a whine from your throat when you suddenly feel so empty. Then with one strong vibranium arm he's flipping you over, your face smushing into the pillow before you turn your head.

He brings the same hand underneath you, cool metal fingers splaying across your lower belly as he slams all the way back inside you. Your eyes go wide, accompanied by a load moan of his name before they're clamping down shut again.

His new rhythm is cruel. He looks down and watches the ripples of your ass with every thump of his hips into yours. Bucky presses the hand he has under you against your skin, he can literally feel himself sliding in and out of you. Can feel how deep he is inside of you.

"Oh my- God!" You choke out the last word when he pushes on your lower belly, walls immediately clenching around him.

He hisses out a breath, "you wanted this, hm? So take it. Be a good doll and take it."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky 'm gonna cum." Right as the words leave you, all your senses melt into a white hot static as your orgasm rips through your body.

"Yeahhh, atta girl. Just like that- cum on my cock just like that, huh?" His low voice coaches you through it, never once stopping his unrelenting hips against yours.

His hips finally start to stutter, right as his high starts creeping up on him. You can tell from his thrusts getting shallower that he plans on pulling out to finish- while it's the sensible thing to do- it's also the last thing you want him to do.

"Don't," you gasp.

"What?"

"Don't pull out. Wanna feel you, please God, need to feel you."

He wants to ask if you're sure, but before he can form the words he's falling over the edge. He groans your name and shoots his spend deep inside you, marking you- ruining you for anyone else.

Bucky's thrusts into you turn lazy, then coming to a complete halt right before he pulls out of you. One last whimper falls from your lips, your hole feeling both so empty yet so full of him.

"Holy shit," he huffs, sliding his hand from under you and rolling to lie down next to you.

You turn onto your side to look over at him, your eyes still find a way to linger on his chest. Once he cracks his eyes open and sees you ogling him again, he can't help but laugh.

"You've really got quite the staring habit, huh?"

Your lips turn up into a smile, "can't exactly help it."

He shakes his head, letting his eyes fall shut as his breathing finally comes back to a normal pace. The both of you are too tired to say anything, but really- there's nothing that needs to be said.

He wasn't expecting a girl like you to be the one that knocked on his door- nor were you expecting a man like him to answer. Both of you know this was more than just a business exchange. Even though there'd be money deposited in your account after this, it felt different.

This wasn't just a hook up- it was a reckoning.

When Bucky opens his eyes again, there's a different look in them. And when he stares at you, searching through your own eyes for the answer he's been looking for all night- it's like he's finally found it.

He pulls you into him, moving you so that you lay your head on his chest. He presses a kiss into your hair, and traces his hand up and down your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything more, his eyes said it all already- stay.

And you do.

please let me know what you think!!! reblogs & comments mean more than u know!!!

[danidrabbles]

I'm such a sucker for a good neighbours to lovers story....

I love how it opens. The "Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby." line is so good because it feels like that too when he's tending to her wounds - the fact that he has a suture kit at home, prepared for anything... But then there's also the banter that you know from him (“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?” made me giggle, like I can just see the expression accompanying that). She's so sweet in her way of repaying him. I loved how she was immediately worried he was gluten free when she noticed his demeanour.

It was so lovely to read about how easily they fall into a routine. That it kind of creeps up on them and suddenly they're having these trusting moments, and deep conversations. It's nice for Robby to have someone he can talk about his day with and who will sit with him when he can't speak about it. Was this 🤏 close to squealing when he stayed the night when she was sick and they were all snuggled up together 🥺

I LOVE it when romantic stories have this oh moment when one character realizes they have feelings for the other, and I love that this story had that; showing up at her door, giving her that big kiss... so good. One of my favourite moments in the smut was when she was getting overwhelmed, and that she didn't feel ready for the release and had to switch positions; that just felt so grounded in reality.

This was so sweet, and sexy, and great. Thank you for writing and sharing!

STITCHED TOGETHER

PAIRING: michael “robby” robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

SUMMARY:

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, dual pov, mentions of blood/wounds, mentions of domestic/child abuse (a case at the hospital), hurt/comfort, neighbors to lovers, baked goods as a flirting mechanism, explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), vaginal fingering, edging, oral - f receiving, light choking, praise kink, dirty talk, kissing, begging, p in v, multiple positions - missionary and cowgirl, a sprinkle of domesticity

Your hand pulses with pain. The dish towel you’ve wrapped tightly around your palm is now stained with blood. You raise your fist to knock on your neighbor’s door, hoping that he’s home. You don’t know much about Robby, but you know he works long shifts at the ER, always leaving the apartment with a thermos of coffee and coming home late with shadows under his eyes.

There’s no answer to your knock, no sounds of movement from behind the door, and you mumble a curse beneath your breath. You lift the towel from your palm to check the wound, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin and making you wince. It’s still just as deep as it felt and you’re pretty sure you need stitches but—

“Everything okay?”

You look up. Robby is standing at the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell closing behind him. He must have just finished at work since he’s still dressed in a pair of wrinkled scrubs, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. You suddenly feel very guilty for bothering him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, aiming for nonchalant. His eyes catch on your hand where you have it cradled close to your body. Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, long strides carrying him down the hall. He drops the backpack on his shoulder to the floor, all his attention zeroed in on your hand. “Let me see.”

You hold your hand out. He carefully unwraps the towel.

“It’s fine, really, I was just going to ask if you think I need stitches—“

“You do.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better—“

“I can do it.”

“No, no, that’s okay, I can just —“ Robby looks up at you, still holding your hand, and you feel your heart lurch at the sharp edge in his eye. The rest of your words fade away.

“Come on, I’ve got a suture kit under the sink,” he says, grabbing his bag and digging his keys from the front pocket. He unlocks the door to his apartment, leaving it open behind him in a clear invitation. After a second of hesitation, you follow him, shutting the door behind you.

Robby’s apartment is a mirror image of yours. Open concept, with the living room blending into a dining area that opens up to the kitchen. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it’s clearly lived in — a stack of magazines on a low coffee table, a comfortable looking leather couch with a blanket draped over the back, and a small collection of empty coffee cups on the counter by the sink.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, crouching down to fetch the aforementioned suture kit. “Bring your hand over the sink for me.”

You do as you’re asked, unwrapping the towel and setting it on the counter. Robby washes his hands and dries them with a paper towel before pulling on some blue gloves, his motions steadfast and efficient. He picks up a squeeze bottle with a long, curved tip and holds out a hand for yours.

He squeezes the contents of the bottle over your wound, using it to wash away some of the dried blood. When it’s clean, he sets the bottle down.

“Good news is that you didn’t manage to hit any tendons,” he says. “Bad news is that hand injuries hurt like a bitch.” He picks up a syringe, uncapping it and sticking it into a vial of clear fluid. “Some lidocaine will help while I stitch you up. When it wears off, you’ll need some Tylenol. You got any at your place?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He sticks the needle into your palm and you resist the urge to flinch. Each time he repositions it, you hold your breath.

“You gotta breathe for me. I know it hurts, but when it kicks in you’ll feel a lot better.”

You take a deep breath, the exhale shaky. Finally, he finishes with the needle. The pain has eased considerably as the anesthetic begins to do its job.

“Have a seat at the table for me,” Robby says, tilting his head toward the dining area. You settle into one of the chairs and he drags another close to you, setting a sterile bag on the table before taking a seat.

Peeling the bag open, he methodically removes the contents. First the blue sheet that he unfolds and lays on the table, followed by the tray of utensils. He pats the sheet and you set your hand, palm up, on it.

“So, you gonna tell me how you did this?” He asks, opening a swab stained with brown liquid that he runs over the edges of your wound.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” you reply, heat rising to your cheeks. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a little smile.

“I’ve seen some stupid stuff. Promise this won’t even phase me.”

You sigh. “I was cutting an avocado.”

“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” He rips open a small package, pulling out a curved needle with a length of string already attached. “Finish the story.”

“I was holding it and sliced a little too deep. Went straight through the avocado skin and right into mine.”

“I wasn’t too far off. First stitch,” he says, sticking the needle through the edge of the cut. “Good thing I got home when I did.”

“I would have just gone to the ER if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, and you would have been waiting a few hours to get seen.”

“I feel bad. You’re off the clock. I’m sure you had things you wanted to do.”

“Had a hot date with my shower and some pizza rolls. I think they’ll forgive me for being late.”

You laugh and his eyes flick up, watching you for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. A comfortable silence settles between you and you take the opportunity to really look at Robby.

He’s older than you by a few years if the grey in his beard is anything to go by. His dark hair looks like it’s grown out a bit from a shorter style and is a little messy, like maybe he’s run his fingers through it a few times. There are faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that grow deeper when his lips curl up in a smile. He’s handsome, you’ve thought as much since introducing yourself when you moved in, but up close and hunched over your hand, helping you with a gentle touch, he’s nearly devastating.

“Done,” he announces, reaching for the surgical scissors on the tray and snipping the end of the suture. “These are meant to fall out as the wound heals, so unless you notice any signs of infection, you shouldn’t need any follow up.”

“That was fast,” you say, looking over the neat row of stitches appreciatively.

“Years of practice.” He wraps a roll of gauze around your palm. “Keep the bandage on for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can take it off but keep the area clean. Don’t soak it in anything. Try not to move your hand too much so they don’t pop. Alternate between Tylenol and Motrin for the pain.”

“I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try to be.”

Though he’s trying to make a joke, his tone sounds despondent. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning up the table, avoiding your gaze. You decide not to press him for an explanation. He hardly owes you one.

Later, back in your apartment and lying in your bed, you replay every moment of your interaction with Robby. The way he gently held your hand to check the wound, the confidence with which he moved, the sadness in his voice. You decide that you have to repay him for his help and you know just the way to do it.

Robby is half asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door. He checks his watch and frowns. It’s just after eight, the sky dark outside the window, and he’d taken an unexpected nap after his shift. His stomach grumbles, the aching hunger he’d felt when falling asleep returning with a vengeance.

He stands and stretches, rubbing the back of his neck as it cracks and shuffling down the hall to open the door. You’re standing across the threshold with a plate in your hands and a bright smile on your face.

“Hey! I hope I’m not bothering you,” you say, smile faltering as you take him in. “Did I just wake you up?”

“Just from a nap,” he replies, willing himself to look less grumpy. Based on the way your smile dips into a frown, he’s probably not doing a great job. “It’s fine, I promise.”

“I brought cookies. As a thank you. For fixing my hand.” You hold the plate out toward him and he takes it. The bottom is warm. “Chocolate chip.”

The scent reaches him and he nearly groans. “Thank you, but I can’t take these.”

“Are you gluten free? Shit, I should have asked before making something.”

“No, I just mean you don’t need to thank me.”

“Of course I do!”

At that moment, his stomach betrays him, audibly announcing his hunger. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands on your hips, and he knows he’s lost this argument.

“Fine. If you’ll come in and eat one, too,” he says. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, turning to head toward his kitchen and hoping you’ll follow. When the door shuts and the soft sound of footsteps grows louder, he fights back a victorious smile.

He sets the plate on the counter and pulls off the aluminum foil on top. A small pile of golden brown chocolate chip cookies sits on the ceramic. You stand on the other side of the island, watching him. He picks one of the cookies up and takes a bite, groaning at how delicious it is.

“Christ, that’s good,” he says, punctuating the compliment with another bite. “You made these?”

“Yep. Even used the good chocolate. The real secret is a sprinkle of fancy sea salt.” You reach across the counter and pluck one of the cookies from the pile for yourself.

“How’s your hand doing?” Robby asks. You hold the hand in question out towards him. It’s been a little over a week and some of the stitches have started to dissolve, two of them still hanging on near the deeper part of your wound. “Looks good.”

“Thanks to a good doctor,” you say. He snorts, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. You frown, but don’t try to dig, which is nice. He’s so used to being around people who want him to be an open book when he’d rather sit quietly on a shelf, handling things on his own.

“I need to order dinner.” He turns his back to you, rifling through his junk drawer for the menu of the Chinese place down the street.

“I’ll just—“

“You wanna stay?” He asks, cutting you off. Your eyes go wide with surprise and he begins to internally berate himself when your expression shifts, going soft and warm.

“Sure. What are we ordering?”

It becomes a thing.

The first batch of cookies was a thank you. The second batch was a recipe test. Your excuse for the third batch was that you just made too many and would he want some?

He never turns you away, even if he looks dead on his feet from a long shift. He perks up when he spots the plate in your hands and invites you inside, singing your praises as he tries the recipe of the week. At the rate you’re going through sugar and butter and flour, you’ll need a membership to one of those bulk stores by the end of the month.

Robby doesn’t knock on your door, never seeks you out himself, but he does ask you to stay whenever you stop by. Over dinner, he’ll ask you about your week and listen as you talk about your job or the plans you made with your friends. He doesn’t talk about his own work much, not unless he’s got a funny story to share. You have a feeling he keeps the difficulty of his job close to his chest, shouldering the concern on his own.

That changes on a Friday night.

It��s late, nearly midnight, and you’re reading in bed, a half drunk glass of wine on your nightstand. A sound breaks through your concentration and you pause your reading, listening for it again.

It’s a knock. Soft, so soft you can barely hear it, three taps against your door, followed by silence. You scramble from your bed, nearly tripping on the duvet in the process, and rush down the hall.

When you open the door, Robby is there. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you know without asking that he’s had a tough night. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, the way he’s staring at you without really seeing.

“Come inside,” you tell him. He nods and walks past you, pausing in your living room. Compared to his apartment, yours exudes personality. Mismatched furniture and bookshelves full of memories, photographs and art on the walls.

He takes it in while you head to the kitchen, pulling together a sandwich from the contents of your fridge and filling a glass with water. You bring the plate of food and the glass to the living room, placing both on the coffee table and settling yourself on the couch, legs crossed under you. When he doesn’t move, you pat the cushion next to you.

“Eat,” you command.

Robby does as you ask and starts with the water. He drains the glass in a few desperate gulps and you refill it for him while he starts on the sandwich. You turn the TV on to fill the silence, putting on a nature documentary. You watch the show, your attention half on the eating habits of pangolins and half on the man beside you, concern creeping up your spine.

He still hasn’t said anything.

When the plate and glass are both empty, you start to get up to clear them away, but a warm hand on your wrist holds you in place. Your gaze locked with Robby’s, you slowly sit back down. He releases your wrist and you bring your hand up, settling it on the back of his neck and gently tugging him towards you, urging him to lie down. His head is on your lap, pillowed on your bare thighs, and he brings his knees close to his chest to fit the rest of his body on the couch.

You run your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. The tension eases from his body, like a balloon slowly losing air. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a contented sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask.

“Not really.”

“Because you don’t want to or because you think I wouldn’t want to hear about it?”

He sighs. “You don't want to hear this shit. Trust me.”

“We’re friends, Robby. You can talk to me.”

“Friends, huh?”

“Yeah. Friends,” you reply, despite the sudden dryness of your mouth and the racing of your pulse. He’s quiet for a long moment and you think maybe he still won’t open up but then he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Lost a patient today. A teenager who got between his mom and his piece of shit dad that was wailing on her. The guy pulled a gun on his own son and ran.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He turns, lying more on his back. His eyes are wet with tears that have gathered but refuse to fall. “We did everything we could do. I know that. But I had to look that mom in the eyes that her husband bruised and tell her that her baby was gone.”

There’s nothing you could say to take the pain away, so you don’t. But, you sit through it with him.

Sometimes, that can be enough.

Robby paces the length of his apartment from the door to the kitchen. It’s been a week since that night in your apartment and he can’t get it out of his head.

