#someone get her a chill pill

[electricbook]

Remember when Alex was literally gonna bomb/nuke Lena.

I was just thinking about that shit because as like a super smart scientist and a super cool agent that's such a dramatic ass thing to do, but I keep forgetting she's a literal crashout

[femonologue]

Many years ago, I was wandering around downtown Ottawa with my best friend. We ran into a friend of his who offered us some hash (it sucked), then said there was a really good house party nearby if we wanted to go. We were like, yeah, sure. So that's how we ended up at some completely fucking random person's house.

I look around to ask if my friend knows anyone here and he's simply gone, as is his friend. And this isn't some red solo cup hangout; this is a party. There's people counting out pills on the kitchen counter. I am clearly neither as cool nor as drug-savvy as the kitchen people, so I back away and instead wander aimlessly into the living room, which seems to give off more of a chill vibe.

A bunch of people are seated in a circle on the floor. One of them is fiddling with a big wad of newspaper or something. A really cute grunge girl with piercings and tattoos scoots aside to make room for me, so I sit down.

"What's that," I ask her, gesturing at the newspaper wad.

She gets a really big smile on her face. You know the smile. It's the I'm About To Watch This Innocent Soul Get High As Fuck smile. "You've never smoked a tulip?"

"What's a tulip?" I ask.

"It's like if a joint was also a bong," she replies. "You gotta try it."

"Alright," I reply, a little uncertainly. This will not be my first encounter with weed. I am more comfortable with the janky newspaper bong than I am with whatever the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Besides, this girl is really cute and I would like to have a friend here now that my existing friend has turned into vapor or been transported to the Upside-Down or whatever the hell happened to him.

I watch as one person holds the newspaper joint-bong upright and holds a lighter over the top while another gets beneath it, tilting their head back to take a puff. Apparently smoking this Cheech & Chong monstrosity is a two-person job.

"Oh," I say, looking at the fist-sized knob at the top of the wonky newspaper joint. "Yeah, it does kinda look like a tulip." Grunge girl smiles at me.

I watch as the tulip is passed around the circle, along with the lighter, and hits are cooperatively taken. It reaches grunge girl, who takes a huge puff and holds it for an extended moment before exhaling an impressive blast of smoke. She smiles expectantly and holds the tulip up for me, preparing to spark the gigantic meteor of dank that makes up its tip. By this point I have completely forgotten about my missing friend. I only care about making a good impression on grunge girl. I tilt my head back and hit the tulip like a smokestack.

It is the following morning. I am sleeping between a couch and a wall. I'm not positive that this is the same house I was just in. My memories are gone. Someone is yelling at me: "dude! Dude! Wake up, dude!"

I sit up. My mouth tastes like cigarettes. I do not smoke cigarettes. "Wha," I ask the yelling man, who I am quite confident I have never met before in my life.

"We're going on a quest," he tells me, gravely. "You have to come with us."

I look around. Neither my friend nor his friend are anywhere in sight. I also do not see grunge girl anywhere. I shrug helplessly. "Okay."

We embark from this house. I learn that the destination of this quest is Tim Horton's. This is a relief to me, as coffee and a donut sounds really fucking good right now. Somehow, the route to Tim Horton's takes us past the Governor-General's residence, which everyone else in the group loudly heckles on the way past. I do not know what the Governor-General has done to raise their ire, nor do I particularly care. I trudge along with my hands in my pockets, pleased to note that I still have my wallet, phone, and keys. I fervently wish that I could remember anything about last night. Maybe I talked to grunge girl. Maybe she's why my mouth tastes like cigarettes. The tulip tasted nothing like cigarettes.

I am asked about my politics. I voice my frustrations with corporate corruption, the pay-to-win electoral system, the lack of transparency and accountability. This is met with great approval. The guy who was yelling at me claps me on the back. I get the impression that we became friends last night. I don't recognize his face. I do not know his name and he definitely does not know mine. I behave as though we're friends anyway. We are comrades on a quest.

By the time we make it to Tim Hortons, the gaggle of stoners I'm walking with have all run out of energy and/or attention span. People order snacks and break away in pairs or solo, to call for rides or plan the day's events or just vegetate and wait for the drugs to leave their systems. I look around and find that my nameless friend has also gone to the Upside-Down. As I wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth with coffee, I unsuccessfully try to remember whether I saw grunge girl smoking tobacco at any point. I remember nothing. That tulip was so fucking powerful that it instantly sent me a whole day forward in time.

Alone in the city, I try to call my best friend and get no answer. I walk to the nearest bus stop, catch a bus most of the way home, and call up my parents to ask for a ride back. They ask where my friend is. I tell them that I have no idea; we went to a house party and I don't remember anything else.

When they pick me up from the bus station, they ask me some very safe, nonspecific questions, and seem to relax when I describe what little I can remember. It isn't until years later that I realize they were probably terrified I'd gotten rufied or something, and were so relieved to learn otherwise that they didn't even bother chiding me for smoking myself unconscious in an effort to impress a strange woman. In any case, they were probably happy to find out that I did, in fact, like girls; I suspect they had been privately wondering whether I was gay.

After getting home, I finally manage to get my best friend to answer his phone. I discover that he tried the kitchen pills, spent most of the night crossing the entire city on foot, and crashed at his cousin's house. He sounds like shit. I tell him that he should have tried the tulip, instead. He fervently agrees with me.

I never see grunge girl again.

That's okay, though. She got to see a clueless stranger get fucked the entire way up on some ungodly strain of giga-weed, and I got smiled at by a cute girl, and then I got to go on a quest. Wherever grunge girl is, I hope she's happy. I hope she's smoking the fattest fucking blunt and smiling as some kid passes out behind a couch.

[girlygguk]

NOT JUST ON CHRISTMAS ⋆ JJK

he's the first boy you've ever brought home for christmas. jungkook's nervous. you're horny.

🦌⋆⁺₊❅. christmas & chill: instalment 4 of 6

pairing nerdy!jk x gf!reader

genre established relo, college au, fluff, smut (18+ mdni)

content jk 21 | yn 21, spirited extro gf x soft angel bf, jk comes home w oc for the holidays, he’s so soft and shy, until he isn’t oop, i triedd w the context but this rlly is just oc getting the xmas dicking she deserves, kissing, cursing, switchy soft dom jk, giddy subby oc, they try to keep quiet, keyword try, dirty talk, cunnilingus, jk's a munch, condomless p in v sex, oc on pill, creampie, they're literal angels & i would die for them

word count 4.8k

banner by the gorgeously gifted @awrkive ⟡ ݁₊ .

“My mom loves you.”

“You think?” Jungkook’s lips tilt into a soft smile, his hand warm and steady as it glides over your thigh, draped comfortably across his waist. “She’s amazing. I see her in you a lot.”

Your nose scrunches as you smile softly into the curve of his arm, your fingers absently tracing along his chest. When your nails graze over his nipple, you feel it perk up under your touch, and you can’t resist pressing a light kiss to the skin beneath your lips.

“You’re so easy to love, baby,” you murmur, your voice muffled slightly against his arm. But you know he hears you from the way his chest rises and falls a little faster, betraying the quiet effect you always have on him. “Had me whipped from the first time I saw you.”

Jungkook’s brow furrows cutely, the same expression he always makes when you say this. He never quite believes it, even now. You can tell he’s picturing that day—how you noticed him tucked into the back of the freshman seminar, seated in a corner with his laptop angled slightly, like a shield in case someone dared to take the empty seat beside him.

That someone had been you.

Coming to Seoul for university had been a big deal—not just for you, but for your family and everyone back home in Namhae-gun who’d cheered you on. You weren’t naturally gifted in academics the way your boyfriend was, but you worked hard, just like he did. You’d taken every extra shift you could at your local little grocer, worked the after-school care program at Sannie’s elementary school, and with some help from your mom and stepdad, you pieced together what your scholarship didn’t cover.

With that, you packed your clothes and favorite trinkets from your childhood bedroom, said goodbye to your family and the friends you’d known your whole life, and set off for the big, bright Seoul city.

It was bittersweet. Namhae-gun had been your whole world, but Seoul was your dream. And now, as you looked at Jungkook beside you, his pretty face soft in the dim light of your room, you realized he was now your new both. Your world and your dream. Your present and your future.