First he was stuck on the way you took care of him, how you knew what he needed without having to say anything. You were the calm to the storm in his head, the one that raged despite every strong command given to his team in an effort to save the boy’s life that day. He tends to shoulder the responsibility and, subsequently, the guilt on his own but it had been surprisingly helpful to let someone else in, someone who wanted to be there for him without a shared trauma bond. He felt lighter when he returned to his apartment that night.

Over the last couple days, however, the fixation shifted to the way your hands felt on him. The memory of your fingers dragging through his hair, though soothing in the moment, has morphed into something more. It’s no longer a gentle caress in his mind, but a sharp tug while he’s got his face between your thighs, tongue diving deep and desperate.

Despite these thoughts, he’s hesitant to reach out again, especially with these new ideas for how to spend his time with you in his head. But you also hadn’t come over in a week and he worries that maybe you view him differently now that he’s let the wall down a little, he probably should have just—

“Achoo!”

Robby pauses, his attention gripped by the sudden sound that came from the direction of your apartment. He drifts closer to his living room wall.

“Achoo!”

Another sneeze, followed by a pained groan. Are you…sick? Is that why you haven’t come around yet? Before he can overthink it, he’s leaving his apartment and knocking on your door.

When you answer with a blanket held tight around you and a tissue clenched in your hand, he feels a conflicting rush of relief and concern. You sniffle loudly.

“Robby? What are you doing here?”

“I heard you sneeze.” You blink at him, wobbling a bit on the spot. He reaches out to steady you, hands on your shoulders. Gently, he urges you back inside your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He leads you to your room, the same as his but infinitely more comfortable. While he furnished his apartment, he didn’t take care to really make it a home, not when he spends so many hours at work. He didn’t see the point. Stepping into your room, it’s the opposite, facets of your personality in every corner.

He sits you down on the edge of the bed. A pile of tissues has taken up residence on your nightstand and he gathers them up while you make a feeble attempt to stop him.

“That’s gross, don’t touch those,” you whine. “I can clean them up.”

“Lie down,” he commands.

“Bossy, bossy.”

Robby hides his smile by leaving the room to throw the tissues in the trash. While in the kitchen, he finds your cabinet of mismatched cups and fills one with water. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds an open box of crackers that he brings back to your room.

“Where’s your medicine?” He asks. You gesture towards the bathroom and he digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few into his palm and brings them back to you. “Take these.”

“If I had a nickel for every time you told me to take Tylenol, I’d have two nickels.”

He laughs as he watches you swallow down the medicine and drink half of the glass of water. He hands you a sleeve of crackers.

“Eat a couple of those so that you don’t end up with an upset stomach.”

When you’ve finished, you set the remaining crackers on your nightstand and wiggle down the bed, bringing your blanket up to your chin. Robby sets a palm on your forehead and you watch him with an expression he can’t name.

“Am I gonna be alright, doc?” You ask. He smiles.

“Yeah, I think you’ll pull through.”

“Will you stay with me?”

Rather than respond, he walks around your bed to the other side and toes off his sneakers. He gets on the bed, staying on top of your blankets as he makes himself comfortable. You turn on your side to look at him.

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper.

“That’s what friends do.”

You wake to a heavy weight around your waist and warmth at your back. At first you’re confused until the memory of asking Robby to stay with you comes into focus. You remember him getting in bed with you, keeping himself on top of the covers while you snuggled underneath to fight off the constant chill your fever brought on.

You turn over slowly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still on top of the covers but he’s curled himself around you, his head nearly on your pillow in an effort to get closer. His chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths and his features are soft with sleep.

The shrill beep of an alarm breaks the silence and Robby wakes with a sharp inhale. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep as he moves around, presumably trying to get his phone out to shut off the alarm. The noise abruptly cuts off and you hear him let out a deep breath.

He shifts beside you. A palm is pressed to your forehead and his touch lingers for a moment, his fingers tracing your cheek as he pulls away. You fight to keep your breathing slow and even despite the fierce pounding of your heart against your ribs.

Robby gets up from the bed, the mattress creaking as his weight lifts from it. You hear his light footsteps around the room, followed by the quiet click of your door being shut. With him gone, you turn onto your back and stare up at the ceiling.

You know he had to leave, he probably had to get ready for work, but you wish he didn’t. A fantasy plays out in your head, one where he gets to sleep in and you wake up before him, sneaking into the kitchen to make coffee. He wakes up while you’re waiting for it to finish brewing, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his beard tickling your neck when he kisses your neck. The image fades as sleep catches up to your exhausted body, pulling you back into its embrace for the rest of the morning.

“Dr. Robby?”

Robby shakes his head free of his thoughts and looks to his left. Mel’s got a clipboard in her hands and a question in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” She asks in that blunt but empathetic way of hers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks in return. She blinks.

“Oh, uh, it’s just…you seem distracted?”

He is distracted. There’s been a restless fire in his veins ever since he woke up beside you, holding you close. He hasn’t seen you in a couple days now, giving you the space to get over your cold, and it has him growing a bit desperate, though he would never admit as much out loud and especially not to one of the med students.

“Everything is fine, Dr. King. Whatcha got for me?”

Mel launches into a presentation on a twenty-three year old female that was triaged for abdominal pain. Robby listens attentively and joins her at the patient’s bedside as she delivers a diagnosis and describes the treatment plan. One patient turns into…somewhere around thirty, he thinks. He lost count.

Finally, he finishes his shift and heads out into the night. Back in his apartment, he showers, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth for good measure. He’s rushing through the after work motions, an energy in him that he only feels when he’s making a split second call that could mean life or death in the ER.

Basic needs met, he gets his shoes on and leaves his apartment. Five quick steps have him knocking at your door. His pulse kicks into high gear when he hears your footsteps on the other side.

You open the door and your smile lights up your face when you see him and he knows you’re saying something but his focus is entirely zeroed in on your lips and how he desperately needs to feel them against his. He reaches out, framing your face between his palms. There’s a flash of surprise in your eyes but then he’s kissing you.

Finally.

“Hey! I was just about—“

Your words are cut off by Robby kissing you.

Robby is kissing you.

With his hands on your jaw, he urges you back inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. One large palm moves cradles the back of your head, cushioning the blow when your back hits the wall and he presses his body close to yours, chest to chest and a thigh between your legs.

You’re in sensory overload, overwhelmed by the feel of his broad shoulders beneath your hands, the smell of his shampoo, and the faint taste of mint when his tongue tangles with yours. His hand settles on the side of your neck and you wonder if he can feel the way he makes your heart race beneath his palm.

When he pulls back, he traces a thumb over your lips, open admiration in his gaze. He presses down on your lower lip and you obey the silent command to open up, let him in, give him more. His breath stutters when you close your lips around his thumb and suck. He pulls it free with a lewd pop, dragging his hand down your neck, squeezing lightly at the base of your throat. Before you can react, his touch ventures lower and you gasp when he roughly palms your breast. Your hips flex against his thigh in a bid for friction.

All of a sudden, Robby steps back, taking your hand in his and leading you down the hall to your bedroom.

“Get on the bed,” he says, voice low and rough. You hurry to comply, crawling up the mattress and lying back on the pillows, anticipation and the hungry look on his face making the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable.

He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your legs, and runs his hands over your thighs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. You arch your back when his thumbs dig into the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. A whine escapes you.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks.

“Want you to fuck me,” you tell him, lifting your hips.

“Can’t do that yet.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Robby’s fingers curl into the elastic of your shorts, pulling the fabric down. You lift your hips again so that he can pull them off and toss them to the floor, leaving you in your underwear. His hand presses one of your thighs to the mattress, keeping you spread open for him as he drags his thumb over your pussy, starting at the damp spot near your entrance until he reaches your clit.

“You have to cum on my fingers,” he presses down against your clit, “and my mouth first. Think you can do that?”

When you don’t respond to his question, the deep pressure of his thumb is replaced by a light smack of his fingers. You gasp at the sharp contrast in sensation and try to close your legs instinctively, only to be blocked by his body and the firm grip of the hand still on your thigh.

“Answer me,” he demands, removing his hands from you and raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes,” you tell him. You’re pretty sure you would do anything this man asks as long as he touches you again. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.

“Good girl.”

Those two little words are like a bolt of lightning straight to your core and he knows it, his knowing gaze making you feel hot and flustered. He removes your underwear and with the last barrier gone, he drops to his stomach and brings his face mere inches from your soaked pussy.

His breath fans across your heated skin and that’s the only warm up you get before his mouth is on you, his tongue circling your clit and lapping at your entrance. Your hands are drawn to his hair, fingers gripping the short strands. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit between his lips and groans when you pull sharply on his hair in response.

If you thought Robby would finish this quickly to get on to the main event, you were incredibly mistaken. The man between your legs brings you to the brink of release before dragging you back from the edge more times than you can count, to the point where tears gather in the corners of your eyes and you let out a pained groan of frustration.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, lifting his head but keeping up steady circles of his thumb against your clit. Not fast enough to bring you off, just enough to keep your need simmering at the surface. You glare at him.

“Let me come already,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs.

“You could try asking nicely. Say please.”

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing around words that won’t form. He brings his mouth back to your abused bundle of nerves, licking with broad circles that have you seeing stars. You’re so close, just a little more—

He starts to pull back. The pressure of his tongue grows lighter. You drop your head to the mattress and one of those trapped tears finally escapes, rolling down your temple. You’ve never begged a man for anything before but there’s a first time for everything.

“Please, please, please,” you gasp. “Robby, please.”

Two fingers press against your entrance and slide inside, the sudden stretch making you gasp. He curls them against your inner walls with each drag of his hand from your body. The pressure and speed of his tongue on your clit increases. Your thighs start to shake as the thread of tension in your core tightens until it finally snaps and you come with a strangled shout of his name.

Robby doesn’t stop touching you. He keeps his fingers buried in your cunt and his mouth busy by gently licking you through the waves of your orgasm. Finally, he sits up. You watch as he takes off his shirt and stands up quickly to remove his shoes and sweatpants. His cock bobs free and your mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Not excessively long but he is thick and if you thought his fingers were a stretch, his cock might just split you in half. A bead of precum has gathered at the slit and you watch him smooth his thumb through it before dragging his fist over his length with a groan.

“Condoms?” He asks.

“Top drawer.”

He grabs a foil packet and tosses it on the bed before crawling over you, settling his body over yours. He kisses you, deep and slow, grinding his hips into yours and dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you. His lips deliver the taste of you to your tongue, earthy and erotic. You moan into the kiss when he drags against your clit.

Keeping himself balanced with one elbow on the bed beside your head, he uses his free hand to hitch your leg over his hip, opening you wider and bringing you closer. His lips find your neck, lavishing your sensitive skin with kisses and nips of his teeth. You need this man inside of you now.

“Robby, please.”

He nods against your neck, sitting up only long enough to roll the condom down his length before his weight is back on you, pressing you into the mattress. He flexes his hips against you but this time, the thick head of his cock catches against your entrance and he starts to ease inside, achingly slow. His eyes stay fixed to yours as he does.

“You feel so fucking good,” Robby says, face buried against your neck. You clench around him in response and he chokes on a groan. “Don’t do that, I’m trying not to embarrass myself here.”

You do it again for good measure.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowed at you, and pulls his hips back, his cock dragging against the same spot that made you come on his fingers. He thrusts forward with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs.

He sets a pace that has you seeing stars and moaning his name like a prayer. Your orgasm builds, coiling tight in your center, but you’re not ready for the release. You push against Robby’s shoulder and his expression grows concerned, a deep crease forming between his brows as he pulls back, allowing you room to sit up.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks.

“No, no,” you assure him. “I just…can I get on top?”

A boyish grin chases the worry from his face and he flops onto his back in the empty space on the mattress. You laugh as you straddle his hips though it turns into moan when you sink down onto his cock. The angle is deeper and there’s an added friction to your clit with every roll of your hips. Robby’s hands are everywhere, squeezing your ass roughly or pinching a tight nipple between his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head pressed back into the pillow, the long line of his neck on display. “Just like that.”

You place your hands on his chest for balance, the dusting of coarse hair tickling your palms. When you lean forward, he meets you in a kiss that’s mostly shared breath. Your pace slows and Robby takes over, his feet planted on the mattress to thrust up into you.

“Come for me,” he says against your lips. “I need it, sweetheart, come on.”

You drop your head against his neck, licking at the sweat damp skin as your orgasm returns, no longer a slow building wave but a tsunami that floods your nerves and leaves you drowning in sensation. Your walls tighten around his cock and he groans, dragging you down onto his lap and holding you there as he pulses inside of you.

Sweat cools on your skin. Your breathing slows. His hands trail up and down your back, the gentle touch and cold air of your room making your skin prickle. You lift your head and press your forehead against his.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.

“Just Robby is fine,” he says.

You lift your head so that he can see you roll your eyes before slowly getting up, a satisfying ache in your muscles and between your legs. You go to the bathroom and Robby comes in as you’re washing your hands, tossing the condom in the trash and washing his hands as well.

You return to bed, crawling beneath the blankets. Robby joins you, lying on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, your eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.

“Will you stay with me?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Robby wakes to sunlight and the smell of coffee. He stretches before finally rolling out of bed and finding his sweatpants on the floor, pulling them on to follow the scent of dark roast straight to the kitchen.

He finds you at the counter, your hips swaying to a song that plays at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on your dining table. A pan sizzles on the stove and you pour the contents of a bowl into it. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck. You turn in his hold and kiss him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He could get used to mornings like this.

When you turn back around, you pick up a knife and reach for the basket of fruit on the counter, plucking something from the pile.

“I hope that’s not an avocado.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting 💕

Masterlists

[astonmartinii]

charles leclerc masterlist

margarita: £23

the margarita is for the people who are always yapping and seem to know everyone in every room, and we all know charles loves to gossip.

BIG REPUTATION

they may have a big reputation and they may be end game, but sometimes you need a push from your girlfriend to enter your reputation era

one - two

HOME TIES

got a home race curse? that's no match for the power of friendship

ALL IS FAR IN LOVE AND WAR

y/n is happy in her relationship with carlos but all that time in the ferrari garage might have her eye wandering

BIRTHDAY WISHES

it's grid princess y/n wolff's birthday - also known as an f1 national holiday x wolff!reader

THE STUDENT LIFE

charles leclerc goes to stay with his girlfriend at university during the off season, safe to say the student life is not for him

one - two

LOVE LANGUAGES

charles and y/n show off their love languages, gift giving and words of affirmation

MOTORMOUTH

charles finally gets the chance to go on his favourite internet show, but completely embarrasses himself in front of the host - his celebrity crush 

CAT MOM

charles and y/n accidentally become cat parents and take it about as seriously as you would expect 

AUTHOR

charles x author!reader

BIG GIRLS DO(N'T) CRY

charles' gf just can't seem to catch a break

TIGHT KNIT

spa 2021, where a knitting hobby comes in handy

FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS

charles' gf is beloved in the fandom for her love for frienship bracelets

YOU AND ME GOT A WHOLE LOTTA HISTORY

y/n is a historian and it’s not her fault her bf’s job takes him all around the world…

ANGEL BABY, DEVIL CHILD

enemies to lovers blah blah blah

UNDERCOVER VERSTAPPEN

get you a girlfriend who will threaten mutiny to get you a seat at a competent team x verstappen!reader

NONSENSE... OR IS IT?

based on this request: sooo, anyways,,, i was thinking maybe a smau where Charles is playing the guy who Milo was and this obviously breaks the internet even more and this leads to them dating ??? idk, just like a really wholesome one where she was his celebrity crush and now they're dating bc of them getting know each other more bc of the music video.