You still talked to your best friends, Lila and Jimin, nearly every night over FaceTime, Jungkook joining most times. He’d been so adorably shy the first time they demanded to meet him, visibly nervous they wouldn’t like him. It still baffled you sometimes, how he could think that way. How he didn’t see himself the way you did.

Because, in your eyes, he was everything. The cutest, dorkiest, sexiest nerd you’d ever met—you’d kill for him. You knew Lila and Jimin would fall for him too. And they did.

Your extroverted best friends even begged him for his socials, which he shyly handed over, his cheeks pink as he spoke out his handles. He almost choked on his own saliva when Lila let out the loudest moan mid-call, suddenly thrusting her iPad at the screen to show his latest post. It was a photo of the two of you at the beach—you, in a little multicolored bikini holding the camera out, and Jungkook with his big, wet chest on full, bare display beside you.

You couldn’t help but giggle in agreement at her thirsting over your handsome boyfriend, cupping the side of his burning face as he ducked his head into your neck. His linked arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer as you nestled in his lap.

“Angel?” he murmured quietly into your neck. “Why would she say t-that?”

The disappointment—and maybe even slight annoyance—in his pouty tone made you want to slam your laptop shut and take him as far down your throat as you could. Instead, you’d cooed softly, turning your head to kiss his warm cheek and whispering in his ear that she was, in fact, a raging lesbian.

“Oh,” he whispered back, tickling your skin. “Okay.” His pout relaxed, and you felt the softest, relieved little smile on his lips against your neck.

You had bitten back a moan of your own at how much that turned you on, turning to pepper his round cheek with a hundred kisses until his blush faded and the corners of his lips tugged into a cute little bunny grin. You smiled fondly at the memory of Jimin groaning dramatically while Lila yelled at you to go lower.

“Your stepdad asked me to join him for golf tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s soft, nervous voice pulls you from your thoughts. You hum in surprise and beam up at him, fingers brushing lightly along his tummy. “Really? Oh, baby, that’s so great. Are you going to go?”

“Y-yeah,” he says, swallowing hard. His throat bobs as he glances down at you, your cheek now pressed against his chest. His hand lingers at your waist, fingers curling gently into your soft skin. “Would you… would you like to come?”

You coo softly, nodding as your lips brush the curve of his collarbone. “If you want me to, honey,” you murmur, your mouth pressing a little kiss to his pebbled nipple. His chest stutters with a throaty breath, and you grin against his skin. “I’d love to.”

“Always want you to come with me, baby,” he breathes, his voice unsteady as you tilt your head, lips wrapping softly around the bud. Your gaze drifts up lazily to his beautiful face, his eyes already half-lidded. “E-everywhere I go. Wish I could take you.”

“Mmm.” The hum vibrates against his chest as your hand slides up to scratch lightly over his other nipple, your teeth grazing over the one caught between your lips. His hips shift beneath you, his breath catching as his pants pick up. “I’ll follow you wherever you go, my love."

Jungkook tries to stifle the whine rising in his throat, but it slips out anyway, soft and desperate, when your teeth scrape just a little harder over his nipple. His fingers flex at your waist, gripping you tighter.

“Ahh,” he heaves under his breath, his head lolling softly into the pillow. “Baby, we-we can’t.”

You hum, brow arching slightly in amused defiance. “And why is that, honey?” Your lips brush over both of his nipples, one flushed red and swollen from your mouth, the other stiff and sensitive from your nails.

“B-because,” he stammers, his eyes fluttering open just in time to catch you tossing the blanket off your waists and shifting to straddle his lap. His breath hitches as your thighs settle around him, your body hovering prettily above his. He swallows hard, his focus slipping as he tries to gather himself. “Your parents, angel. What if they—”

You cut him off with a soft kiss, your palms flattening against his chest as you lean in to steal his breath. His exhale trembles through his nose, and he lets out a desperate mewl when he tries to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing your lips. You pull back just enough to keep him chasing you.

“Their room’s on the other side of the house, my darling,” you murmur against his lips, your voice low and sweet. “So is Sannie’s. Nobody’s gonna hear your cute little noises.”

Jungkook flushes a deep pink at that, his pout immediate and utterly adorable. You dissolve into giggles, your nose brushing his as he huffs. He doesn’t correct you, though. He knows better and so do you. You’re always the one who can’t stay quiet during sex, no matter how much he whispers please, baby, they’re gonna hear us against your skin.

The thought makes your heart race. Sometimes you still can’t believe he was a virgin before you. Not with the way he fucks. Sweet and shy as he is, Jeon Jungkook turns into something else entirely when he’s inside you.

Your first time together had been soft and clumsy and perfect. Tucked into the covers of his dorm bed while his roommate Taehyung spent the night at his girlfriend’s place. He’d asked if you were okay a hundred times, his hands shaking against your skin as he moved so carefully, so sweetly. You’d never felt more loved.

But the second time?

Once he stopped asking if you were alright every thirty seconds, once he started trusting you when you told him you fucking loved it and to keep going, he went.

Oh, how he fucking went.

That second night, your own roommate had come back early—earlier than she said she would—and screamed the moment she opened the door. She’d walked in to find your shy, soft-spoken, nerdy boyfriend fucking you raw from behind on your bed, his hands gripping your hips as he thrusted you back and forth on his cock, your makeup-smeared face buried in the pillow, your throat raw from begging.

“We’ll be quiet,” you lie softly against his mouth, your lips brushing his as you lean back down, rolling your hips over his stiffening cock. The thin fabric of your Christmas pajama shorts drags over his matching pants, the friction making him shudder beneath you. “Haven’t fucked me since yesterday morning, baby,” you pout, leaning up with a little huff, bouncing brattily in his lap. “You hate me.”

“D-don’t ever say that again, baby,” he husks, his voice so fucking low as you begin to grind your slickening core against him. “Love you more than life itself.”

“Yeah?” you whisper, your tone turning smug, satisfied. You drag yourself along the length of him again, slow and pointed, humming at the way he twitches beneath you. Leaning down, you hover just over his parted lips, so close your breaths mingle. “You love me that much, baby?”

He’s fighting it—you can see it. The way his jaw tightens, his brows knitting. His throat works around a sound he’s determined to swallow. His resolve is wavering. His control crumbling—or crumbled, he doesn't fucking know—as you roll your hips again, the wet heat of you seeping through the fabric between you.

“That mu-much, baby,” he chokes out, his voice strained. His long fingers dig gently into the soft flesh of your waist, guiding you as you move against him, his grip both a plea and a surrender all at once.

Your lips curl into a triumphant smile against his as you grind yourself back and forth with just a bit more pressure. You feel the way his breath hitches, the way his resistance falters. He knows he’s already lost.

And you know it too when his big hands slide under the hem of your little green singlet, patterned with tiny reindeers and snowflakes, gripping your hips firmly before flipping you both over.

Your big eyes blink up at him, maybe a little too giddy, as he hovers above you. He shakes his head softly, his bunny nose twitching, and then leans down to take the kind of kiss he’s been craving all day.

The kind of kiss he’s wanted since dinner, when your parents were fawning over him between bites of food, praising him for everything from his sweet nature to his thoughtful gift for San.

The one he hasn’t had a chance to steal since he was sitting nervously beside you on the living room couch, watching your baby brother open the limited-edition Iron Man figure Jungkook had picked out just for him. Sannie had sprinted up to your boyfriend, his tiny arms wrapping around him, hugging him so tight and calling him the best hyungie he’s ever had.

And, yeah, okay, maybe he cried a little.

It’s the first time all day he’s had you to himself, the first time since yesterday afternoon. The afternoon he’d spent with you in the communal kitchen at your college, baking the Christmas tree-shaped cookies you’d brought home for your family in a big container.

The same cookies he had snuck an extra one to Sannie, even when you told your little brother no more after two. He couldn't help it, folding instantly when the adorable kid tugged on his sleeve with those big, pleading eyes—the ones that reminded him a little too much of you.

Jungkook thought you hadn’t noticed, but of course you did. You’d stood quietly in the doorway, watching as your gentle giant boyfriend snuck two cookies from the container and handed one to San, his lips twitching with a soft laugh when your brother shoved the whole thing into his mouth like Jungkook might change his mind and take it back.

The feeling of your lips wrapping around his tongue pulls him back to the present, and he lets out a breathy groan into your mouth. You swallow it greedily, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist as you tug his warm, solid weight down into you, relishing in having him pressed so heavily against you.

“Needa be quiet, baby,” he says, his voice low and breathy, maybe even a little whiny as he pulls away reluctantly. “C-can’t have your dad hearing us. I won’t be able to play golf with him tomorrow if I can’t look him in the eye.”

You hum as your lips chase his, dazed and unbothered. “You hate golf,” you murmur absently, your hands sliding up to cradle the sides of his neck, your thumbs brushing soft, hot skin. Then your tongue slips past his lips again.

He lets out something between a grunt and a laugh, his resistance melting away as his big tongue laps against yours. You taste the faint trace of toothpaste as you kiss him deeper, chasing every last hint of it, your body tingling as you take his tongue further into your mouth.

It’s no surprise that he’s already fully hard, just like it’s no surprise that you’re already fucking drenched. His stiff cock presses down against your stomach, and your hips buck instinctively at the feeling, a mewly moan spilling from your lips without care.

His hand slides up from your waist to wrap gently around your throat, and your brows furrow in pleased anticipation through closed eyes, silently hoping he’ll squeeze harder. He does, in a way, his fingers pressing softly against the sides of your neck, enough to make your head spin. The kiss slows as he pulls back slightly, leaving you pouty and blinking up at him.

His cheeks are flushed, his soft lips slightly swollen, his big, gorgeous nose marked faintly on the bridge from where his glasses had rested earlier. He looks down at you before speaking, his voice reluctant, heavy with the words he feels he has to say.

“Quiet, please, angel.”

You lick your lips, trying to chase more of his taste. “Okay, cutie,” you say with a sweet smile, nodding softly as you gaze up at him. “I’ll be quiet.”

His tongue darts out to lick over his lips, as if he’s doing the same as you, before he smiles knowingly. “Liar.”

He’s back on your mouth, his fingers still brushing softly over your throat as his lips capture yours again. This time, he takes your tongue into his mouth, sucking in a way that’s both soft and firm, pulling wet, breathy pants from you chest. Your ankles tighten around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. There’s not even any fucking space between you, but you're not a quitter, grinding pathetically up into him, hips searching for the angle you need.

And then you find it.

“mmmM,” you whine as his hard, covered cock presses perfectly through your pussy lips.

Jungkook groans low into your mouth at the feeling, his lips and tongue moving with messily with yours. He’s devouring you, the wet, sticky sounds of your kissing filling the room as you grind yourself shamelessly against him. The friction is heavy, perfect as his cock is stiff and hot beneath the thin barrier of his pajama pants. Your hips move instinctively, searching for more, harder, faster, anything to ease the ache between your legs.

His hand tightens around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep your head swimming. His lips break from yours with a slick little pop, leaving your lips humming and eyes hazy as they meet his flushed face. His eyes are wide and wet as his grip on your neck loosens, trailing down to your waist.

“Needa taste it, baby,” he rasps, his voice wrecked as he slips lower, dragging his big frame down the bed. “Please baby? Need to taste you.”

The words make your head spin, and you breathing out a pleading god yes baby as his hands grip the waistband of your shorts, tugging them and your panties down in one motion. The cool air against your slick heat makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of his big tongue licking a fat stripe right up your drippy folds.

“Baby—fuckk,” you breathe, your thighs trembling as his mouth works into you. He’s messy with it, always is, his tongue dipping inside your hole, then dragging back up to swivel around your clit. His big nose presses against you as he eats, throat humming and brows furrowing like they always do when he tastes a really good dish.

He pulls back just enough to breathe out, “S-so yummy, baby. I love it. Love it so fucking much.” His lips latch onto your clit, sucking it between his lips and humming dirtily, making your hips jerk up into his face.

“Hahhh,” you whimper, your voice high and dumb as your hands tangle in his hair, tugging hard when his tongue flicks even faster. “Shit, Jung- baby, uuh—”

Jungkook moans into your pussy, the sound high-pitched and needy, vibrating against your soppy heat. His jaw drops as he pushes in deeper, taking your whole pussy into his big mouth, completely forgetting the need for either of you to shut the fuck up. You’re dripping everywhere, your slick coating his lips and chin, and he laps it all up like an eager dog, his hands gripping your plushy thighs to keep you spread wide.

He lifts his head just long enough to suck in a breath before gathering a thick pool of spit in his mouth. He leans back down, face burying between your legs, and lets the saliva drool onto your folds before dragging his tongue through the mess, licking and lapping it all back up greedily.

Your body writhes under him, your head sinking back into the pillow as one hand fists tighter in his hair and the other grips the sheets desperately. Your mind reels, fragments of random thoughts flashing through it—the curve of the statue of liberty, the lucky quarter you found on your walk with him in the city, the moment you first kissed. Everything and nothing blurs together and you realize with a hum that your life is flashing right before your fucking eyes.

You’re trembling, vibrating against the bed, choking on the little noises slipping from your lips. Another uh. And another. And another.

“God, baby. That’s— uh, fuck. So fucking good. Eat your fucking pussy, baby.”

Jungkook whimpers into you, his voice muffled by your cunt as his head follows the desperate rut of your hips. You buck against his mouth, but his hands hold you down, his tongue relentless. “My pussy,” he breathes against your folds, the words so adorably possessive. “It’s my pussy, baby.”

“That's r-right,” you gasp, your head lifting weakly to meet the sight of him—his face filthy, drenched, his mouth and nose buried in your heat as he tongue fucks your cunt like it's his last day on earth. “Your fucking pussy, baby.”

Jungkook groans against you, wet and desperate, his hips shifting against the mattress as he thrusts into nothing, his cock throbbing painfully in his pants. He knows he’s close—so close that it’s embarrassing. He can feel himself leaking through the fabric, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s cumming right there in his pajama pants.

And you know it too. So you beg.

"Please, baby. Wanna cum with you, Kookie... Please."

His face morphs into a little pout as he slows, pulling away from his meal reluctantly, tongue flicking one last time at your puffy folds before his hands leave your thighs. He’s panting as he climbs back up your body, unable to deny you anything in the world, lips and chin glistening with your slick.

You smile at his wet face, your hands slipping up into his messy curls as you tug him down for a kiss. The taste of yourself on his tongue is heady, dizzying, and you let out a little moan as you suck every last bit of it from his mouth. Jungkook groans into it, the sound so low that it almost resembles a cute little growl.

When you pull back, giving his swollen, red pout one last kiss, your gaze flickers down to his hand rubbing over his painfully hard cock. You bite your lip, your eyes trailing back up to meet his as you blink, waiting patiently.

He licks his lips, leaning down for one more quick kiss as his fingers fumble at his waistband. There’s a soft shuffle, and then his cock is free, flushed and heavy in his hand as he slides it against your slick folds. Your breath catches as he lines himself up, his hooded gaze locked on yours, brows furrowed in concentration.

He doesn’t need to look. His cock presses into you with an ease that has you keening, the thick head stretching you open as he pushes in. You feel every inch of him as he sinks deeper, feeding you more and more until your nails dig into his shoulders. The burn makes your jaw fall open, your head tipping back against the pillow.

“Ah,” he groans, his voice breaking as he bottoms out. “It’s so warm, baby—”

You’re already trembling, your walls fluttering around him as he starts to move, pulling out all the way before sinking right back in. “So big, Jungkookie,” you whimper, your fingers gripping his shoulders. “F-fuck, I love your dick so much.”

“Yeah?”

There it fucking is.

“You love it, baby? Love this fucking cock, baby?” he rasps, his hips snapping harder now, the loud, wet sound of his balls slapping against your ass filling the room.

“It’s yours.” Slap. “Your fucking cock.” Slap. “Will always be your fucking cock.”

Your pussy clamps around him, eyes rolling back as choked fucks spill from your lips. You can’t answer, your voice lost to your moans, your body arching into his as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that spot inside that makes your vision blur. You barely register the slam of the headboard against the wall, too cock-drunk to care as he presses a big hand to your belly.