A VERY NONSENSE CHRISTMAS

based on this request: Hi, how are you can you please write something with Charles x singer reader like a part 2 of "nonsense... or is it?" based on Santa doesn't know you like I do music video something very wholesome idk you can ignore this if you want, hope you have a good day/night 🤍

GUILTY AS SIN? (SERIES)

a contract ends, a relationship is exposed and even with everything on the line, she still loves him x sainz!reader

WHEREVER THE ROOTS MAY LEAD YOU

when one takes an ancestry test they don’t usually expect to find out that their half brother is now racing in formula one… x antonelli!reader

DAY SEVEN: (CHRISTMAS STAR POWER)

oh how one lie can spiral

(PIANO) KEYS TO YOUR HEART

who knew the fan stages could be so romantic?

THE KING OF MONZA CAN DO WHAT HE WANTS

the king of monza can win the race, have his relationship exposed and challenge his soon-to-be father-in-law to a duel, he can do what he wants.

FATHER WHO STEPPED UP

mr leclerc has been spotted with an all too familiar dog recently. x gasly!reader

[ponyisle]

I'm so curious, do you consider Daybreak a bad pony for all she has done? Does Daybreak consider herself a bad pony? To Wish, to Twi? How much has she been forgiven by others, how much has she forgiven herself? There's also themes of disability to all three of them. Day's stress-induced migraines from overwork. The blindness, vocal atrophy, wing atrophy, chronic illness and the mental toll that comes from a millenia of isolation. Twilight's wing deformities and migraines upon being forcibly turned. Obviously, sickness is not a moral trait (I write this as a disabled woman myself) but I can't help but untangle Day's responsibility in both of their conditions. Although she was not intentionally malicious in her actions, and although she must have grown, repeatedly she was selfish. Repeatedly, she irreparably changed the fate of someone who trusted her.

Just thoughts. I love this project!

i have SO many thoughts about Daybreak, shes one of my favorite ponies to write, and i know this is probably the most asked question about my AU. idk how to explain a lot of it without spoiling what i have planned.

from my perspective: i didn't write Daybreak to be a "bad person" or a villain(doesn't make what she's done right in any capacity mind you). She has been selfish, arrogant, and downright neglectful at times. She's a pony who, much like twilight, was given little to no choice in her life. and when she DID make her own choices with the limited knowledge she had, it always ended up hurting somepony she deeply cared for. She views herself as almost entirely irredeemable. Burdened with the responsibility of an entire species while feeling like she is doomed to fail them. She's put the ponies at the forefront of her concerns, which in earlier years meant neglecting the only other pony who could possibly understand her position(Wish). She does not think she's worthy of her sisters forgiveness despite all her attempts to make things right.

Wish ultimately forgives her sister after many years of silence and making up(this will be expanded upon in comics i don't wanna give away too much but its a lengthy process). She doesn't see Daybreak as a bad pony, and after Day actually starts listening to how Wish feels and opening up herself, they both start to actually understand each other.

While Day thought what she was giving to Twilight was a gift, after seeing her reaction to her transformation Day regresses in her progress Big Time. Daybreak cared for Twilight, but just like with Wish, she thought she knew what was best, thought she could "fix" things. Twilight and Day's relationship is never quite the same, they don't really "make up" the way she and Wish did. For the first few years Twi DESPISES Day, but she doesn't see her as a bad person per say. She definitely resents her for being just another pony that's taken away an incredibly important choice from her. Realizing she will live on as her friends pass away, outliving everyone around her, its horrifying to grapple with that newfound knowledge. Twi realizes that Day isn't the all knowing deity that everypony seemed to think she is. They have a professional relationship later on, and maybe as the story progresses I'll expand more on that, but for now they're on extremely rocky terms.

The central theme in cantergale is acceptance and forgiveness, that doesn't mean each character with receive both from everyone. The sisters are a reflection of my own relationship with my sibling(projection<3). Day has to come to terms with the fact that no amount of apologies and change can reverse what she's done. She has to learn to forgive herself and accept her actions. Everything else is out of her control.

Its hard for me to describe any character as strictly bad or good, its not smth i think about when writing, i try to leave it up for the viewer to decide for themselves. My main goal is to inspire some sort of emotion. You feel however the story makes you feel. As always i love these sort of comments, i enjoy seeing how everyone interprets the story.

[prettycalla]

|| lesson learned ||

Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader

Summary: You make the mistake of letting Johnny borrow your phone. You really should have closed your tabs.

Word count: 3k

Tags and warnings: Established relationship, smut with very little plot (oral sex), Johnny’s a menace (affectionate), modern!Johnny if the film’s set before now (I know it’s 60s-inspired, at least), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(It’s been a very long time since I’ve written for Marvel, and I know the film isn’t out yet and I’m working with very little with regards to this version of Johnny, but my partner and friends have given me some amazing ideas and I couldn’t wait to give writing him a go! Please be kind - my fic’s just pixels on a screen, after all.)

Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It’s not often you get time together like this. To be domestic, as Johnny calls it. You used to cling to it every chance you got, scared that this time would be the last. It’s hard not to worry when your boyfriend’s a literal superhero.

It had taken you a while to admit it to him, and now he makes sure he sets aside time wherever he can, for the two of you to just exist in each other’s company.

It’s nice.

Of course, it’d be a lot nicer if Johnny would shut up for five minutes.

You’re curled up on the couch together, with Johnny taking up most of the room as usual, and you tucked comfortably between his legs with your head resting against his chest. He’s watching a movie while you read a book, his arms draped loosely around your waist.

So far. he’s spent more time arguing with the TV than he has actually watching it.

“That song was ‘87,” you hear him mutter to himself. “This movie was what, ‘83?”

You roll your eyes. It’s not the first time Johnny’s had an argument like this with himself, and you know it won’t be the last.

You feel him move suddenly behind you, and you tighten your grip on your book before it ends up on the floor.

“Do you mind?” you ask, mildly annoyed. “What are you doing?”

He stops wriggling around.

“Right. Phone’s on the charge,” he says.” Can I borrow yours? This is gonna drive me crazy.”

You dig your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it and passing it to him without thinking, hoping it’ll keep him quiet long enough so you can actually focus on your book. It’s getting to a really good part, and you’re invested now.

He presses a quick kiss to your cheek as a thank you, settling himself back against the couch cushions again.

Finally. Some peace and quiet.

You’re about to turn the page, when you hear it. A low laugh from behind you.

“Well?” you ask absentmindedly. “Were you right?”

He laughs again, and you feel it rumble in his chest against your back.

“Huh? Oh, no, I, uh, I got distracted for a sec,” he says, and you don’t like how he says that.

It’s too casual, almost teasing - the tone he uses when he knows something you don’t.

You’re about to ask why, when he reaches over your shoulder, holding the phone out in front of you.

Your eyes widen.

You’d forgotten to close your last tab.

You immediately scramble to grab the phone from his hand, but he’s too fast, pulling his arm back out of your reach.

“Johnny! Give me back my phone!” you insist.

Your face feels like it’s on fire right now, and you try to turn around to face him. He moves his legs so they're now on top of yours, trapping you in place. The best you can do now is blindly reach behind you and hope for the best.

“It was a joke, okay? A friend sent it to me, thinking it’d be funny-“ you try to explain, still struggling.

Johnny laughs again, grabbing one of your wrists before you end up accidentally breaking his nose in your panic.

You collapse against him in momentary defeat, very aware of how breathless you now are.

“A friend sent you this, huh?” he asks, his tone suspiciously light. “I have to say, they’ve got good taste. If that’s true. But uh, I don’t think it is.

You can feel your heart hammering wildly against your ribcage.

“Nah, see, there’s another tab open right next to it,” he continues.

Can the floor just open up and swallow you already?

“And there’s my name, and- Wow, that’s a lot of results,” he says with a whistle. “Oh, there’s a filter system, that’s clever. And you can choose what content you want. I see. Very organised.”

You hear him mock-gasp.

“Baby,” he practically purrs in your ear. “I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

Your mouth’s gone dry. You can’t remember what damn tags you’d picked. You’d been reading it last night before bed.

It had started out of curiosity, really it had. It's not exactly lost on you how popular Johnny is - you’ve seen some of the fan mail he receives on a daily basis. And you're more than aware of the comments about him online. So, one thing led to another, and here you were, looking at Johnny Storm fanfiction. You had fully intended to just read one or two, see how bad they were, then send them to Johnny as a joke. Not that his ego really needs any more stroking, but you knew he’d get a kick out of it.

But here’s the problem - they were good. Too good, actually. And before you knew it, an hour had passed, and you were still reading. You were hooked. There was no way you could tell him now.

Not without admitting how they made you feel. How they were putting ideas into your head.

“Johnny,” you start slowly, wincing at how unsteady your voice sounds. “Just give me back my phone.”

“Why should I?” he asks. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself right now.”

You let out a frustrated huff, gently knocking your head back against his chest.

“Oh, right, where are my manners?” he says, as he dramatically clears his throat. "Johnny looked at you from across the room, blue eyes alight - ha, very clever - with an emotion you couldn’t quite place-"

With an embarrassed yelp, you make another attempt to wrestle your phone back from him.

“Honey, come on, it was a joke,” you tell him. “It’s not that big a deal-“

You’re floundering. It’s a weak lie, and he knows it.

“You think I’m stupid, doll?” he asks, his voice low.

Oh, he knows, alright.

You feel your stomach flip and you give up, letting yourself drop into his hold.

“If there’s something you want…” he starts, one hand gently tracing patterns against your hip.

You suck in a breath.

“…you just gotta ask,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

That hand starts wandering lower, and you’re in trouble.

“But if you’d rather get off on this…” he says lightly, “…Well then, I’ll just leave you to it.”

He drops the phone in your lap, nudging you forward to climb out from behind you. You immediately clutch at his forearms without even thinking.

Oh, you’re in so much trouble.

“Johnny, wait,” you say softly. “It’s just-“

“Yeah?” he prompts.

He sits back down.

“I’m listening.”

You sigh, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Can we?” you whisper, mortified.

Johnny leans closer to you.

“Sorry, doll, what was that?” he asks, his tone patronising.

He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met. But you can’t help but love him anyway.

"Can we...Can we try one of the...things I read?" you ask, struggling through every single word.

Johnny reaches for your phone again, and you don't bother to try and stop him. The damage has been done. Or so you think, at least.

"Sure, baby, we can do whatever you'd like," he replies sweetly.

Too sweetly.

"In fact, why don't we go through your browser history and see which one you liked best, huh?" he suggests, and when you turn to look at him, he's grinning at you like a goddamn shark.

You manage to wrench the phone from his grasp, but this time, he doesn't put up much of a fight.

"We don't have to do that," you reply, a little too quickly, if Johnny's widening smile is any indication. "We can just..."

You sigh heavily.

Fuck it. No going back now.

You point your phone in his direction, making sure he can at least read the tags and summary. You don't need him trying to give you the audiobook version again.

"This one," you mutter, looking everywhere but at him.

Johnny takes a minute, before turning his attention back to you.

"Where have you been hiding this side of yourself, huh?" he asks.

He's sliding off the couch and onto the floor before you even have a chance to think of an answer. Your breath catches in your throat at just the sight of him as he is right now, on his knees in front of you.

You rarely get to see him like this. It's not that he doesn't take care of your needs, of course he does. It's just that he's usually a whirlwind of "I gotta have you, and I gotta have you now", especially after one of his ever-frequent life-or-death situations. It's not often that the two of you are able to take it slow like this.

He hooks his hands around your knees, dragging you towards him until you're slumped against the cushions. You gasp at the sudden movement, and he laughs, giving you a little squeeze as he does.

"No more thinking, okay?" he asks.

He knows you too well at this point. You sometimes wonder if he also has the ability to read minds and he just conveniently forgot to tell you about it. Honestly, you wouldn't be surprised.

Still, as much as you loathe to admit it, he's right. A little break from thinking would be good for you, and you decide to tell him as much - in a way he'll understand.

"Why don't you make me?" you ask in turn, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head to one side.

His eyes widen at that, as if wondering where this confidence is coming from. You're wondering that yourself.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Johnny moves closer, hands gently pushing your knees apart to allow him better access. You just had to wear a skirt today of all days, you think to yourself.

You bring a hand up to your face, immediately self-conscious at just the thought of him seeing you like this before he's even done anything. He's quick off the mark, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away.

"Nuh-uh," he says gently. "No hiding, okay? Wanna see you."

You manage a little nod, and that seems to be enough to satisfy him. He lets go of you, refocusing his attention. His hands slide up along your thighs, calloused fingers scratching lightly at your skin.

He's hardly touched you, and yet already you can feel that fluttering feeling growing in the pit of your stomach. A little shiver runs through you, and Johnny catches your eye with a lop-sided smile.

"I haven't even started with you yet," he teases, tracing delicate little lines along your innermost thighs.

It's a sensitive stretch of skin, and you involuntarily tell him as much, squirming under his hands.

He laughs then, soft and low, in the way that always makes a rush of warmth run through you.

"Y'know, if it's too much, I can just..." he starts, trailing off as he slowly drags his hands away.

Without even thinking, you instinctively reach for him, grabbing his hands and pulling them back.

"Wow, didn't realise you were that desperate for me," he says under his breath, trying to bite back another laugh.

You could kick him. You really could.

But then his hands are back on you, and all thoughts of violence are quickly pushed to the side - for now, at least.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, giving them a quick little tug that leaves you jolting against him.

"As pretty as these are, they're kinda in my way," he says, his fingers pulling ever so slightly. "Up."

You lift your hips up a little, giving him enough room to pull them down over your legs, before he tosses them carelessly on the floor behind him.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

You don't think you can take much more of his teasing at this rate, and he's barely even touched you.

Thankfully, you both seem to be on the same page on that one, because he certainly doesn't waste any time in getting to work. He slides his hands under your thighs, before he leans in and drags his tongue in one slow, long motion against you.

The shaky moan that erupts from you is downright obscene, and you've never been more grateful for the fact that you don't have neighbours.

He does it again, his breath hot against you, blunt nails scratching at your thighs, and it takes everything in you not to squeeze your legs around him to keep him there. Not that he'll be moving anytime soon, from the looks of it. He seems like he's thoroughly enjoying turning you into a quivering mess.

The problem with Johnny is that he might be confident, but it's not for nothing. You hate to admit it, but he's fucking good at this.

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. He groans against you, and you let your head fall back against the cushions with a shaky sigh. He's very quickly found his rhythm, and it's only now you realise that your legs are trembling.

You can feel yourself beginning to unravel, and if he keeps this up, it won't be long until you're falling apart at his touch.

He pulls back suddenly, and automatically, you're trying to drag him back. You were very happy with where he was, thank you very much. He moves out of your reach, standing up.

"Wha- Where are you going?" you ask.

You'll deny the whine in your voice until your dying day.

"Don't get me wrong, this is good...but I think it could be better," he replies cryptically.

Before you can question him, he's hauling you to your feet. You yelp, trying to tug your skirt down to cover yourself. Johnny all but throws himself down on the couch in your place, beckoning you with a wave of his hand.

"C'mere, I'm not done with you yet," he murmurs with a sly smile.

You feel your thighs clench at that. You move to sit yourself in his lap, when he shakes his head.

"You're a little too far down, doll," he says.

"What are you- Oh," you say in a rush of air, as it dawns on you.

It's not like you haven't thought about doing this before, it's just it seems so intimate that you've always felt too nervous to even suggest it. And now you don't have to.

"You're always saying you'd love to shut me up, so here's your chance," he says lowly.

How can he say things like that and still look so smug?

"You know, you're right," you reply, with a sudden little surge of confidence. "It would be nice to get five minutes of peace and quiet."

"That's the spirit," he says, smiling up at you as he lightly slaps your thighs.

Slowly, you lower yourself down, until you can feel his breath against you. Your legs are already trembling badly, but Johnny's hands are quick to hold you steady, warm and strong against the backs of your thighs. He pulls you down closer, and you brace yourself. You feel yourself lurch forward as his tongue presses against you, and you hear him laugh softly.

Bastard.

You lower yourself down a little further, and that finally shuts him up. You fist one hand in his hair, the other holding onto the back of the couch for dear life. It's not long before he's picking up where he so rudely left you stranded before, and you're not sure how much more of this you can take. He feels so good against you, and he knows exactly how to take you apart, piece by piece. It's not fair.

You try to tell him as much, to warn him, but all that does is encourage him to redouble his efforts. His tongue is going to be the death of you.

"Johnny-" is all you manage to grit out, before he's pushing you right over the edge, and it takes every last bit of strength you have to not let yourself drop down on him entirely.

You desperately cling to the couch cushions as he coaxes every last bit from you, your hips grinding against his tongue as you ride out your orgasm.

You're exhausted by the time he's done. If there's one thing you know about Johnny, it's that he's thorough. He doesn't like to half-ass anything.

You slap lightly at his hands to make him stop. You know he'll have you there all night otherwise, and it's starting to edge into too much. He lets go of you, and you awkwardly shuffle down to the other end of the couch, suddenly very self-conscious.

Johnny props himself up on his elbows, his face so smug as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well? What d'you think?" he asks. "Was I better than your little story?"

In spite of the state he's left you in, you can't help but roll your eyes fondly.

"I don't wanna give you the satisfaction of admitting it, but...yeah, you were," you reply, pretending as though you're uninterested.

Johnny smiles widely at that, so self-assured.

And well-earned, you think to yourself.

"And uh, my little bit of improv?" he asks. "How was that?"

You lightly kick at his leg.

"Yes, you were amazing, best I've ever had," you reply in a deadpan tone, but you're smiling. "Are you happy now?"

"Oh, very much so," he replies, his gaze wandering.

Before you even register what he's doing, your phone somehow ends up in his hands again.

"Come on, aren't you done with this already?" you ask incredulously.

Johnny shakes his head.

"Not quite," he replies, clearly engrossed in scrolling. "Maybe I wanna find one where you return the favour."

Your eyes widen. He's an absolute menace.

You manage to pull yourself upright, taking your phone and sliding it out of the way.

"I think I can figure out how to return the favour without needing to be prompted, thank you," you tell him, leaning in close to him to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

And by the time you're finished with him, he's very much in agreement with you.

Taglist: @iitsmandii @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @keaganz @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[mediumgayitalian]

Will thinks night jogs are underrated. Probably because they're stupid, and, statistically, what is going to kill him one day. Soon.

But sprinting from the harpies is kind of a high, and the woods are cool at night. And he always feels safe under the moon, even though he knows that's a dweeby thing to say.

He slows down as he is swallowed by the shadowy forest, angry bird-lady screeches fading behind him. He manages not to smirk as he has filled his hubris quota for the day. (It is a close thing though.) He notes the sound of his slowing footsteps echoing, enjoying the sound bounce off the trees, relishing in the night so still that everything seems louder, wholler. It is hard to hear in camp, where every sound seems to compete, and fall through his ear like loose netting. Here, though, under the light of the stars, he can hear his own breathing, and owls, somewhere to his left, and monsters, growling, pacing, but keeping distant pace of him. Feeling the green smoke tingling at his fingertips, maybe, wary of the shameless pound of his heels.

Will gives in and smirks, a little. It feels good to make others nervous, for a change.

He's not here for that, though. He has been, before -- there have been nights of seething rage and stomping feet, of grass dying under his toes, of plants shriveling in his path, in his wake -- but tonight the air is sweet, and the leftover vestiges of daylight warm him nicely. Today he woke up slowly, and there was pineapple -- his favorite -- at breakfast, and Nico was up early enough to join them. Today he bit his lip and ditched his shift at the infirmary, because he dreamed it would be quiet, and spent his afternoon hiding in his secret spot in the Big House, dicking around on his guitar. Today was good.

He missed his mom, a little. A lot. He kept thinking, as he made up random bullshit in between chords, that his own voice sounded lonely, and writing songs was not as fun without the four pencils always stuck in her curls near poking him in the eye, or the constant tap of her shoes against the wall. She's touring, now. Busy. Happy. Not plagued by constant monsters who won't leave them alone.

Will sighs, and kicks a rock. Sometimes being a demigod sucks major ass.

...But other times.

He spies a shimmer of liquid silver light up ahead, and picks up speed; cracking his knuckles to light his trekking way as he weaves through stray branches and tripping roots, hops over long-forgotten armor and veers to avoid stepping on plants and bushes. In no time at all he stumbles across the moonlace patch, tiny little sprouts rustling in the slight breeze, glowing like little spots of glittering mirrors. Will grins.

Sometimes being a demigod is cool.

He stoops low, careful not to step on anything. He doesn't need many -- a little goes a long way, and the leaves are potent when dried and ground up -- and is careful to leave enough stem and root on each plant he takes from so that they will regrow the following night, and the night after. He gathers them carefully and tucks them, rolled into one another, in the specially lined pouch he has with him, sitting loosely in his medbag. The milky secretion from the stems stings, slightly, as it leaks onto his bare hands, but his skin is so scarred already that it does not make much of a difference. It will take a lot more for him to flinch.

Another demigod benefit, he supposed. Kinda.

He wipes his hands on his shorts, as he stands, ignoring how the worn fabric smokes, slightly, and begins to burn away. His hands start to sting a little more so he frowns at them, put out, and mutters a hymn under his breath -- he should not be using his powers on himself, not really, but the acid burns are so minor and he is feeling good enough today that he is only a little bit woozy afterwards. He is well enough to walk, anyway, if not jog, and enjoy the trek back to camp, bag thumping against his thigh with every step.

The walk is nice on the way back, too.

It's a little different hearing the swelling sounds of camp get louder. Even at witching hour, there's noise -- Will can hear the harpies, of course, and the sound of Hermes children shrieking as they are chased and attacked. (That will be a problem for future him. He's not handling that now. They need to learn. If they're going to sneak around at night, they need to be better at it Christ alive.) He can hear the sound of pacing and quiet, murmuring arguing in the nocturnal Athena cabin, of muffled piglet oinking at Hecate -- gods, he doesn't want to know about that, either. He slows down, as he approaches, hesitating at the border of the woods. Glancing backwards, at the inviting darkness.

He could, like...disappear.

He's pretty good at finding ways to feed himself, honestly. He knows the local flora like the back of his hand, memorizing the book that has been passed down from head counsellor to head counsellor, and that he worked on with Cass, and then Lee, and then Michael, for generation of Apollo children, with medicinal as well as edible plants stretching back as far as medieval England, parchment and ink faded to dust in the spine. His grandpa taught him, years ago, how to set a snare with the gnarled wire wrapped around the ring on his middle finger. He's a good climber, and is chatty enough with the dryads to be allowed to spend his nights among their branches, away from predators. He could do it. Honest.

He smiles, slightly, rolling his eyes at himself. As if. He peeks over either shoulder and steps forward when it's clear, sticking to shadows between cabins, behind trees. Pausing every time he hears a feathery screech, holding the leather strap of his bag tight to his chest, so the bottles of pine sap he gathered don't clink as he breathes.

He couldn't leave camp behind for all the peace in the world. Not really.

Yes, it's noisy. And annoying. And needy, more than anything, and one of these days Will really is going to go on strike, and then what. What're they going to do. Have a little less attitude when he orders them to a cot, maybe. Or at least the good grace to keep the attitude to themselves where he can't hear it. He's a very busy person. He does not have time to entertain whining and complaining. Even if it's funny, and arguing gives him something to do. And he wins, usually. He's actually quite good at the bossing-people-around part, but that doesn't have anything to do with anything. Camp is irritating and he is the poor soul inflicted with its ridiculousness.

He grins, pushing open the long-broken window latch in the back of Cabin Seven, tumbling in head-first, somersaulting across the creaking floorboards. Yeah. Totally. Completely above it, he is. Because he is an angel. A poor lone angel in a sea of miscreants. That's him.

He stashes his med bag in the hidden slot under his bed, and wraps up in the covers. Sometimes being a demigod is a pain in the ass. Sometimes he is up to three in the morning sewing individual fingers back onto hands, because fools don't have the impulse control to keep their limbs out of hellhound mouths.

And sometimes he is up to three in the morning gathering an entire supply of a mild neurotoxin, special for the way it makes you moony and dream-giggly, to sell to Cecil for five hundred dollars worth of Twizzlers and good Mountain Dew from Tennessee.

He burrows into his blankets, cheeks aching with the force of his smirk. Sometimes being a demigod rocks.

-- -- --

@willsolaceweek day one: will, by himself

[yup-thats-me]

–slow dancing in the dark • C. Jongho

𐙚pairing; ❝bf!Jongho x gf!reader❞ 𐙚summary; ❝sometimes to make the heart yearn only takes two to slow dance in the dark❞ 𐙚a/n ❝I really enjoyed writing this🥹hope you like it too pookie<3❞

⊹₊⟡⋆𐙚⋆.˚

"You sure you're going to sit in front of that blank screen, baby?" Y/n giggled as she teased her boyfriend.

Jongho groans in return, taking off his headset. "And it was just getting good."

Power outages were not unseen in their dorm but it was still pretty rare to occur. Y/n was in the kitchen making tea while the rest of the guys were out. Some were out shopping for groceries while others were in the studio. And Y/n's lover was playing games.

The man was having the time of his life, apparently, when 'zap' and darkness swallowed the entire building. Without anything better to do, Jongho comes out into the kitchen where Y/n was now lighting a candle.

"Finally out of your cave?" Teased Y/n.

"Shut up," mumbled the man as he rested his head on his hand, eyes following the girl around the space.

Y/n set the cup on the counter, darting around to open windows and move the shades. It seemed the locality was facing an issue, not just their building. The girl as she sighed taking a seat beside her man.

"Think they'll fix it by tonight?" she mused.

Jongho shrugged in response. The atmosphere around the two grew quite, not the suffocating kind. This was the kind where Jongho finally found peace.

Being surrounded by seven men came with its perks. Bickering and screaming from a pair to gaggle of laughter that Jongho swears came straight out of hell. In the midst of all the chaos, the ever constant paradise for the man was his girlfriend.

When socializing becomes too exhausting, Jongho can always count to snuggle close to his Y/n who will almost always wrap her arms around the man and whisper sweet nothings in his ear, all without asking a question.

While Y/n stared out the window, talking about something Jongho could pay no mind to, the man stared at Y/n. He really felt he had hit a jackpot with her.

How she was able to pull him out of his shell while not making him uncomfortable was beyond him. And with their hectic schedules, Jongho couldn't help but wonder how they were still together. Don't get him wrong, he absolutely loves the fact that they are still together and going strong after three years, it just baffles him how she is able to put up with him. He truly got lucky, didn't he?

Hundreds of thoughts running through his mind, the singer's eyes fell on the candle burning on the kitchen counter, its flame dancing with the light breeze that came through the window.

Suddenly, Jongho takes out his phone- soft music filling the empty room. Y/n perked up at the music, and Jongho didn't fail to notice her eyes sparkling, even in the dark. "Feeling romantic, Mr. Anti-romantic?"

The man did not have the time to react to her comment. Instead, he places his hand on her waist, the other waiting for the girl to grab. "Care for a dance, milady?" he smiles.

Smiling widely, Y/n gently rests her palm on his as she got on her feet. "Why, thank you, gentleman."

Jongho smirks as he leads, pulling her closer. The two seemed to be one with the music, each complimenting the other's steps perfectly.

The pair giggled as Jongho circled them around the candle, catching her just when Y/n thought she was going to hit some obstacle. It might be dim and dark, but Jongho is careful. He slows down right around the corner, his hand flying to her waist to balance her.

Y/n could feel her heart thump loudly against her ear. This is something grand. They're not out on a date in a fancy restaurant, hell, they're not even talking but somehow, it feels more intimate. Perhaps more than the times they were out having fun.

The little girl who always speaks to Y/n has always had this dream. The little Y/n, having watched many romance movies had wished to dance in the dark with someone. Someone who just loves them dearly without expecting anything in return. And after years of searching, both Y/n's seem to have found the one. Jongho is the one. Even if Venus herself ascends from the heavens above to tell Y/n he's not. the girl is ready to fight her.

Feeling tears blurring her vision, Y/n rests her head on his shoulder. Jongho smiles softly, hugging her close. "What's wrong, my love?" he asks in a low voice, swaying them both to the music still playing.

Y/n shakes her head. "Nothing. I'm just...happy."

And Jongho is satisfied. He rests his chin atop her head, fingers gently treading through her hair.

None of the pair knew how long had it been, and poor Y/n almost fell when the group of men who had silently entered the apartment eurppted in sudden cheer, most of them having their phones in hand, recording.

"The rare sight of the maknae actually loving his girl," joked Wooyoung, wiping a fake tear.

Seonghwa however was hugging the captain, his voice almost like Jongho's mother when she first met Y/n.

"Our child has grown so much, Joong," and the leader had hugged him back, nodding in agreement.

"I'm NOT your kid!"

And Y/n just giggles at her lover with her second family. Maybe she is where she's meant to be.

Home.

do not copy, steal or translate my work on any other sites. All rights belongs to yup-thats-me™ on tumblr

⊹₊⟡⋆reqs are open𐙚⋆.˚

[mullermilkshake]

Diary of a Yandere! Dad to be

Part 21 <- Part 22 -> Part 23

I’m not going to write through the entire pregnancy, so I’ll write some head cannons instead :D

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!Reader Tags - Heavily pregnant reader, pregnancy, twin babies, breast play, lactation kink, Breast play, Vaginal fingering, Squirting, Pregnancy sex

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

Just a little thing before the main event and soon we'll know more about the twins 🥰

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST CLOSED

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo doesn’t settle in completely, he watches the doctor during your other scans and takes note of anything out of the ordinary. Since their talk, nothing appears to be out of place. Good. Still, he can’t afford to be complacent, though Hae-in is better now she’s home with Jong-in and the other hunter he knocked up has moved back with her mother. Jong-in is far too busy with Hae-in to notice you, which is exactly how it should be.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo secretly keeps track of the size of the twins on his phone, counting day by day as your baby bump gets bigger and more pronounced. At twenty four weeks currently, they are the size of an eggplant. They respond to your and Jinwoo’s voices when you talk to each other and even more so when you sing in the kitchen when making dinner.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo can’t help but place his hand on your stomach whenever the babies kick, it’s become second nature to him now, placing his hand there as some sort of comfort. Much to your dismay at first when your belly grows bigger, feeling self conscious, you’ve grown to let him rub your belly as though getting as close to the babies as possible.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo grows more and more attracted to you each day, he encourages you to wear more fitting clothes plus those gorgeous summer dresses. Seeing your baby bump makes his heart swell with joy, you shouldn’t hide it. He wants you to be proud of the two little people you’re growing inside you. 

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo knows body is adjusting perfectly and just like he predicted, your breasts have started to swell and engorge to the point you cannot wear the bras you once did. These new bras are only there to aid your comfort when Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo isn’t taking them off to push his face in between them. He is a breast man for sure, but something stirs inside him to experience how they react to his touch when full of milk. Curious.  