“Feel that?” he growls, his palm firm against your abdomen. “Feel me, baby? Fucking up inside of you right here?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, your hands scrambling for purchase against his back. “Oh my god, yes, yes—”

His other hand slides up your body, under your singlet to find your nipple and roll it between his fingers. The sensation makes you jerk against him, your cries spilling freely now. “So loud,” he mutters, though his lips quirk like he’s fucking proud of it. “God, you just can’t help it, can you, baby?”

He knows you love it when he talks to you like this. You’ve told him so more than once. He didn’t know how he felt about it at first, but when it had you cumming harder, whining more, it wasn’t really a choice anymore. He’d do anything to make you feel like that, give you anything you wanted.

You don’t have a chance to respond—not coherently, at least. His thumb drags from your hip, slipping down to your swollen, throbbing clit. He rubs big, messy, wet circles over the sensitive nub, and your vision shakes as you feel it coming.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans when you let out that shaky little noise and that trembling clench you always do when you’re about to cum. “Cum for me. Let me feel it. Cum on your cock, baby.”

Yes. Yes.

“Yes!” you scream, your body seizing up, waves of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your hands slipping from his hair, nails raking down his bare back as you orgasm. “Baby, uh—fuck!”

He doesn’t slow, his hips pounding into you as his own release builds. “G-gonna fill you up,” he chokes out, his thrusts erratic now. “Fuckkkk, baby, gonna cum so fucking deep inside you.”

“Yes,” you whimper the only word you seem to know. “Wannit so bad, Kookie.” You slur, voice breaking as he keeps fucking into you like a fleshlight. “Wanna feel your cum fill up my fucking pussy, baby, g-g-godddd.”

He shudders above you, his hips snapping hard with one long, deep thrust as he chokes out a cuumming, baby before spilling into you, his deep moan vibrating through your bedroom.

His thumb doesn’t stop.

He’s panting hard, hips fucking in and out of your leaking hole while you milk every last drop of sticky cum from his softening cock. “Come on, angel, gimmie one more, please. Please, angel.”

He’s pleading. You’re dying. Your body is convulsing, clenching and squeezing around his cock, somehow pulling even more of his load when he thought he had no more left to fucking give.

“One more, baby. That’s it. That’s it. There we go.”

Your eyes roll back, the dirtiest moan tearing from your throat as you squeal and shake around his cock. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than the first. He works you through it, rocks you through it, pushing his hips flush against yours so the head of his cock bulges and pulses against your g-spot, spelling his name on your clit with his thumb while you give him one fucking more.

Your chest heaves as your body trembles beneath him, your hands clutching weakly around his sides. Jungkook’s hips still, his cock twitching inside you as he breathes heavily, his forehead pressing softly against yours. He lifts his thumb from your clit, panting, and brings it to his lips without thinking, sucking your slick from his finger.

When he pulls it free, his eyes blink open, dazed and drunk. “I-I can’t believe we did that,” he chokes out. “We were so loud.”

You giggle softly, batting his hand away from his mouth to wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him down until his weight sinks against you. “Babyyy,” he groans in protest, squirming slightly. “I don’t wanna squish you.”

You grumble, your legs locking around his waist again, keeping him firmly in place. His softening cock shifts slightly inside you, and you hum contentedly. “You’re fine, my love. Perfect.”

He lets out a grumpy little whine before conceeding and resting his head in the crook of your neck. His chest rises and falls heavily against yours, his body still trembling faintly.

“It really is okay, though, baby,” you say, stroking his damp hair with one hand while your other rubs little circles over his back. “My mom and Sang-cheol are very sex positive.”

Jungkook’s body stiffens in your hold. “Angel, noo.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh, shrugging innocently. “What? They are.”

His face burns even redder as he rubs his nose into your neck. “It’s gonna be so awkward tomorrow,” he mumbles.

You snicker, drumming his bare bum with your feet. “It’s fine, baby. I didn’t pack any golf attire by the way, so we’ll needa go to the mall in the morning. You can help me pick out a slutty little sport skirt.”

His head lifts just slightly and you swear his ears perk up like a bunny. “Okay,” he says softly, cheeks still pink. “I’d like that.”

You giggle, the sound muffled as you press a kiss to his warm cheek. “God, you’re so cute, baby.”

His lips quirk into a shy grin, his doe eyes blinking down at you. “I love you,” he whispers. “This has been the best Christmas of my life.”

Your chest tightens, and your brows furrow as you whine softly at his sweetness. “I love you too, my sweetheart,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hands to press another kiss to his pout. “So much.”

His smile is soft, glowing, as he nestles back into your neck. His bare chest is warm against you, the two of you sinking into a quiet, content stillness. Your fingers brush through the damp hair at the base of his neck, his breathing evening out as your heartbeats sync.

“Angel?” His voice breaks the silence.

“Yes, my love?” you hum sleepily.

“I-I’m hard again.”

[demonic0angel]

Can we get more of the Tim thinks Danny’s a vampire but cute please

Part 1, part 2, part 3

Danny sighed. “But he’s kinda cute, Jazz!” He flopped backwards onto his bed.

“Danny, you cannot date while we still haven’t figured out who’s been watching you,” she said sternly. “Valerie and Wes revealed themselves in order to protect you. Let’s not make them disappointed, yes?”

Danny winced guiltily. It was true that Wes and Valerie had definitely acted out of the ordinary in order to get him to safety. Usually, they watched him at the edges of their vision, but when Wes had detected the cameras on him, he had abandoned his post to protect Danny. He felt bad for making the both of them go out of their way to help him.

Still, it was awkward because Danny already knew about the cameras…

“You WHAT?!!” Jazz shrieked into his ear and Danny immediately yelped, pulling away the phone.

Oh no, had he been speaking aloud?

“Daniel Jackson Fenton! If you don’t tell me the truth right now, or so help me, I’m storming into your university and dragging you out of the dorms!”

“Okay, okay! Basically, I already knew about the cameras! And the trackers and the listening devices and the hacking! I could tell because when my powers flared up, the tech would fizzle and I could hear it! I swear, I was very careful the entire time and made sure that they didn’t know that I knew! I also made sure that they didn’t find out anything sensitive! It’s not a big deal!”

“Not a big deal? NOT A BIG DEAL?! DANNY, YOU HAVE A STALKER!! YOU’RE THE KING OF OUR REALMS, WHAT DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO HAPPEN IF SOMEONE TARGETS YOU?!” Jazz was practically hysterical. “YOU HAVE A STALKER AND YOU WANT TO DATE A BOY?!?”

Danny whined. “But Tim’s so cute, Jazz! He’s so attentive towards me! It’s like he’s the perfect guy.”

There was a frustrated scream at her end. He kind of understood her, because if she had a stalker herself, he would’ve burned down the earth, salted it afterwards, and then have Dani and Dan help him in throwing the ashes of the planet into the sun. But honestly, it wasn’t a big deal!

Danny could handle himself. He was the Ghost King, after all.

“So… do you think I should ask him out?”

“Danny,” was the very cold, harsh response that sounded like the scrape of a guillotine blade against a spine.

Danny winced again and prepared for another hours long lecture. Jeez, couldn’t anyone put them both out of their misery and get them both dates?

Maybe then, Jazz could finally take a chill pill.

“DANNY!!”

Ah crap, he was talking aloud again.

[soopcak3]

Pills 💊

Thanos(Choi Su-Bong) x Reader/smut🔥

Summary: after six legged race, Y/N asks to try one of Thanos’ pills before she dies. Things escalate quickly and they end up getting freaky in the bathroom.

Warnings: smut obvi, drug use, m!masturbation, face sitting, p in v, probs others

After red light, green light, Y/N hated Thanos. How could he push those people and just kill them? What a bitch. As they entered the giant room everyone slept in, it felt chilling seeing all the beds of the previous players had vanished.

Y/N looked at the number on her jacket and then up at the prize money. She was player 227. Thanos, player 230, approached her.

“Hey Senorita~” He smirked and winked at her. “Tryna come into the Thanos world?” He asked, making a kissy face. Y/N scoffed, “no. but I’ll take one of those pills in your necklace.”