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo loves how the pregnancy hormones have made you constantly horny, like pouncing on him whenever you can just to get his fingers inside you. It excites him, hearing you mewl his name in his ear at the wet sounds of Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo fingering you until you squirt all over his hand. All over his lap, you’re straddled over him on the sofa while quite smooth music plays in the background to relax you as per the doctor’s orders.

Plenty of sex, just cautiously. You need Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo more than ever now, as the babies continue to grow and send your body into a slew of challenges. One challenge being the how big the babies are getting. Just to aid in your comfort, Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo sits behind you and holds your belly to keep the pressure off of your back after a day on your feet. He kisses your neck and sucks the skin on top of your spine at your relief. The twins kick about and press their feet against your tummy to get comfy.

Either that, or they're telling Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo to get the hell off so that they can rule the roost before coming into the world and crying the place down with double trouble.

Another challenge is Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo has taken notice of is your constant need to be near him, holding hands and resting your head gently on his shoulder when watching a movie. You have your moments when you reach for his hand to feel the babies move and kick, though still reserved in your decision after the birth. You’re terrified, but Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo aims to change that and has plans put in place to secure the family he’s been dreaming of.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo keeps an updated ultrasound of his babies in his wallet and kisses their picture before every dungeon raid. He also keeps a candid photo of you heavily pregnant as you reach thirty weeks, you have no idea about it which he looks at from time to time when he leaves the apartment. The babies are the size of a large cabbage and makes sucking faces on the 3d scan and reach for each other constantly.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo keeps searching for the right gift to give his children despite knowing it best to wait and see them, but even though they continue to grow strong, nothing seems right when he holds loot up to inspect it after a dungeon. 

It has to be perfect, just like you. Only the best for his little family.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo thinks of you all the time. When is the next time he can see you? He beats S-Rank dungeons all by himself to level up, but also to finish as soon as possible just to get back to you. The babies have drained your mana completely, you can’t even see the shadows anymore, being unable to use your abilities and do much of anything causes you to be frustrated. Beru is almost inconsolable that he can’t watch his show with you, but sits on the sofa next to you anyway just to feel involved.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo loves you when you’re sexually frustrated, more so than the hormones just making you horny. You’re on him in a flash as soon as he enters through the front door, pulling his shirt close to kiss him and whispering sweet everythings into his ear. His relationship with you is developing exactly how he likes, you say yes to his little demands and positions he wants to put you in. You’re his. If you weren’t pregnant, you’d let him fuck you in the hallway right beside the front door until he had you begging him to stop out of oversensitivity.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo hides his excitement when you’re riding his cock one day, your breasts more swollen than ever. He massages your breasts and your nipples start to leak and sprayed on his face and lips. You tried to hide your chest with embarrassment, trying to pull yourself off of him mid thrist though when Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo licks his lips and gets a taste of your milk, it awakens something inside him, something that gets his cock harder than ever. He wants to taste you properly.

You pull away again with distrust, still hiding away and fighting against his reassuring grip to let your breasts hang as they do. He tells you that it’s okay, that he loves your swollen breasts just as much as your swollen belly. Your breasts are beautiful, stunning and deserve to sit in Jinwoo’s mouth where they belong.

It’s not long before you allow Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo to push your leaking nipple past his lips, and suck from them to ease the pain of full milk. You’re producing enough for two babies, it’s only logical that he helps you, guides you and supports you in your journey of motherhood. After all, it’s his duty to do anything and everything he can to make you comfortable.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo loves you, he thinks about marrying you all the time. He wants to push the prospect of the wedding forward and do it now instead of after the twins are born if it wasn’t so stressful for you. Soon enough, you’ll have his children in your arms and then, he will take care of all the little details to push the wedding forward.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo hasn’t forgotten about Jong-in, though while he has remained silent and out of the picture for most of your pregnancy now, he has been cleared and encouraged to get yet another Hunter pregnant. As per Chairman Go’s wishes. Jong-in’s expression has fallen lower in recent days despite how much of a mask he puts on for the public.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo keeps anything to do with Jong-in to a minimum and controls the way the conversation goes, it can evolve into a disagreement sometimes when he takes you home, but it nearly always ends in fantastic pregnancy sex.

You heart aches for what Jong-in is going through and the duties that have been forced on him and that drives Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo insane. You shouldn’t be thinking about another man when he’s the man you let fuck you, he’s the man who you let suck your tits dry to make you more comfortable, he’s the man you got you pregnant in the first place. You’re carrying his two children, his babies, you shouldn’t be thinking of Jong-in at all.

So, Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo changes the subject and gets your mind on Hae-in, who too has remained very much out of the way in recent months, silent in her own little bubble and has soon stopped ranting about the association and the facility. You worry for her, there are opportunities to visit her and you take them when you can, though Jinwoo is keeping you busy for your own peace of mind. Your due date is closely tied with Hae-in’s despite the month difference. Twins never carry to full term.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo wants to knock you up all over again just so that this journey never ends. But he respects you too much to put you through more stress than you already are going through.

Yandere! Dad to be!Jinwoo loves you. 

He loves you.

He loves you.

Part 21 <- Part 22 -> Part 23

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

Might be a few days before I post again, but I'll try, I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading this far!

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @kamiliora

@yessirr7 @aussie-boys-wife @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

@stormnightingale @johnnysactualgf @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved @johnnysactualgf @notleclerc

@minkuro @misakicchi @lovingyeet @soft-dots @gina239

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@shortchubbytat @celesteelysia @forgotten-moon94 @sleepyamaya @applepi405

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[cloudedangels]

Extended Leave ♡ Part 4 (18+)

📖 pt one 📖 pt two 📖 pt three

▪ Fem!Caleb x Fem!Reader ▪ AU ▪ 18+ ▪ minors pls do not interact ▪ part 4 of my Extended Leave series ▪︎ 2,743 words

It's been a month since Caleb first showed up. You're hungover and the clearest you've been.

cw/tags: fem!Caleb, fem!reader, AU, pilot!caleb, childhood friends to what are we?, slow burn, domestic intimacy, tension and tenderness, soft butch x soft femme, mutual pining, emotional repression, unspoken feelings, pining gone feral, watching/listening (mentioned), voyeurism (mentioned), soft dom!Caleb, sapphic romance, discussing masturbation, mutual obsession, quiet intensity, sex toys, emotional intimacy, yearning, flirting, sapphic angst, possessive energy, low-key yandere, jealousy, you definitely match her freak, snapped tension, before you know what, smut coming(?) plot first, im tired of tagging...

authors note: yall have been so so sweet about this story and it means so much to me. i think i like calebmc because they remind me so much of the repressed loves i have had and been apart of throughout my life. so im trying to translate that into this story. i think with so many sapphics there's denial, fear, and this self-punishment that comes from being afraid to be too much in your affection, attraction. i have been writing like a madman bc i am obsessed with them.

i included the three songs i looped nonstop while writing this part. they're also -> 🎧 here 🎧. they're not necessary to enjoy the story, but i think they influenced how i wrote it at least. bone apple teeth :3

🎧 full fic playlist 🎧 (50ish songs)

The first sensation you feel this morning isn't your hangover, but Caleb's absence. For the second day in a row. You don't like it. No arm across your stomach, no soft breath on your back, no warm body next to yours. The light comes filtered through your sheer blue curtains, pale bright stripes leaking through the blinds. White and cruel to your eyes.

Your head hurts. Your mouth is dry. Your body feels ghostly.

Your phone sits still on your nightstand. When you reach for it, your wrist twinges, sore from the way you must’ve slept. You click on the screen. Your brow furrows. You squint at it, as if it will reveal something you've missed, but there's nothing. No notifications. Just the time.

11:08 AM.

You’re alone in the bed. Alone in your inbox. Caleb hasn’t texted you.

Not

good morning, pipsqueak

Not

your hair’s a mess, mei mei, I'll brush it

Not

u okay?

No

Does ur head hurt?

No

come drink water.

Not even a sticker. An emoticon. Nothing.

Your chest sinks before your brain catches up. Not because she owes you anything. Not because she promised. Just because… between the time and the date, it hits you.

It's been a month. A month, just like that—gone out of her four month-long leave. A whole month of her in your bed—passed. Her on your couch. Her at your stove and in your phone and under your skin.

And today… quiet.

You close your eyes. You remember the restaurant.

The way she looked at you like she was starving and didn’t know how to ask for a bite. The way she curled around you in the booth, hand firm on your thigh, voice low and worried. The words she used before leaving you alone with yourself: good girl.

You remember stumbling into the apartment. Her helping you. Tucking you in. The warm press of her hand on your forehead. The scent of her hair. The ache in your chest.

You remember what you did mere hours after she left.

Your face burns.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have.

Right?

Your stomach flips. Not from the hangover. From something else. Something sharp and splintery blooming up behind your ribs, and a pit inside the lowest parts of your stomach. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

‘This is unbearable.’

You throw the covers over your face, over your eyes like you can hide from yourself. But the memories don’t stop.

You didn’t dream it. You wanted her. You want her now. The only difference is that last night, you let yourself feel it. You didn’t even cry.

You came, curled around a toy she picked for you, thinking about her voice. Her mouth. Her hands. Then you just… went to sleep.

Like a pussy.

Your phone is still in your hand. Still blank. You flip to your texts, tucked under blankets.

The last thing from her is hours old. Yesterday. Something silly. Something cute from while you were working.

drink more water today or i’ll cry

i can smell your thirst from here (｀_´メ) (・_・?)

It doesn't make you smile when you read it. You want to say something. She usually texts first, but you need... something. Always needing from her.

You could say: Are you mad?

You could say: Did you hear me?

You could say: Do you still want to be here, even now?

‘Only three more months?’

You're dizzy.

Your thumb moves slowly. Careful. You type:

pls come here?

Then:

2 the bed?

Immediately, you see three dots appear then disappear multiple times. Then simply:

okay. ×

There are no petnames, no cute emoticons, no cutesy jokes. Just ‘okay’. You scowl at it before leaving the space beneath your covers. Placing your phone on your chest face down.

The moments stretch as you wait for her to come. She is usually much faster than this. Your room is as stuffy as it is quiet, like it is holding all the things you can't in the air. You hear the fridge open and close. Her footsteps come closer and you sit up in the sheets.

The door opens slowly, and there she is. Her hair is still wet, her tank top clinging to her. Her sweats are loose and she's not wearing a bra.

She looks so tired when she looks at you from the doorway, holding a glass of water.

“Come here, Caleb, please?” You sound like you're on the verge of tears. You swallow.

Caleb abides, her walk careful. She places the water on your nightstand and sits at the end of your bed, away from you, legs spread apart, hands together, head down. She looks… guilty. Blue in the light coming through your closed curtains. She won't look at you.

“I'm sorry I didn't check on you this morning,” she starts, her voice is a bit raspy. Soft. “the time got away from me… I didn't… I wasn't sure what I would say.”

“You left me alone,” you say it more like a query and less like an accusation. It's kind of both though. She keeps staring into her hands and she seems too far away. Even though you're mere feet apart. You could crawl into her skin if she'd let you, just to close the distance.

She's silent for a moment, the sounds of birds outside your window mocking you in her silence.

“I know, I had to,” she says.

“Had to?” You scoff. You're not as gentle as you wanted to be with this.

“I… I didn't trust my hands. So I said I'd sleep on the couch. You weren't sober.”

She pauses, her hand balls into a fist like it does anytime she's nervous, as if she could knock her nerves out with a lucky punch.

“I didn’t trust myself,” she rephrases, and the words hit like a pin dropped in a silent room.

You blink. She doesn’t look at you.

“Last night,” she continues. “When I helped you into bed. When I touched your face. You were so warm. You looked at me like… like you didn’t want me to go.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper.

Her breath hitches. But she doesn’t stop.

“I went to the couch because I couldn’t—if I stayed, I wouldn’t have stopped myself.”

You stare at her.

“Caleb…”

She finally meets your eyes.

“I made a mistake. I… I was sitting outside your door. I thought that you would call for me, say you felt sick, ask me to cuddle you. And then I'd prove myself wrong, I'd be good, and I'd make you feel okay again…” she looks away, her face visibly hot.

Your heart practically stops.

“You were outside my door?”

She nods.

“How long?”

“I should've left. I was going to, I swear. But then I… I heard you moving around, and I thought… that you'd say my name, see if I was awake, anything… and then…”

Oh... my god…

“Y-you heard me,” you whisper it, reeling around 10 different emotions as you realize what she was saying. The vibrations, your sounds, the way you—

“You said my name, pips. Twice. While you were—”

“I didn't know you were there.”

“I know, I'm sorry,” her voice breaks

“You weren't supposed to hear—”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have stayed… I couldn't move… I felt frozen.” She says it like she’s confessing to something worse than a crime. Like she touched you. Like she meant to.

You sit up straighter, the sheets sliding off your shoulders.

You should be furious. You should be mortified. But instead, something else cracks inside you. Something melting and something hungry. Anger from somewhere else. Sticky frustration.

“Why didn’t you come in?” you whisper, “I wasn't drunk anymore.”

Caleb’s head lifts just slightly, and it’s like you’ve ripped off a bandage. Her expression is unreadable for a moment. You see the change in her posture, the beat that her jaw tenses. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Your breath catches. The room stretches around you more, thick and too quiet.

“I didn’t trust my hands,” she says again. “Even before I heard you. At the restaurant, the way you looked at me. When you leaned in close. When you licked sake off your thumb. When you told me you used to think about kissing me. I was already—”

She cuts herself off, breathing hard through her nose.

“I didn’t come in because I’m not clean,” she says.

“I’m not safe. I'm not the Caleb you used to know. I wanted to put my hands on you so bad it scared me. I wanted to ruin you for anything that wasn’t me. I wanted to swallow you whole, crawl under your skin, break you open, and pour myself inside. I wanted every smile you ever make after that to be mine. I wanted to belong to you, and I wanted to make you need me. Like oxygen. Like blood. Even now… I'm full of this… this feeling… that I want to coil around your spine and not stop until it curves into want for me. That's not cute, pips, it's... twisted. If you let me I'd never stop. ”

You can’t look away from her. Her hands are shaking now. Fists again. Tears are peeking from the corners of her eyes. She looks like a false prophet.

“You scare me,” you say softly.

Her face crumples. Just a little.

You add, “But not because of any of that… You scare me because I think I’m just like you. I want what you want. I want to keep you in my memory, perfect and just for me. And even if you don't believe me, I wanted it first. Whole portions of my life were spent learning how to beg for you to be closer to me, Caleb.”

Silence. Confused stare.

Your voice cracks on the next line:

“You hold it all in like I can’t feel it anyway. Like I can’t hear it humming off your skin. Don’t you think it hurts me too? That you leave? Everytime it means something? That you pretend I’m not… that I don’t—” You choke. She's looking at you now.

“Why do you hold back?” you ask, voice small. “Doesn’t it hurt you too?”

She stares at you, like you’ve said something sacrilegious. Like you backhanded her, mouth slightly agape.

“It’s awful,” she says quietly. “Being near you like this. Feeling all of it. Wanting all of you, but trying to be good.”

“Stop being so fucking good, Caleb,” you whisper. “Come here.”

She flinches. “I told you, pips, I don’t trust myself.”

You shake your head. “But I do. I trust your hands. I trust your eyes. I trust your voice. I trust your want.. I trust your care… I—I trust you more than me.”

You reach out, palm trembling. She sees it.

“I’m not scared,” you lie, your hand still shaking. “Not of you.” That part’s true.

She exhales like she’s been drowning. Like she doesn’t know what to do with the gift of your fear, your aching, your permission. She doesn't move.