Y/N smirked, knowing she caught him off guard. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” He scowled. She grabbed his necklace and brought him closer to her, whispering in his ear, “give me one and I might fuck you before we both die in here~”

He smirked, tucking his necklace back into his jacket and walked with her to the bathroom. The triangle guards walked them in and Thanos pushed her into the boys bathroom.

He immediately opened his cross necklace and handed her a pill, which she eagerly swallowed. “I hope that’s not all you’re willing to swallow, senorita~” He commented, to which she pushed him to the ground, sat on his lap and straddled him. “You’re such an asshole.. ya know that? What kind of girl do you think I am?” Y/N stood up and laughed, “drop your pants, dumbass.”

He smiled and immediately took off his pants, revealing his hard cock. Y/N smirked and began strip teasing for him, feeling herself in every way possible as the pill began to make her feel like heaven. Thanos began stroking himself as he watched her move, his cock aching with the need to release. She caressed her breasts and swayed before crawling onto the floor and hovering over him.

“Hm.. pathetic. You really think I’m gonna—!” Y/N gasped as Thanos dived his head between her thighs, lapping at her clit and her slippery hole. She moaned out loudly, surprised she enjoyed every second of it, the pill only enhancing her pleasure. Mmm.. fuck..!! Y-you’re surprisingly good at this— FUCK!” Y/N cried out as he stuck his tongue inside her.

He moved his finger to her clit, rubbing circles around it as fast as he could, Y/N began to grind onto his face as he skillfully ate her out. “Cum for me angel~” he grunted as she gasped out and came on his face, her legs shuddering.

“Ohh fuck…” she panted. “You gonna let me dick you down or no, princess?” Thanos asked, smirking underneath her. Y/N scoffed playfully, “fine.. I guess you aren’t THAT small.” He growled at thrusted up into her quickly, giving her no time to adjust.

She cried out in pleasure, her body still pulsing from both the pill and her previous orgasm. Thanos continued thrusting up into her repeatedly as if it was the last time he’d ever fuck someone. “You like that princess? Huh? You taking it like such a little slut.. my slutty princess~” He groaned with a small smile tugging at his lips.

As he said that, Y/N quickly began bouncing on his cock with as much force as possible, his dick reaching places inside her that had never been reached before. Thanos groaned loudly as she shouted out in ecstasy as she once again came all over his fat cock. He soon followed after her and filled her up with his cum.

He thrusted weakly a few more times before pulling out, a string of cum falling onto his cock. “Well then senorita… guess we’ll have to do this more often~” She smirked in her high state and kissed him roughly before standing up, putting her clothes back on, and stumbling out of the bathroom.

[lacy-oh-lacy]

Property of Jennifer ･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Jennifer's Body Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Jennifer Check x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: Jennifer fingers you under the table while you're on a date... with someone else.

CW: DubCon, Toxic!Jennifer, Jealous!Jennifer, hidden-public, exhibitionism?, fingering, mention of spanking, reader goes on a date with a guy (the scene still makes sense if you're not into guys though)

Adam was the worst kind of jock stereotype. A total idiot. Somewhat charming until anything didn’t go his way. A guy who made it his goal in life to sleep with as many women as possible and then slut-shamed the few he actually got under his belt.

He wasn’t your type in more ways then one, yet on a Friday night you could’ve spent doing anything else… you were sitting across from him at a shitty diner, helping him stumble through small talk.

You blamed Jennifer entirely.

If she hadn’t of fucked and ghosted you AGAIN, you wouldn’t of been so desperate to get her out of your system that you’d say yes to the first loser to ask you out.

Adam wasn’t your main concern at that moment though. Your main concern was the devil herself, striding into the diner you knew she hated in the shortest skirt she owned …and for the first time in a week she was looking right at you.

Your attention had been wavering all night but you must of been obvious that time because Adam checked over his shoulder, following your gaze  and catching sight of Jennifer a second before she arrived at your booth.

“Oh my god, hi!”

That valley-girl voice of hers made your heart flutter but you knew to raise your guard.

“Jennifer, hi… what are you doing here?”

She laughed, a plastic sound. “I could ask you the same thing.”

The thought of deflecting as skilfully as she had done was appealing, but instead you ripped the Band-Aid off. You were done caring about what she thought.

“I’m on a date actually.”

The strain in her smile wouldn’t be noticeable if you weren’t watching her reaction so carefully.

“Oh, where’s your date?” She looked around, eyes very obviously passing over the man in front of you.

Oof. You didn’t exactly like the guy but you felt a secondhand sting at that. Cringing, you shot Adam an apologetic look as he waved a hand to get her attention.

“Uhh that’d be me.” 

“Oh!” 

Despite her passive-aggressive tone, her big glossed smile softened the blow. It made it hard to be mad at her. At least it did until she turned her head away from him to mouth “yikes.”

Suddenly she sat down cramped against you, hand dropping to your thigh. “Well I’m just waiting on my own date. Mind if I sit with you guys for a few minutes?”

You didn’t know what made you tenser, wondering where the hell she was going with this or the hand caressing your thigh.

“Well, like I said we’re on a date. So actually-“

Said date cut you off as he leered, slack-jawed at Jennifer. “It’s fine. What’s a few minutes?“

You gritted your teeth, mind badgering you with images of all the other places you could’ve been that night. “Why do you even want to sit here?”

She groaned. “He said it’s fine. Take a chill pill.”

Jennifer’s words were accompanied by a squeeze to your thigh and you jumped. It didn’t hurt but you felt your skin buzz under her touch, heat spreading low in your stomach.

Jennifer’s attention seemed to go back to Adam but that didn’t stop her from keeping yours with her hand inching up your skirt.

“So, I didn’t catch your name.”

He frowned, a crack in his horny haze. “Are you serious? Adam… We sat together in chem?”

“Okay, geez, don’t go stalker-boy on me.”

Her tone was just light enough to let the comment slide, but you could almost physically feel the mood slowly sinking.

She turned to you, face too innocent to have her hand so close to your privates. “What about you, how’d you two meet? Was he hanging outside your house with binoculars and a stiffy?”

“We also met in chem.” He answered for you. His tone was dryer, welcome already wearing thin. 

Apparently Adam’s ego was the one thing stronger than his libido. 

Unlike yours. Jennifer’s wandering hand was dangerously close to making you forget that you were even mad at her.

“I’m sorry, was I asking you?” She leant into you, ‘whispering’ at a volume you were sure the next table over could hear. “Does he always talk over you like that?”

The question and the underlying insult went over your head. Feeling Jennifer’s breath on your neck clouded your brain and feeling the tip of her finger begin dragging up your slit through your panties short-circuited it.

Fortunately a waitress came over, putting a pause on the tension at the table. Unfortunately that was when Jennifer’s finger reached your clit.

Your eyelashes fluttered and you bit your lip to keep back a moan. This was way too risky. The waitress would move on from Adam to one of you any second.

“What are you doing?” You hissed against Jennifer’s ear.

Unfazed she whispered back. “You’re lucky I’m not bending you over my knee.”

Then she turned back, looking the picture of innocence when the waitress addressed her.

“Anything for you, Dear?”

The woman looked so demure and unassuming. You had no idea how Jennifer could look her in the eye while drawing circles on your clit.

“Actually she’s only staying a few-“ Adam started.

“I’ll take a coffee.” Jennifer interrupted, smiling brightly.

“It’s a little late. Do you want that decaf?”

“No. I’m not planning on doing much sleeping tonight.” The subtext in that sentence embarrassed you enough but then Jennifer turned to you. “You want anything else? My treat.”

That sent the waitresses gaze your way and your face burned. You really didn’t want a stranger looking at you right now.

“No thanks.”

You cursed your squeaky, cracking voice and averted your eyes as quickly as possible.

Even with your awkward position limiting her, it was like Jennifer’s touch electrified you. An overwhelming pleasure followed her fingertips and you could only swallow your reactions to it for so long.

As the waitress went on her way Jennifer tugged at your panties and mindlessly taking the cue you raised your hips just enough for her to pull them to your knees.

That was when Adam’s focus returned to the two of you and you startled, realising what the fuck you were doing.

He was totally gonna catch you!

But then Jennifer’s fingers pushed inside of you, curving and making you see stars, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You could only spread your legs wider and silently pray you didn’t look as wrecked as you felt.

“Okay, I’m sorry, how long were you planning on staying? Don’t you have a date coming?” Adam huffed.

“Yeah.” She looked slyly at you “any second now.”

You writhed in your seat. Embarrassment, guilt and so much lust created a boiling hot cocktail inside of you.

“Whatever.” He sighed, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling.

Jennifer snuck her other hand under the table and you gasped loudly at sudden, rough friction against your clit. 

Sure enough that caught other patrons attention. As people glanced at you you didn’t know what you wanted more… to cum or for the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“Hey, you good?” Adam asked.

“Yeah… yeah, just um, water went down the wrong pipe.”

You hadn’t touched your glass since Jennifer showed up but you trusted he wouldn’t of payed enough attention to know that.

“You should be more careful.” Jennifer said, tone loaded in way that made you squirm.

It was really, really hard to be careful with the high she was working you into. It was too much, the way she massaged your g-spot while three flat fingers rubbed quickly over your pussy. 

Hellish heat overtook you as she brought you over the edge. It took everything in your power to keep your mouth shut, face pointing down to hide your shame.

You gripped the table like a lifeline as pulse after pulse of pleasure rocked your body. Her touch became almost overstimulating.

You felt Jennifer’s breath on your ear before you heard her silky, hushed voice “You’re mine. Got it? Don’t forget that again.”

Cool air hit your warm centre as she pulled out and you nodded eagerly. Thrumming with the aftershocks of orgasm you barely registered Adam’s voice.

“Hey what’s up with all the whispering? I swear, you’d think you were on a date with Jennifer.”

[thatnonameuser]

A Wonderland Of Yanderes

Intro, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 here

There is no safe place here.

No home to return to, and the path back is just so far out of reach, that it's practically nonexistent.

Ramshackle is nice enough. It's a roof over your head. Walls to protect you from the chill and weather. A bed for you to sleep in at night. But it's not safe.

Rusty old hinges hang on my tiny threads of metal.

Locks on doors and windows are old and can't close properly.

Windows with cracks and holes the hands can fit through and open them with ease.

You chose your bedroom because it had the least holes in the walls and windows, had a bathroom you could use without accidentally bumping into the ghosts, and door that wasn't splintering at the touch of a hand.

But besides that, in the case of an obsessed stalker ready to take you home and away from your life for good, you might as well be sleeping outside.

Your door doesn't lock properly, and the locks on the windows are so weak they might as well not exist. A warm welcome to someone creeping on you in the night, wanting to come in and do whatever creepy or sick things they please.

You covered the holes in the walls and windows with old sheets and furniture, but what's stopping someone from peering through to watch you sleep at night.

It's no sanctuary or safe hiding spot, but where else is there to go?

Asking to room with Ace and Deuce could be a disaster if they decide to cross some very important boundaries as you sleep.

The old dorm is all Crowley could have offered, and after you're meeting today, you doubt he'd be very helpful. Or even concerned.

"Hey Grim, do you wanna stay in my bed tonight?" You don't want to sleep alone tonight, with what you discovered today still fresh in your mind.

"The Great Grim deserves his own bed, Why would he share one with his Henchman!" This coming from someone who sleeps in a basket with an old comforter pilled into it, if the day had been kinder you would've laughed. Would have.

You sigh, "I'll give you your own pillow and half the bed. I just don't want to sleep alone tonight."

Grim grumbles wordlessly for a few seconds before answering with a reluctant "....ok."

You smile, hugging him, "You're the best, Grim."

Grim squirms against your embrace, trying to escape, "Of course I'm the best Henchman! Now lemme go!"

Grimm jumps onto the bed to find your most comfortable pillow as you prop one of the old chairs against the door handle. A makeshift lock, just until you can get some thaumarks together to get a new lock for the door.

Your library escapade had yielded some fruit. You found a book about all the nations laws, so you at least knew were to run if you're being chased. Not helpful for now, but possibly in future, for emergencies.

More importantly, you saw a list of the different types of crazy, separated by dorm. With that it mind, and some helpful books about darling manipulation, capture and possession, you can plan around whatever you face.

Hopefully.

From what you researched each of the seven the dorms were dedicated to were yanderes, whose treatment of their respective darlings matched that of the students.

Ace and Deuce's dorm was your first priority, with their growing fondness for you. Heartslaybul had a reputation for housing the most controlling of yanderes. All obsessed with keeping their darlings under their control and rule. Based on the strictness of the Queen of Hearts, it makes sense that controlling behaviour was the thing that separated them from the rest. You pitied the poor King of Hearts, her darling, a man too afraid of his wife's rules out of fear of being beheaded. It was so hard to believe that Ace and Deuce in the few days you'd known them, and the near death experience you shared together, were anywhere close to that level of a relationship control freak but from what you saw in the hall this afternoon, over a slightly too tight grip or what you wanted to do that afternoon, made you wonder what you hadn't seen before. Who else was like that? What was the extent of their control? How much freedom would they take from you to make themselves happy?

Next was Savanaclaw, a dorm nearly packed to the brim with beastmen, was a dorm full of possessive yanderes. All more than willing to fight their rivals to the death to get their darlings all to themselves. Based on the persistence of the King of Beasts, they will stop at nothing to get their darlings. No crime, not even murder is off the table. King of Beasts' sister-in-law was his darling, whom he killed her husband, his brother, for. If the rest of the dorm is like him, that means they'd willingly kill their own families to get you for themselves. And if that other book was right, they'd get away with it too. You made a mental note to carry a knife if you ever have to go to that dorm.

Octavinelle, similarly is also full of possessive yanderes, though they tend to come from the sea rather than the land. Even if they're similar to the yanderes in Savanaclaw, they're more sneaky than outright violent. The Sea Witch's benevolence mirrors the other students' preferred traps, as she tricked her darling into a deal that ended them in her garden, a mollusk until they stayed 'willingly'. Their preference is catch them, break their spirit and then, obviously, 'profit'. You made a silent promise to yourself then, never ever make a deal, or an arrangement with anyone in that dorm. No matter the offer or the cost.

Scarabia's next. A dorm based on the Sorcerer of the Sands and his mindfulness. In this case, mindfulness is another word for him being manipulative. Mind control was that man's specialty, and the woman who would have been his darling just barely escaped it, if it wasn't for her quick thinking. If the students in that dorm are anything like that, then you need to never speak with them. You might not be able to think that fast on your feet.

Pomefiore, a dorm about tenacity, determination, meant to match that of the Fairest Queen's. The poison that rots within its students are of the obsessive variety, as all of them have one thing in common, and that's their practically worship-level devotion to something about their darlings, that boils over into everything else. That dorm scares you especially, as the book had told you many horrible things. The Pomefiore Dorm Head has a spell book holding all the spells a yandere would ever need. Love potions, lethal poisons, even a spell to lock a darling inside a mirror, just as the Fairest Queen did with her lover, where they'll be forced only to look at whoever trapped them there forever until that person lets them out.

Ignihyde, a dorm of technology has enough history to date back centuries, founded based on the diligence of the King of the Underworld. The story about his darling is eerily familiar to a myth from your world. His wife was stalked for months to years, before being kidnapped and trapped in the dark and lonely underworld till she was tricked into staying forever. It makes perfect sense that dorm is full of stalkers. Devoting all their efforts into learning everything about their lives, before abducting them, and trapping them into the darkness to never see the sunshine again. A rumor recorded in the book said something about the Shroud family, said to have descended straight from the King, who have a very special fruit that has been used from the beginning to bind their darlings to them for the rest of their lives, and the afterlife that follows. That note makes you want to check every nook and cranny in Ramshackle for any cameras hidden from view.

And finally there's Diasomnia, the enigma. Based of the nobility of the Thorn Fae's spirit. That chapter was practically empty. Not one source could be found that had any information about her darling. They could have been the king who stole her wings, the princess she'd cursed or saved, the raven she taught to be human, or someone not mentioned in her tale. They could have been the prize jewel of the dragon's hoard but there was no evidence on how the Fae caught them, what happened to them after the Fae's death. The yanderes in Diasomnia were just as enigmatic. Some were devoted, sadistic, obsessive, but there was never a pattern to follow. No trick consistently used. Nothing. It's probably safest to avoid them at all costs. You don't know what they're capable of, after all.