“Please, Caleb,” you whisper, before pulling out the same words that worked on her every single time.

“I need you.”

The years coalesce. She finally snaps.

She grips your hand and practically crawls over to you, hair framing the side of her face, falling over her eyes. She looks like a scared animal. She sits next to you, finally close. She lets go of your hand, and both of hers hover by your face. She's searching through your eyes, looking at your lips. Your heart races. You can smell her shampoo, her deodorant, and her sweat. Her face is only centimeters away. Shaking, you take her hovering hand and press it to your cheek. Her breath shudders.

“Tell me no,” she whispers, barely audible.

“I'm not doing that,” you whisper back. “Please, Caleb.”

She leans closer, lingering for just a moment before her lips meet yours. Soft, just once, then desperate, then deeper. You kiss her back, your hand fluttering to the neckline of her white tank top, pulling her closer to you. She clumsily moves to straddle you, hovering over you with one hand on the side of your face and the other on your waist. Her hands are shaking but they still feel so strong to you.

She pulls back, a thread of saliva between your mouths. You're both breathing hard, her eyes are wild as they look at you, and you're sure yours are full of the same kind of crazy.

Her eyelids fall heavy as she looks at your mouth again, “This still okay?

You nod vehemently, hungry for the feeling of her lips on yours again.

“Not enough,” you whisper. Your lips clash back together until she pulls back again, barely.

“I want to do more than kiss you,” she mutters, putting her forehead to yours. “Tell me no. Tell me to stop,” she says again.

“I don't want you to stop,” you reply. Her shirt's still gripped tight in your hand.

“I'm going to tear you apart... I'll go slow. I'll—”

“Just don't go away.”

Her hand is slow as it moves, and yours does too. Mouth on yours, tongue snaked messily into your mouth. She moves her fingers from your face, tracing your jaw. Then her finger traces slowly down your neck down your sternum.

With the way she touches you, if she said she could taste you through your clothes, through the pads of her fingers, you'd believe her. Her touch lingers there before so gently sliding over to your breast through your shirt, her thumb wiping across your nipple. She lets a choked sound out from her lips when she feels you arch from the feeling.

You gasp, your hand quick and disorderly, sliding down her chest and to her stomach, then under her shirt. You pause it there, palm pressed against her abs, and another little whimper flies out of her lips against yours after you do.

Her mouth leaves yours but your lips brush as she whispers, “I think I'm dreaming.”

You taste salt. You can't tell which one of you is crying. You shake your head. Words fail when you feel just the same.

“What can I do… to make you say my name… like you did last night?” She breathes the words so vulnerably, as gently as she's fondling you. But at the same time, she sounds like a woman on the verge of devouring the world.

You feel unnerved, but not afraid. Seen. Like the curtains opened on you and there's an audience watching and you're scriptless. You look at her looking at you and your breathing stops for a second.

You've never seen the gaze she's hovering over you with before. She looks so... starving.

“If… If I said I wanted you to… touch me, would you?” You can't get the words out without pulling them from your chest like a sword she's fated to wield, covered in red of you, in need. You've wanted to say it for days.

There's a pause.

Then, “Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes.”

“Show me where I am allowed to touch you, then. I... can't mess up...”

She takes your free hand and slides the back of her hand into your palm. Your hand is so much smaller than hers when she does it. You move your hand to take her wrist. You're so dizzy.

You guide her and press her fingers below your belly button. You can feel her holding her breath.

“Please,” you breathe out the plea before you can even stop yourself, but gently, you say it again. “Please touch me, Caleb…”

It terrifies and fills you now, the way you can finally name what you want. Her hand slides into the band of your underwear, stopping before she reaches your needy core. Her head is against the headboard, eyes closed.

She opens them to look at you, looking drunk with wanting.

"Are... you sure..." she whispers, wild purple eyes darting across your face for signs of discomfort, silent protest.

Even though it feels inappropriate for the moment, you struggle to hold back a laugh.

"Yes, I'm sure. Are you?"

She exhales, and there's ten years in the way she kisses you then, her fingers reaching for the place that's been aching for them for days on end.

This is going to consume you both. It already has.

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series lmk in comments or reblogs! (Must have age in bio)

📖>> Part 5

Tags 🏷: @chewbrry @grlpartdoll @jetterdonna @starryeyed-apple @mephisto-with-a-knife @er0da

[creatingblackcharacters]

I am writing a scifi series, and one of the main characters is a Black coded alien. My goal in writing her is to point out the over reliance on Black women to do most of the work when it comes to activism. And I hope to help readers realize (by showing, not telling) that Black women need love and support, and cannot simply be used to achieve a means. My worry is that it will not be obvious, and thus I will accidentally keep her in the "Mammy stereotype". I do wish to convey a shift in the story, from her carrying too much to her being cared for and supported. What would clue you in as a reader to this type of theme? What would make the Black female reader feel seen and validated in this manner? Any advice is greatly appreciated.

Well, if she has a presence in her own story, we should know her thoughts. We'll be able to see that she's exhausted, but that she's pushing herself because it is Expected that Black (Coded, here) Women™ are Strong and Can Do Everything. We don't just do this stuff mindlessly, it is something that is pressured upon you, that this is the Black Woman's Role. We might not all agree that it's good or bad, but we are Aware of it!

Show the breaking point. Give her the agency in the moment to say "I'm tired of fucking doing this and no one cares to see how I'm doing. No one speaks up for me." Let the people around her hear or see that she's sick of their shit, whether she's sick and crying, or raging, or simply tosses her hands up and doesn't help anymore. Let the people around her realize that if she stops pulling weight, they're floundering. Let that be the moment they start doing right by her (or don't, and fail 🤷🏾‍♀️).

(if you really wanted to make it realistic, they would all act like she was the problem, the Caring Mammy turned Rebellious, Angry Black Woman for daring to leave her place of comfortable service. But that's not cathartic and doesn't present your message!)

[arcadekitten]

If the Semiaquatic Circus characters were in Here For Sweethearts, would they be class clowns? ;:) But seriously, what would they be like?

Class clowns...hehe. clever...

Capella: I imagine she has almost a komi-san dynamic going on. Everyone thinks she's really pretty and mysterious but really she's just a bit shy and socially awkward and doesn't really know how to interact with her classmates but wants to befriend them. Does moderately well in classes, but feels a lot of pressure to get high marks. Is exempt from participating in gym class from a request from her parents.

Pogo Gogo: Actual class clown. I think she may have a bit of a Susie-Deltarune dynamic going on where she intimidates her classmates but she's really just a big goofball who likes to have stupid fun once you get to know her. Also helps protect some of the younger kids from bullying.

Yoyo: A fine student, but also a bit of a smartass who thinks he knows better than his teachers sometimes. Like if his teachers tell him to follow a certain format for writing a paper he'll sometimes just write in whatever way he wants to because it suits the paper better to him. The kind of kid to say "If the teacher isn't here in 15 minutes we're legally allowed to leave, you know."

Savannah: Overachiever student, which often results in a lot of burnout for her. It doesn't help that she also tries to join clubs and keep up a good social life--so in any down time she has she's probably too tired to do anything but nap or just play on her phone. Most likely a cheerleader, and she's very good at it!

Clyde: Alright student. Struggles in a few classes but isn't really bothered by grades as long as they're at least around a C. Does football to try and keep active. Often writes letters home to his family as I imagine they're a bit traditional and don't do phone stuff very often.

Esmond: Fairly good student, and is very sociable and friendly with his classmates. Teachers regard him as a sweetheart who's always trying to be helpful. Part of dance club and art club--he likes to make pieces with a lot of glitter.

Darwin: To no one's surprise a really quiet student. Doesn't have many friends, but seems to be seen hanging out with Esmond a lot. Many think he joined the dance club and art club for Esmond. He does very well in dance, but in art it usually seems like he doesn't put much effort into his pieces. Or maybe he's just...abstract?

Vis: Has difficulty making friends outside of their siblings, but seems to be trying to be more open to it. They really enjoy music class and have recently joined the music club in hopes of making new friends and learning how to play an instrument!

Nana: A student who seems to have an interest in art and literature!! She can usually be found reading books in the library when not in class. She seems to have a thing for short, spooky stories. Her and Mary would probably get along well if they were able to meet in HFSH.

Bonus!:

Furnando: Incredibly shady student. Does well in grades but staff doesn't trust him, he always seems to be up to something. He's probably a bit of a "black market dealer" for the school in a way, selling things to his fellow classmates like test answer keys or cigarettes or other generally-not-allowed-on-school-premises items. Flirts with the people who have a problem with him

[simplysable]

Could I request the four lord's with a combat hardened s/o (maybe they were a ex-hunter for some extra spice 👀) who just becomes soft and loving in their hands. Probably tries to spoil them with affection on a daily basis

YES!! Absolutely!! I love when tough characters turn soft, and you gave me the perfect opportunity to write something for it!

The Resident Evil Lords With a Tough-as-Nails S/O Who Turns to Putty in Their Hands

Alcina Dimitrescu

She heard the whispers of the people in the town about a new resident, but she didn’t think that her daughters would talk to her about you

It was spring, so she wasn’t angry about her daughters going outside

“I’m telling you Mother, it’s like they’re made out of stone! They didn’t care that we had blood on our faces either!”

“They said they had seen blood too, so they didn’t care.”

“They polished our sickles because they said we ‘didn’t do it right.’”

Her daughters were never this talkative, but you made them chatterboxes

She invited you over, but only to appease her daughter’s never ending curiosity

Oh dear. They're attractive.

Here you were, tough as nails, smiling as her daughters fawned over you and asked you how many weapons you knew how to use (and if you were afraid of bugs)

When you looked at her, all she got was a curt nod and you went right back to talking (listening, really) to her daughters

She was fascinated by you

Clearly you weren’t local, and from your sense of style you looked homeless, so she insisted you lived at the castle

Uh, a little salty at the homeless comment, you denied, but she insisted

It was a good thing you liked the girls or you would be way harder to convince

You stay at the castle, trying to stay away from her, but she always seems to find you

You talk, and you learn about her while she learns about you

She learns that you were an ex-FBI agent (she didn’t know what that was- you explained) that was primarily out in the field as a bounty hunter

Alcina did know what that was, which explained your scars, your weapons know-how, and your reluctance to be open to her

She ultimately decided that you deserved to pampered after what you’ve been through

Fancy clothes

Elaborate meals

Expensive gifts

Lots of compliments

“You look fantastic today, my love. Be sure to take care of your scars!”

“The way that you punched Heisenberg was absolutely artistic. Wonderful form, darling.”

Even after the homeless comment, you continue to get more comfortable with her and eventually melt in her hands

She loves how soft you’ve become, and you love her as well

Donna Beneviento

Having your silence is somewhat comforting, but also a bit unsettling

You had explained that you were in the village to research the lycans and possible mold samples that have been sighted

You heard that she was knowledgeable on the local wildlife, so you went to her

You were somewhat startling to her

Silent, strong, good with weapons and with communication (and riddled with scars)

She was extremely anxious and quiet while she talked about her plants

She became even more anxious when you just listened in absolute silence, not giving her any information on what you were thinking

In actuality you were just very relaxed by her voice

It was calm, quiet, and her plants were interesting to listen to

To her absolute mortification, you started to shut your eyes and drift off because of what she thought was boredom

After reassuring her that that was most certainly the opposite of what was going on, Angie voiced Donna’s little boost in confidence

“So the big, bad researcher likes to listen to the plant lady talk? Hah! That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a while!”

Donna was confused and a little flattered that you could fall asleep to her voice and feel relaxed enough in her home to shut your eyes

While talking some more, many of her dolls started to flock around you and gently touch your hands and face while whispering little compliments into your ear

“Lovely eyes, lovely eyes…”

“Such soft hands! Gardeners hands, seamster’s hands, warm hands.”

“Paying attention to Donna, to us? So good.”

You were preening under their attention after the initial panic when dolls started to pet you

Donna was more quiet as they worked around you, letting her dolls voice her own thoughts instead of herself

Angie was the one that whispered into your ear that it was really Donna talking and not completely sentient dolls

You blushed and looked at her, asking her if it was true

She nodded hesitantly

That is not what you were expecting but you were not complaining

You beamed and sank further into your chair, letting the dolls fawn over you some more while you smiled at Donna

Your cold exterior melted away, Donna and her dolls waiting no time in praising and pampering you

Donna very much enjoyed watching you relax because of her, and she (Angie) told you as much

She hoped that you would stay so she could continue to talk to you and flatter you

Salvatore Moreau

At first, Moreau was terrified of you

This battle-hardened person with scars and weapons was wandering around his pond in modern black clothes and boots

He stayed away from you

You were a stranger that was in his village and wandering around in his home with a look in your eye tough enough to kill

He was forced to talk to you when you showed up in his house holding a crystallized lycan skull and asked him where the Duke was

Moreau was not thrilled that you were in his house and he was going to throw you out until you looked into his room, saw what was on his TV, and sat right down beside him

Oh. Uh, okay.

He couldn't kick you out, that would be rude! You just got comfortable next to a pungent monster like him and were watching I Love Lucy with him

"Hey. You're Moreau, right? Sorry I've been creeping around. The townspeople had a bounty on a lycan that was eating their socks and I thought I would track it down. Cool place you've got here."

That started your friendship

He very excitedly told you about the flora and fauna in his lake and even got to telling you about what other television shows he liked to watch

When he said he didn't know what Sienfeld was, you stared at him, offended

After reassuring him that he didn't insult you and that you weren't suddenly figuring out how monstrous he was, you told him it was just a show you thought he would like

Oh.

You thought about something? For him? That was nicer than what he deserved

You and Salvatore talked well into the night, the light of the TV screen and the flashlight from your phone providing more than enough light

He learned about you. He learned that you were a retired bounty hunter that heard about the trouble in the village and decided to stay and help

He also learned that you actually liked hearing him talk

This started a tradition of you and Sal talking and eating, and your friendship grew into something more

You like him. You like him.

He's spoiling you. Praise, gifts, food, everything.

"Y-you look great today, love. Sorry about the mucus on your boots."

"For you! It's chocolate. The Duke says it should be okay to eat. Should chocolate be green? Oh, sorry..."

You light up under his words, grinning from ear to ear every time he talked to you

It was odd to see you go from "bounty hunter mode" to "happy idiot" so fast, but he loved it

He was just happy he had someone to love. A very scary someone, but someone nonetheless.

Karl Heisenberg

He had no idea what the fuck all the fuss was all about. Someone from the government came to the village to investigate and see if everyone was still alive and outbreak of the megamycete was contained.

Whatever, it happens once a year

Normally it's some stuck-up priss in a suit or a satin dress that got ruined they stepped into this cesspool of a village

You were not that

Heisenberg was starting to understand why people were taking about you and not just watching the inspection from their houses like they usually do

He wasn't going to lie, you looked like one tough son of a bitch

Cold eyes, calloused hands, combat boots and a gun strapped to your thigh

He was a little surprised when you asked to inspect his factory considering no other inspector had done that before, but it looks like the government sent someone competent to do the job this time

He watched you inspect, staying no more than five feet away from you for the entirety of your visit

You fascinated him

You made no disgusted or terrified remarks when seeing his creations, instead viewing them with almost alarming indifference and… fascination

“Is that a plane propeller on that thing? Where did you get it? Can it spin? Can it fly? Is it supposed to be walking into a wall?”

He had to admit, it was nice having someone curious about his experiments

When he absentmindedly moved a large sheet of metal with his mind to clear the way, he didn’t miss the glee in your eyes

You visited with increasing frequency after that, calling them “work trips”

In reality, it was just an excuse to spend more time with Heisenberg

And see his very cool powers

Heisenberg lived the attention, and he teased you constantly

“The tough agent, reduced to a kid in a candy store after seeing my metal junk!”

He knew a thing or two about building walls around yourself, so he was happy to see you relax around him

He didn’t know what you did before, but with the amount of scars you had he knew it was more than just “government work”

Heisenberg made sure to leave you little trinkets he made, giving out the occasional compliment

“Hey, you don’t look like a stuck-up modern asshole today! Congratulations.”

“I made this bird out of spoons. I was bored and it’s worthless to me so, here.”

You love it, you love him, and he knows it

You still looked a little scary sometimes, though

This is for my two remaining followers and for whatever stinky garbage children still scrounge around for RE8 scraps.

[lanagallavichbrazilian]

GallavichIntro

Name: Lana

Age: 30 years old

What made you fall in love with Gallavich? Mickey's ability to love despite the trauma and Ian's ability to be kind despite the trauma. I think it's beautiful how they understand each other and even more beautiful how they are capable of doing anything for each other, and they always find a way to come back to each other. That to me is the definition of a soulmate and it takes my breath away.

How long have you been a fan? I started watching the series in early 2024, so it's been a little over a year.

What's your favorite Gallavich moment/scene? Fuck, that's tough. I'm completely obsessed with the pier scene in 7x10, it's probably the scene I rewatch the most of them together, but I have a special love for the scenes of Mickey worrying about Ian at the beginning of season 4 and the scenes of Mickey being jealous of Ian too. Oh, and of course the scene of them looking at the stars, when Ian says he thought a lot about Mick and Mick sighs saying he missed him (it makes my chest hurt every time I watch it, but I love it).

Who is your favorite character from Shameless, besides Ian and Mickey? Fiona, for sure. I identify a lot with her, because I'm the oldest of four siblings, with an alcoholic father and an absent mother, so that kind of made me love and admire Fiona a lot. I know how she feels and I only started watching the series because of an edit of hers that I saw on TikTok. I started with Fiona, but I continued and finished it because of Gallavich.

Do you write, draw or edit? I write, I've written a lot in my life, I started to write a Gallavich fic once, but I gave up. I didn't think it was worthy of them. I have two or three ideas for fics about them in mind, but I don't feel confident enough to write about them the way I know they and the fandom deserve.

Favorite type of Gallavich fics? Fuck, anything. I swear. I read everything, but what makes my stomach twist with butterflies and my brain addicted is definitely tropes like Enemies to Lovers, Forced Coexistence or anything where Mickey has to deal with his traumas. It's kind of masochistic, but I like it when the authors can put into words not only Mickey's traumas and his noisy mind, but his rude words and his sweet attitudes towards the ones he loves, he's contradictory and full of little details and pains that I completely love and when that's shown in a fic, damn, it makes me completely fall in love. Be it canon or AU.

Favorite Gallavich quote? I have a few, but 'You're under my skin, man. The fuck can I do?' is something I'm definitely going to get tattooed one day. I have a few tattoos of things I love, and when I think about them, that quote is something I'd ink on my body forever. Also, 'Not everyone just gets to blurt out how they fucking feel every minute,' 'I'm worried about you, I love you,' 'Partner, lover, family,' 'It means we care for each other. Thick and thin, good times and bad, sickness and health, all that shit.'

Is there anything else you'd like to share about yourself? I'm completely in love with two types of love in anything I consume (TV series, movies, books): brotherly love, anything where a brother moves heaven and earth for each other (like SPN and Shameless) and I'm completely in love with couples with difficult dynamics, with ups and downs, comings and goings, especially where one of them wants to resist the love they feel, but the other wants to show that their love is worth it even if they're both completely different from each other (like Gallavich and Delena, the two couples that have had the biggest impact on me in life). Oh, and I love making friends and talking about anything (from 'how's your life going?' to 'do you believe in extraterrestrial life?').

Ps: Drawing by elinka🧸taken from Pinterest.

[yuukei-yikes]

sry im still thinking abt this but: this is how i would WRITE IN the yuukei quartet to actually exist in second manga route. also slight mahiro sato slander whoops.

ok. basically. ayano and shintaro? still become friends at school. that part of it is normal route core. them knowing each other this early on in this route would in fact be everything. ayano gets her cringe crush, since shintaro still doesn't have retaining eyes he still sucks but actually not as much, they pine for each other all cuteful and they're good friends

shintaro has the accident that lands him in the hospital. ...first time i read second manga route and saw him wrapped up like that, i seriously thought it'd been a suicide attempt. if I WERE.. to write it... i'd probably change it for that. like kagepro already deals SO MUCH with suicide. shintaro kills himself IN CANON. idk. him still having these thoughts even without retaining, even without ayano dying yet. he's still depressed. i know shintaro's a joke as a person but mahiro sato sometimes takes it to new inconceivable places. HE FELL AND BROKE ALL HIS BONES?? sure. okay. I GUESS. but in my version it would have been a suicide attempt

anyways regardless of whatever lands him in the hospital, shintaro still meets haruka, who already knew takane, etc etc. takane would act normal like she NORMALLY FUCKING DOES and not the sick twisted version mahiro sato concocted, so she would in fact also become friends/frienemies with shintaro like she would in canon route. and ayano of course... goes visit shintaro!!! and all four of them meet each other at the hospital!! takane's discharged, ayano and her hang out outside all the time, they bring games for shintaro and haruka, they're besties dammit.

aug 15: ayano gets in the accident with her parents, they enter the daze, kenjirou and ayaka stay there, and her cringe girl fail era begins like it does in canon. meanwhile, same day, haruka dies from his illness, and TAKANE DOESN'T FUCKING KILL HERSELF. we've agreed takane's narcoleptic, but this isn't really directly stated in canon. however let's still pretend it is cause. ok ive got another post somewhere talking abt why it basically IS canon but whatever. strong emotions can still cause you to pass out, even from just laughing (even in canon, takane passes out from the epiphany finding out she's in love with haruka) (no she's not poisoned that's stupid) so it's basically the same thing except what causes her strong reaction is learning of haruka's death. maybe she hits her head, idk. she ends up comatose like she actually does in canon.

shintaro loses haruka and takane. ayano loses her parents and the evil thing with mary happens and her siblings abandon her... but also loses haruka and takane too. her pain is even bigger now. shintaro thinks they can lean on each other in this time, 'cause he DOESNT KNOW of ayano's family losses and the daze bc of course she doesn't tell him, so ayano completely brushes him off. in the broken state she's in, she snaps at him and says horrible things bc she has CONTEXT. ayano's completely preoccupied by the daze stuff and shintaro, who's clueless about it, sort of takes it like ayano's been faking her cheery self all along and she's all of a sudden decided their friendship is meaningless.

...so, shintaro loses ayano too. shintaro becomes a shut in. ayano... honestly does she even keep going to school after this? i don't think it's specified LMAO it's been a while since i've read second manga route cause i HATE it 💗 but her becoming a shut in too would be kind of everything.

anyways not only does this fix the yuukei quartet situation in second manga route, but it also adds a level of hilarity to shintaro and ayano finding each other in present day. them reuniting after having had a friendship fallout 2 years before? AWESOME. with hibiya in the middle? that's so funny.

and ugh it'd be so interesting when ayano finally starts telling him about the eye abilities and shintaro's like WHY DIDN'T YOU FUCKING TELL ME I COULD'VE HELPED!!! YOU COULD'VE COUNTED ON ME!!! AYANO!!! THESE PAST 2 YEARS WE'VE BEEN ALONE WHEN WE COULD'VE BEEN TOGETHER!!! can u fucking imagine what this would mean for ayano. for this ayano. FOR AYAKI. THIS AYANO IS RETAINING EYES. then they kiss on the mouth. sorry. also them having that divorced ass conversation while hibiya's sitting there like erm. what the scallop.

[nereidprinc3ss]

know your fics !!!

ai fics are usually out of character, and while most of the quality depends on the prompt, usually you'll find less description or like narration of what is going on, and more one liner dialogue type stuff that feels soulless, OR, endlessly descriptive, unnecessary writing, that's got you thinking get to the point, jan.

you can pry em-dashes from my cold dead hands, but you will notice if it's used too much in a fic, because some of these em-dashes could be commas, and most times in regular fics the usage of em-dashes is either toned done by the author itself on purpose, or it's done by like Grammarly or something. AI fics, shit ton of em-dashes, and how you know it's ai is if you replace an em-dash with a comma, it's literally the same sentence.

longer ai fics could show plot inconsistencies. they're suddenly some place they weren't before. his hands are in her hair, her waist, her back— how many hands does she have? shit like that. oh, and also depending on which gen ai engine you use, cuss words will give it away. popular models cannot use cuss words, political stuff, or write smut, unless you like pay for premium which i doubt anyone is.

here's an ai generated spencer dialogue (i just said give me something spencer reid would say in a conversation with reader who he has a crush) :

"My emotional processing subroutines appear to be malfunctioning due to the elevated oxytocin levels you’ve instigated," He says, blinking slowly like a confused Roomba.

it physically pained me to generate and read that. fishes died. it called my man a roomba. jesus h fuck. anyways.

here's something i wrote, same context, spencer talking to reader who he has a crush on, just to like drive the point home:

"Yeah, Okay, so, like I was saying, the Maquech beetle is regarded as a symbol of eternal love. In ancient Maya tradition, a princess’s murdered lover was transformed into a beetle so she could wear him on a pin close to her heart night and day," he explains, walking with you towards the bullpen, mug of coffee in his hand, just how he liked it. He had been explaining the significance of symbolism in different lost or forgotten cultures and civilisations. You were in the Quantico kitchen with him, making coffee per usual, listening to his passionate interpretation of Guatemalan huipiles and butterflies, when you handed him a mug of coffee, made exactly how he takes it, when he promptly lost his train of thought. "Uh—I, wh—" he stammered, like he had forgotten every single word of every single language he knew. "I, sorry, I just— uh," "Take the coffee, Spence." "Right. Yes. Coffee." And that brings us to the present with the beetles. He continues. "So that's why, in the Mayan culture, wearing the symbol of the Beetle remains a constant reminder of a true and eternal love." You hum, thoughtful, lips quirking as you glance sideways at him. “Guess I’ll have to start wearing beetles then. You know. As a declaration of my undying love for you.” Spencer chokes out a breath of a laugh, something between a scoff and a stunned exhale, and fumbles with his mug like it’s suddenly the most interesting object on earth. “That, uh— I,” He clears his throat. “That would be… highly symbolic.” He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest blush creeping up his neck, blooming like a secret. You hope he doesn’t notice yours.

is this any good? no. in fact, i think it's ass, actually. i wrote it in like 20 minutes. but it's not soulless ai sludge, and for just that reason alone, it's immediately better to me.

in order to write a good fic, you need not just know the, like, source material, you need to pour your feelings for that particular story into the fic. that's what makes it special.

authors, friends, art is only art if it comes from within. writing takes time. it's frustrating sometimes. most times, actually. we write not because we need to churn out shit and meet deadlines. we write because we love it. it is who we are. and it's okay if your writing style is different. it's okay if you take way too long to write. there's no too long with art. they don't say 'you can't rush art' for nothing.

if you're insecure about the quality of your work, know that it's something all authors feel. the only way to get over it is by actually writing more. by yourself. because if you just generate fics and go to sleep, who is it even for? your writing skill won't improve, the fics don't feel as personal, actual authors who put work into their fics go unnoticed, and no matter how you justify it, you won't feel good about yourself.

we live in a time where we need to remind authors that they need to actually write to call themselves one. it's okay if you think your work is not up to mark. post that lame ass fic. make that fugly edit. draw that misshapen nightmare. do it bad. do it ugly. do it extremely awful. but do it. do it yourself. it's the only way to start.

ai "artists", consider this a psa: you can become an actual artist if you take the time thinking of the right prompts to use, and put that into honing the craft. tumblr is a safe (ish) place. ask questions. learn from artists. be free, dear birds. fly high. fuck ai.

- ironically, someone studying to be an ai engineer (don't worry i am aware of the moral ramifications, i am going to end up a data scientist, i can feel it in my bones, wish me luck!)

Yes yes yes!!!! To all of it!!! This is great and so helpful ty!!!

Also do NOT downplay your talent that little snippet was amazing and I hope u r posting ur fics!! We need as much original content as we can possibly get!

Thank u for taking the time to write all this out, very extremely useful and I appreciate u so much<3

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

Y'know, it's unfortunate more people don't compare Louis and Violet in good faith.

Like, when I do see people compare them, it's usually through the lens of one is good, and the other bad. One is more canon than the other, and here's why. One is objectively better for Clementine, and the other is less impactful, worse written, didn't have chemistry with her, insert several insults here, etc.

I don't think it's inherently bad to express why you might not like one of them, or why you prefer one over the other. That's fine, that's a matter of opinion. It only gets to me when it becomes hostile, or passive aggressive... but even then, I've learned to just roll my eyes and move on. Some people make it very clear that they're not worth having a discussion with.

However, I wish I could read more nuanced comparisons of the two that didn't default to the "and that's why this one is better." At least some are kind enough to tack on a "for my Clementine" at the end.

You know how it goes: Louis is cute and he makes Clementine laugh, whereas Violet's boring, her love is shallow, she's still not over Minerva and she's using Clementine as a rebound. Violentine's a bad ship because Violet's actually a traitor, and they're practically the same person and that's bad.

Violet's loyal and reliable, whereas Louis is annoying, he never takes anything serious, he's a traitor for his vote, and he's nothing but a distraction. Clouis is a bad ship because how could any Clementine possibly like him after he voted her and AJ out? That's bad!

That's always the conclusion, right? One good, one bad.

This is incredibly limiting and it drives me nuts.

They're foils. They contrast one another, highlight each other's strengths and flaws, in such an interesting way that it makes Clementine's choice between them all the more meaningful.

One is not good and the other bad, they're different, and I think that's worth exploring.

Let's start with a common argument: Violet is the more impactful option due to her connection to Minerva.

Now, to be fair, I can understand why someone on Team Violet would believe this. Yes, it's true that the confrontation with Minerva is more impactful for a violentine shipper who has more investment in Violet as a character. Louis doesn't have as strong of a connection to her.

However, what they're failing to recognize is that Minerva isn't the only ghost to haunt this narrative. Violet may have Minerva, yes, but Louis has Marlon... and that doesn't just go away once Marlon's dead.

Violet's route has Minerva as her ex-girlfriend, and her bond with Tenn that all comes to a head on the bridge. Louis' route has Marlon's death and how that specifically impacts his relationship with AJ and Clementine, and the slow burn of forgiveness on all sides.

Marlon and Minerva are also reflective of Clementine's worst outcomes.

Clementine and Marlon were tied together through Brody's blood splattered on their hands and faces. They both killed a part of Brody, but only one of them lies about who killed her first.

After Marlon dies, Clementine gradually replaces him throughout the game; Rosie is her dog now, she uses his bow [which Louis gave her], she becomes the leader. Clementine gets them to fight back, and when three of her people are captured, she doesn't cut her losses. She does what Marlon couldn't; "we're getting them back."

When she chooses Louis, he does for her what he never did for Marlon: he steps up.

Clementine proves she won't become Marlon just as she proves she won't become Minerva.

After getting James to agree to help them, Clementine and AJ talk about what to do if she ever gets bit. AJ says he'd want her to bite him, too. He repeats this sentiment after she's actually bitten, telling her he wants to stay and they could turn together, peacefully.