But now, you can only prepare for the present. And you weren't really prepared, all you had was the sturdiest wooden chair from the dining room and a freshly sharpened knife from the kitchen, for emergencies.

Still, you promised Ace and Deuce you would hang out with them tomorrow, might as well, get some rest before you make yourself sick with worry.

You toss on one of your few pyjamas, the longest ones you own to prevent anyone from peeping in and seeing you in a compromising state of undress while you slept. Crawling into bed, Grim firmly cements his sleeping spot of choice to be right in the middle of where you curled up in bed. You laugh, but it ends in yawn. Exhaustion fills you and your eyes start to fall heavy.

It's only just before you drift off, that the mirror you have on the wall starts to glow.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Charlie Morningstar, actual princess of hell, sitting very stiff and straight and awkward on the throne of hell during a Formal Thing, looking very Uncomfy about it... until....

Vaggie: "Are you guys all blind? She's gorgeous up there."

Angel Dust: "No surprises YOU'D like seein' her all stiff."

Vaggie: "Fuck off. She looks dignified. Formal-"

Alastor: "Tense?"

Niffty: "Like rigger mortis!"

Cherri Bomb: "Like she's sitting on TNT."

Angel Dust: "Stiffer than a porn star tryn'a pay rent."

Husk: "I can hear her fucking teeth grinding through that forced grin."

Vaggie: "Alright, she's a bit nervous sitting on the throne of hell for the first time, filling in for the absent queen mom and the shut in king dad. So what."

Alastor: "It is becoming SLIGHTLY detrimental, ha ha!"

Vaggie: "You told her to sit still up there and look pretty. Look. She's sitting. She's pretty."

Angel Dust: "You're gay."

Vaggie: "Hi gay I'm her girlfriend."

Husk: (snorts)

Alastor: "I'm SURE she is ALL those things, my dear-"

Vaggie: "Touch me and the sleeve comes off with your arm in it."

Husk: (SNIGGERS)

Alastor: "-but she IS mainly meant to be inspiring CONFIDENCE in her ability to run hell as it's de-facto ruler!"

Vaggie: "And?"

Alastor: "Well it WOULD be nice if she could make the symbolic at of sitting on the throne of hell, in full view of what is MEANT to be HER royal court, seem just a BIT more, hrmm... NATURAL~"

Vaggie: "What the fuck does that mean. She's princess of Hell. However she sits on the dumb chair is natural."

Angel Dust: "Toots, she's third in line ruler of all Pride, an' she looks..."

Niffty: "WRETCHED!"

Husk: "Fucking pitiful."

Alastor: "Once again I shall go with TENSE."

Vaggie: "You want her to relax up there?"

Alastor: "I would rather say, it is VITAL that she does so~!"

Cherri Bomb: "No sweat. Someone give me a drink and I'll slip her a chill pill."

Vaggie: "No."

Angel Dust: "NO!"

Niffty: "I could try giving her acupuncture!"

Angel Dust: "Cherri, we've TALKED about this-"

Husk: "You fucking know how?"

Cherri Bomb: "-don't be sucha stick in the mud, Angie."

Niffty: "You PUNCTURE!"

Angel Dust: "I ain't being a stick in the mud! You-"

Husk: "Unholy shit stop giggling and give me that fucking knife-"

Cherri Bomb: "Yeah, and I wasn't gonna get her royal highness high for real. Just something to take off the edge-"

Angel Dust: "She's got no history with that stuff! She'd be a KITE!"

Vaggie: "Someone hold my drink."

Husk: "-and where the fuck are YOU going?"

Vaggie: "Gonna go help my girlfriend."

Angel Dust: "Whoa whoa wait toots- ya supposed to be lying LOW here, Vagisaurus! Ex-exorcist bitch, remember? Lot's a people here who'd like to KILL ya???"

Vaggie: "If anyone's pissed enough to run up the dais steps and try murdering the princess of hell's partner right in front of her then they deserve to get at least one hit on me. You guys have fun, stick together, don't get killed."

Husk: "Take your own fucking advice-"

Angel Dust: "-aaaand she's took off, right in front of EVERYBODY oh that's just GREAT."

Niffty: "Alastor? Do you want her to die..?"

Alastor: "Right now, dearest? Well! If it helps our princess put on more of a royal bearing, then I fail to see why she shouldn't!"

Cherri Bomb: "Dude."

-

Charlie: "-eighty-three million ducks on the wall, eighty-three million duuucks... take one down.... pass it around..."

Charlie: "-don't think about how easy mom made this look don't think about her seeing you up here and wondering where she went wrong and maybe she did and that's why she left don't think about it don't think-"

Charlie: "... eighty-two million nine-hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine ducks on the waaalllll-"

Vaggie: (swoops down) "Hey."

Charlie: "-oh thank HELL Vaggie! I was just getting-"

(gets smooched)

Charlie: "..."

Charlie: ".... hhh...hi..."

Vaggie: "This armrest taken?"

Charlie: "What armrest. Oh! The THRONE right um no I mean yes you can, or- or we could get you your own chair if you want-!"

Vaggie: "Thanks babe, this is good."

Charlie: "It's- it's close!"

Vaggie: "Nice being on eye level for once."

Charlie: "or kiss level."

Vaggie: "Hm?"

Charlie: "NO NOTHING. Ahem!" (using gf's thigh as armrest)

Charlie: "Sooo, how's the party going down there?"

Vaggie: "Typical. Niffty brought a knife."

Charlie: "A knife? Just one??"

Vaggie: "We'll see."

Charlie: "I... guess just a knife's not too bad-"

Vaggie: "Heavenly steel."

Charlie: "H- Did you confiscate-?"

Vaggie: "Husk's working on it. I had better things to do."

Charlie: "Oh." (drooping) "Better things right. Other things. Just checking in on me huh? Um, what is the other things that need doing?"

Vaggie: "Charlie."

Charlie: "Shoot did I forget something?"

Vaggie: "You didn't-"

Charlie: "Something IMPORTANT?"

Vaggie: "Sweetie, you're things."

Charlie: "My things??"

Vaggie: "The things are you."

Charlie: "I'M things? What things- OH I'M THE-"

Charlie: "-I'm the things that need doing."

Vaggie: "Do you?"

Charlie: "N-not in public!"

Vaggie: "Guess you'll have to wait, then."

Charlie: "..."

Charlie: "You know, these are the only times I ever wonder about you maybe being a liiiittle itty bit evil."

Vaggie: "Punishment to fit the sin, babe. I've been having to look at you all evening."

Charlie: "I was WONDERING why your wings were showing!"

Vaggie: "You bring it out in me."

Charlie: "HEHEHEHEH."

Vaggie: "So now we're just gonna have to suffer together for the rest of the night."

Charlie: "That phrasing isn't helping."

Vaggie: "You playing with the hem of my skirt isn't helping."

Charlie: "YOU'RE the one almost sitting on my LAP."

Vaggie: "Emphasis on almost."

Charlie: (sigh) "I wish you were sitting on my lap..."

Vaggie: "You're basically melting into mine now, so there's that."

Charlie: "Your fault." (pouts) "Evil temptress of cuddles denied."

Vaggie: "Hellishly cute seductress."

Charlie: "Distracting tease."

Vaggie: "Speaking of distracting, think the whole room's looking this way now."

Charlie: "Can't blame them. You're lovely, Vaggie."

Vaggie: "Charmer."

Charlie: "Beautiful~"

Random Sinner: (charges over) "Murdering EXORCIST! You-"

(FwooOOM HELLFIRE)

Demon Charlie: (SNARLS)

Random Sinner: "...."

Random Sinner: "..... your wings are.. very pretty."

Vaggie: "Thanks."

Demon Charlie: "ANY oThER WORDS?"

Random Sinner: "C-congratulations on the girlfriend, your highness!"

Charlie: (beaming) (sparkling) "Thank you!!"

Random Sinner: (slightly charred) (eases back into the crowd)

Vaggie: "...."

Charlie: "I know I know..." (huffs) "That was a bit-"

Vaggie: "Hot."

Charlie: "Oh hush." (smirks) (drapes herself over gf's lap again)

-

Alastor: "...Well!"

Angel Dust: "She sure ain't stiff anymore."