When Minerva confronts them on the bridge, she's dying... and she wants Tenn to die with her. She doesn't care who she has to kill in the process. She's more monster than human at this point, and most times, she succeeds.

They're both bitten. Clementine could've become a monster like Minerva in the end. She could've killed AJ, and they could've become walkers together. But she didn't. Minerva wanted Tenn to die for her, and Clementine wanted AJ to live for her.

Also, I should mention she has Minerva's axe. She carries the key weapons associated with Marlon and Minerva throughout different points in the game, further solidifying these connections. She uses Marlon's bow to save her friends, and she uses Minerva's axe to save AJ, who in turn uses it to save her.

What's also so interesting about this is how Marlon's alive in episode one, and Minerva is thought to be dead. Louis has his best friend, and Violet's lost hers. But, at the end of the episode, Marlon's dead and Minerva's revealed to be alive.

Marlon becomes the ghost, and Minerva becomes the monster. Clementine becomes to Louis and Violet what Marlon and Minerva never could... how does that not drive anyone else insane?

So, no. One is not objectively better, or more impactful, because of a connection to Marlon or Minerva. They're different. It just depends on which storyline you personally find more compelling.

Actually, let's talk about that a little more.

In my opinion, the most intriguing point of comparison between Louis and Violet stems from their perceptions of survival, and how that impacts Clementine.

An argument I see made against violentine is that Violet's boring because she and Clementine are too similar. This usually comes from clouis shippers who prefer the "opposites attract" dynamic Clementine and Louis have.

On the flip side, there's the counter argument that Louis is reckless, that he doesn't take survival as seriously as he should and Clementine wouldn't want him because of that.

These are interesting to me because I get where they're coming from... but they ultimately miss the point.

The other day, I replayed TFS. Except this time, I did something a little bit differently. I played my usual clouis route, but then I had the violentine route pulled up on my laptop so that I could watch these scenes, comparing them side by side… and something occurred to me. 

Louis is about challenging Clementine's perception of survival, and Violet is about validating it.

Louis challenges Clementine from the very moment we meet him—he’s playing music. His initial philosophy on survival butts heads with Clementine’s. The fact that hunting with him and Aasim challenges your perception of “your choices have consequences.” These games have conditioned the player to think along the lines of, “Yeah, Louis is more fun… but if I don’t hunt with Aasim, we won’t have any food.”

Except that’s just it. I hate to say it, Aasim, but in the grand scheme of things… hunting with you doesn’t matter. It's actually less rewarding. You know why? Because in the next section, we get food from the train station. It would’ve been more beneficial to spend time with Louis over hunting, hence how he challenges you.  

This then primes you for the choice between choosing to follow Louis or follow Violet. I know people complain about how this is presented with Violet doing something productive [checking the walls] and Louis playing piano… but that’s the point. If you’re going through with Louis’ full route, you need to meet him at his level, and in turn, he will meet you at yours. You need to accept the challenge, the idea that Clementine isn’t entirely right about the way she’s gone about survival.

Oh, and do I even need to mention the vote? The debate over Louis’ vote is exhausting. Often times, people tell on themselves in how they talk about it. It’s not actually about the fact that he voted against them. If it was, these people would have a bigger bone with pick with Mitch, Willy, Ruby, and Omar… and yet Louis is the one who takes all the blame as if he’s the only one personally kicking them out. 

Louis is reacting to the death of his best friend, and the complicated feelings that come with it being caused by AJ. He wants accountability, even if he knows something's wrong. You can either agree with him that it was murder, and set AJ on the path of atonement… or, you can double down and tell him to fuck off, AJ was justified. 

But here’s the thing… the vote adds to the appeal of Louis’ route. To someone who hates him, or at the very least is critical of his vote, that sounds mad or delusional.

Except it’s really not.

Ever heard of a thing called tension? Because there’s a lot of it in ep2 between clouis + AJ and it’s fantastic.

Yes, Louis voting them out is problematic because we need a problem to solve. We need something to feed the tension between him and Clementine. He stepped in front of a gun held by his best friend in order to protect her, forever changing their relationship… only for that to seemingly be taken away from us the moment AJ shoots Marlon. 

Yes, Louis’ route is about being challenged, but it’s also about challenging him. That he’s able to forgive them, that he’s able to question his own survival philosophy and understand theirs, that he’s able to apologize and actually change for the better… that right there is what makes clouis so damn good. 

He becomes hardened whereas Clementine softens. By the end of the game, they’re on a similar level now without neglecting their differences, and they can move forward together. 

That’s what makes Louis’ route appealing… and it’s also what makes it unappealing to people who prefer Violet. 

By contrast, Violet’s already on Clementine’s level when it comes to this perception of survival. She validates that Clementine’s on the right path.

They have other similarities in the way that they’re both female, queer, they both have a kid they look after, they’re not always great with other people, etc. 

People who prefer Louis might consider this boring, but I think to Team Violet, it’s comforting. It’s comforting to have a partner who takes this as seriously as you do, who wants to get shit done. They’re playing Clementine with a similar attitude, and don’t believe it needs to be challenged. It’s comforting to feel validated on something you already firmly believe in. 

We also see this if we compare the hunting and fishing scenes. You have to make an effort to choose Louis by choosing to neglect hunting, but the game makes you fish with Violet no matter what.

Violet’s prioritizing fishing because they need food. That’s what they’ve set out to do, so let’s do it. The game is letting you know that’s the case, and if you value that, continue pursuing her. 

While fishing, they discuss why things are weird with her and Brody. Violet doesn’t take well to Clementine’s blunt, “Because you make it weird. Brody tries and you just make fun of her."

That’s understandable because I think she already kind of knows why and is looking to have her feelings validated. She prefers it when Clementine suggests that it’s because Brody never said sorry for what happened to the twins. 

There’s also comfort and validation in the way Violet sides with Clementine and AJ after Marlon’s death. She votes for them to stay, vocalizing how much she disapproves of the results. There’s this feeling that I recognize from a lot of the sapphic romance I read; “it’s you and me against the world, I’ll always have your back, even if you’re in the wrong, I’ll fight for you.”

In our case, it’s violentine + AJ against the rest of Ericson, save Tenn and Aasim. Violet validates that AJ was justified because Marlon was a liar and murderer, claiming that AJ and Clementine did nothing wrong. Violet fights to keep them. 

The tension between violentine in ep2 is different because instead of one pushing the other away, they’re being forced apart by the vote and there’s nothing they can do about it. That tension is somewhat released when Clementine comes back and they’re reunited, working out a plan to best defend the school. 

It’s also why Violet’s presented as doing something productive when you follow her instead of Louis, and why she asks if you want to hang out after checking the defenses. 

All that being said, allow me to reiterate that one is not good and the other bad, they're different. These concepts of challenge and change/validation and comfort exist on a neutral road as diverging paths. It’s up to the player to pick what path they prefer, but that doesn’t mean the other path isn’t worth acknowledging or analyzing. 

I should also mention that they’re not exclusive; there is overlap with validation being present in Louis’ route and challenges in Violet’s. They’re just more present in episodes 3 and 4 after we’ve made our decision. 

There are several more examples of how this all fits together, buuuuut–

Ya’ll wanna compare some allegories?

Those familiar with my content might already know where I’m going with this as I’ve made a post about Louis and the piano in the past. 

You see, I believe that there are allegories for Louis and Violet’s hearts present in their routes: Louis’ piano, and Violet’s pin. 

I already have a thorough, in-depth analysis of Louis and the piano that you can read, so all I’ll say about it is that on the night of the raid, he asked Clementine to carve a piece of herself into his heart so that no matter what, their initials will be immortalized together in its wood…

And that makes me fucking feral. 

But I'm also so normal about it.

As for Violet, her heart is the star gazing pin she gives to Clementine. She gives it to her so she’ll always remember that night… but she doesn’t give it to her until after Clementine’s saved her, and that fascinates me in the context of it being allegory. 

Louis asks Clementine to carve herself into his heart right before the raid, cementing that from that moment on, he is utterly devoted to her. I believe this is part of the reason why Louis is still happy to see her if he’s the one who’s captured. Yes, yes, he’s also incredibly traumatized from having his tongue cut out and he’d be happy to see anyone, yada yada… but listen, if you romance Louis and he’s captured, his heart remains with her—that piano with their intitals is on full display. When he sees her, he’s still so devoted to her that he refuses to accept that it’s at all her fault. Even when she says it is, he shakes his head... and he so easily accepts her when they’re together in the end. From the moment Clementine puts knife to wood, he’s hers. 

Now, look… you might think I’m going somewhere not great with this but hear me out. 

I think after Clementine’s gone star gazing with her, Violet is fully ready to give her heart to her. Y’know, give her the pin. But, think about what Violet said about how people have left, but Clementine came back. Plus, with the impending raid to think about, maybe Violet should keep the pin until the right moment. 

I believe a key difference between her and Louis is that Violet needs one last thing to solidify that Clementine’s the one. 

Louis gives her his heart prior to the raid because of everything that’s already gone down between them following Marlon’s death. Violet needs to know that Clementine’s willing to fight for her the way she fought before. When Clementine saves her from the raiders, it’s solidified. Even after she sees Minerva again, it changes nothing.

It’s also worth noting that the pin is something Clementine wears. Like the piano carving, it’s a piece on display for everyone to see, to let them know whose heart Clementine has.

Violet literally handed Clementine her heart as a means of saying, “I’m yours. I’m devoted to you.” 

This is why romanced/captured Violet is devastating, and is why she behaves the way she does in the cells. She was so ready to give her heart away and then nope, sorry, Vi! You get knocked unconscious by raiders instead! 

If anything, you kind of deserve to be told to fuck off if you romanced her and then let her get captured. Just sayin’. 

Look, I have a lot of complicated feelings about the captured violentine route, mostly with Violet being as forgiving as she is after her eyes are burned—yes, yes, I know, her eyes are burned and Minerva messed with her head so of course now she’s not hostile, yada, yada. 

But I think it’s rather telling that you don’t get the pin in this route. Sure, Violet’s willing to forgive and possibly pursue this romance in the future… but she’s not ready to hand over her heart, not truly. Not after everything that’s happened. 

And if you want to get extra angsty about it, imagine that Violet made the pin right after they parted ways, but before the raiders came. Meaning that if she’s captured, it’s possibly still sitting somewhere, abandoned. 

Mmhmmm, very normal about this. I feel normal. My normalness about this continues... normally. I'm not losing my shit thinking about that. Nope. Why would I? I wouldn't! So normal.

Okay just let me talk about their reactions to Tenn's death and then I'll shut up.

This makes me want to gnaw my own foot off, I can barely handle it.

AJ shoots Tenn on the bridge because Clementine trusted him to make the hard calls. This saves Louis or Violet's life.

When Louis jumps across, he's completely silent as he watches Tenn die... and then he's pissed; "What the fuck?! How could you just shoot him like that?!"

AJ explains himself, that he did it for him, and Louis is so upset that he forces AJ to look at what he's done, to watch the walkers eat Tenn; "Tenn's dead. He's dead! Do you realize that?! Look! [...] He's... he's gone, because of you. Just fucking gone."

If Clementine says AJ saved his life, Louis says, "So what, we just cut him loose? Gun him down like he was nothing?"

If Clementine says nothing, Louis says, "Tenn was just a little boy!"

The reason Louis responds this way is because in this moment, he just relived Marlon's death all over again, but worse. So, SO much worse!

When Violet jumps across, she breaks down, begging, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! No, no! No, no, no..." as she watches Tenn die... and then says to AJ, "No! What the fuck?! How could you do that?!"

AJ explains himself, that he did it for her, and Violet is faaaar from okay; "For me? I can't... Tenn is gone! That soft little boy who liked to draw, he's gone, because of you!"

If Clementine says AJ saved her life, Violet says, "You think that's okay?! Just gunning down one of our own?!"

And there it is.

Louis is hardened in this situation because he already went through this... Violet hasn't, not with AJ. She softened up throughout her route due to her relationships to him and Clementine... but this is the moment where she realizes that maybe AJ wasn't as justified as she believed, and this is the consequence.

This leads us to the ending where AJ asks if they're still mad about him killing Tenn, and I just... I'm biting my foot right now because the script has flipped.

Louis is forgiving and understanding. He's soft, he's sympathetic, he shakes AJ's hand to let him know that all is forgiven and they're okay; "I... AJ, I guess it's like... You saw something I didn't. About the situation, I mean. Minnie and the walkers and Tenn, it's just all this chaos in my head when I think back on it. [...] Clem says you saved my life? Well, then, that's exactly what you did. And how can I stay mad at anyone for doing that?"

Or, alternatively, "He was your friend, AJ. I know you are hurting just as much as I am."

As for Violet? She's understanding, too... but she's not quite ready to forgive yet; "The thing you said on the bridge...that he was messing up all the time. It wasn't something new, you know. Tenn got himself or other people into trouble all the time, long before you guys got here. He was always so lost. He lived in a world that just...isn't there, you know? And that's why I tried to look after him. But when I was pulling him away from the walkers, and Minnie, I could also see...he just wasn't there anymore."

"So you're mad, but sad."

"Can I be that for a while?"

And it's completely understandable that she's hurting and struggling with how she feels about AJ moving forward! She wants to be okay, she wants to forgive him, she just needs time.

Now, because I'm forever bitter, but I'm gonna mention this as well: whenever I see someone point at Violet's scene and say, "See!? This is how LOUIS should've acted in ep2!" like... they're telling on themselves again. Not just that they don't understand Louis as a character or his route, but that they don't fully grasp Violet's part in this either. Or time frames, for that matter.

Let me put it to you in simple terms... they react the same.

After Marlon and Tenn die, they're upset. They're pissed. They blame AJ and yell at him. After they've had time to process what happened [Louis after the two week time skip, Violet after time passes between the bridge and the ending] they share the same, "I'm still upset about Marlon/Tenn. Can I be that for a while and still be your friend?" sentiment.

The difference is that Louis is treated poorly for it because of the vote, and because we feel it first hand for longer... Violet got to grieve off screen and come back after she's sorted herself out.

It's a disservice to both of their characters because it's rooted in that same mentality that I criticized at the beginning: "This is why one is better than the other."

Do I need to say it again? I'm gonna say it again.

One is not good and the other bad. They're different.

There are so many fun discussions that could come from putting Louis and Violet side by side, and examining them. I haven't even covered the different ways they're introduced, or compared their ep3 dates to see what it says about them and the overall narratives! What about the cell scenes!? How they react when Dorian's about the cut off their fingers! The way they approach James upon meeting him!

That last one in particular is especially funny! They're all under stress about blending in with a herd of walkers to infiltrate a boat to save their friends, and yet Louis easily saunters up to the guy wearing walker skins with a smile, and makes him laugh by saying, "Functional and fashionable. I'll take two."

Violet approaches James like he's an injured wild animal that's going to bite her, and bless her heart, she tries with, "I, uh… hey. Hey there, James. Sorry about Willy." Then James gives her this judgmental side-eye, like buddy? She's not the weirdo here.

There is so much potential to dissect here, and I want to see people do it... but I want them to do it fairly, in good faith.

I want to get away from the idea of comparing them to "prove" which is better because there is no objective better. There isn't! That's a waste of time!

I'm so done with The Debate™; it's unhelpful, it's annoying, and it's boring as shit. I've heard it all before, and you probably have, too.

I want to put Louis and Violet under a microscope and study them with the thought process of, "one does this and the other does that... what does it mean!? what does it say about the narrative!? Oh my god, they have the same opinion on this thing, WRITE THAT DOWN!"

So yeah, that's my ramble for the night.

I'm gonna go replay TFS for further research.