Alastor: "Quite so."

Husk: "She's fucking liquefying."

Alastor: "Hrmm..."

Angel Dust: "Liquid like lighter fluid. She ROASTED that guy."

Cherri Bomb: "Are we like, SURE no one slipped anything in her drink..?"

Niffty: "Do you see any DEAD BODIES around Vaggie!?"

Cherri Bomb: "Uh, no?"

Niffty: "Awww. Then no."

Husk: "My grip hasn't gone limp though- Niffty, stop trying to take back the fucking angel knife."

Niffty: "THERE AREN'T ANY CORPSES HERE AT LEAST LET ME HAVE THIS!!!"

Husk: "Fuck no! You'll make corpses!"

Niffty: "I KNOOOOW!!!"

Angel Dust: "Not tonight, Niff."

Niffty: (hanging limply off of knife handle) (sobbing)

Alastor: "Oh dearest don't CRY~" (pats niffty) "Come now- why don't we RELISH how the crowd shies back in FEAR from our DARLING hotel founder!"

Cherri Bomb: "Uhh, they might just be cringing back from all the glittery rainbows..?"

Niffty: (sniffling) "Cr- cringing's good..."

Husk: "She sure as fuck does look full of pride now."

Alastor: "Indeed! MOST satisfactory!"

Cherri Bomb: "Gay pride."

Angel Dust: "In her fucked up battle scarred heavenly wash out murder girlfriend who's giving her big soppy I'm-so-in-love looks."

Alastor: "Ah HA...! Close enough~"

[bitchesuntitled]

Three Months

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader wc: 4,490

Summary: Dieter wants to sleep with you, so you propose a deal. Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+, best friends to lovers, mentions of drugs and alcohol, Dieter being well... himself, Dieter getting sober, fingering(f!receiving), unprotected PinV(be smarter than this IRL folks), I believe that's it but if I missed anything let me know! A/N: This would be my submission for my own Get Dieter Sober challenge! Don't forget peeps there's still time if you wanna submit something! Thank you @beefrobeefcal and @jennaispunk for lending their eyes for this one!

Masterlist||AO3||Get Dieter Sober masterlist

divider provided by @saradika-graphics

“Dee,” you let out a frustrated sigh, flinging yourself back on his bed, “We’ve been over this!”

“Oh, come on!” Dieter whines, “You’re hot, I’m hot. What would be the big deal?”

“Just because you want to fuck someone doesn’t mean it should be me!” You huff, rolling your eyes. Dieter flops beside you on his bed with a frustrated groan.

“It’s not fair,” he whines, laying on his side and propping his head up with his fist. “You’re my best friend! Why wouldn’t I ask you? It wouldn’t change anything just because we sleep together.” He tries to argue. “Plus, it’s not like we haven’t fooled around some.”

“We were both drunk,” you bark out a laugh, “I don’t think that counts. All we did was make out on your couch and you fell asleep dry-humping me.”

“Could try again.” He suggests, wiggling his eyebrows. 

You’ve lost count now of how many times he’s tried this during your years of friendship. Dieter gets this wild hair up his ass convinced he wants to sleep with you, only for someone else to come along and occupy him. You roll on your side to face him. Eyes roaming the features of his face: his pouty lips with his bottom lip stuck out further as he begged, the aquiline shape of his nose, and lastly, his big brown eyes, bloodshot and wide pupils from whatever substance he took today. Pills, coke, booze, you name it, Dieter Bravo snorted or ingested it. You smirked, an idea forming in your head.

“How bad do you want to fuck me, Bravo?” You ask in a sultry tone, your fingers scratching through the scruff of his jaw, leaning into him, tracing your nose softly against his.

“Really fucking bad.” He breaths out, his lips ghosting over your own, stretching his neck, attempting to slot his mouth over yours.

“Then I’ll make a deal with you,” you smirk, running your fingers through his thick brown waves, pulling his head away from you.

“Okay.” He giggles giddily as you loosen the grip on his hair, “What are you thinking?”

“Three months — no drugs, no booze, no sex,” you let out breezily, “Then I’ll let you fuck me.”

“What?” Dieter all but shrieks, eyes widening at your proposal.

“You heard me,” you say, booping his nose with your index finger, “You want to fuck me so bad. Need to be sober for three months.”

“What am I supposed to do for three fucking months?” He asks, flopping onto his stomach on the bed.

“Be sober.” You shrug, letting out an evil cackle, and gently pat his back.

“Deal,” Dieter grumbles into his comforter. “Three months will fly by.” He huffs, shrugging. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbles more to himself.

—

He looks up from his phone, watching the party around him. Women and men gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. A week into this deal with you and he feels fine. He won’t cave. A handsome brunette offers him some random pill but he declines, making his way through the house.

“Hey, Dieter!” someone shouts from a room off the hallway he’s been walking down.

“Hey man,” Dieter said, popping his head in through the door. “Guess I found the chill party, huh?”

“Have a seat.” A skinny redhead with tits trying to spill out of her top says, patting the spot next to her, “We can have fun in here.”

Dieter gulps, nodding his head as his eyes take her in, making his way to the spot next to her on the couch. When he sits down, he feels his phone vibrate in his palm. He looks down to see you sent him a message.

I know you went to some party tonight. Don’t forget our deal.

Dieter: Why do you hate me?

I don’t hate you. 😘

Dieter: At a party with a redhead sitting next to me with tits the size of bowling balls. You hate me.

You can back out at any time.

Dieter: NO! Why’d sex have to be off the table?

“Want some?” The redhead asks, offering Dieter the joint in her hand. He shakes his head with a polite no thank you, redirecting his focus back to his phone. He chuckles, reading your message.

You got tested, doofus. I’m not going to sleep with you if you’re not clean. 

Dieter: What if I get tested before we fuck?

No.

With a sigh, he pockets his phone, trying to pick up what is being discussed around the circle of people passing the joint around. He spends the rest of his time at the party in this small room, trying to steer clear of greater temptation down the hall. Dieter wouldn’t have even come to this party had his manager not forced him to. Something about socializing with some model and trying to get on a director's good side. Who the director and model were, Dieter had no idea. All he could think about was you, wondering what you were doing, if you were even serious about this deal. 

“Are you sure you don’t wanna hit this?” The redhead purred, leaning into his side, her breasts brushing against his arm.

Dieter clears his throat, trying his best to avoid looking at her cleavage. “Nope. I’m good.” He murmurs with a shake of his head.

Since the moment he laid eyes on you, Dieter knew he wanted to fuck you and wasn’t about to lose his chance now.

—

“Being sober is so fucking boring!” Dieter whines, sitting on the opposite end of his couch, snatching the open KitKat off his coffee table. “I don’t get why people do this.”

“Dieter. It’s been a month.” You huff, rolling your eyes as he takes a giant bite off the chocolate bar.

“I’m jus-“ he continues to chew, “I’m just saying, it’s boring! I don’t know how you do this.” He says after swallowing the sweet treat.

“Find a different hobby,” you say, shrugging your shoulders, picking the lint off your leggings, “I don’t know what to tell you, ya big baby.”

“I’m not a big baby!” Dieter huffs, tossing the KitKat back onto the coffee table. “I don’t have any hobbies besides fucking, drinking, and drugs!” He says, leaning towards you, his arms caging you in against the arm of his couch. Your throat feels dry suddenly, taking in his steely expression, “How am I supposed to release all this stress?” He asks, quirking his brow, his mouth so close you can smell the chocolate on his breath. Dieter gently kisses the corner of your mouth, his lips making a soft trail from your jaw to your neck, “Hmm?” He asks, waiting for a response before his teeth gently scrape that spot behind your ear.

You let out a soft whine feeling his hard length against your thigh.

“No!” You bark out, gently pushing him away from you, attempting to catch your breath. “Not the deal, bucko. It’s only been a month.”

“Fine,” Dieter huffs, sitting back on the couch and folding his arms across his broad chest. “Then what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” He asks, nodding his head towards the tent in his pants.

“You’ll be fine.” You say, giving him a pointed look and grabbing the TV remote to turn something on to distract you after whatever that was. “Do we need to watch The Lion King?” You ask, a grin spreading across your face.

“Why? So I can be even more confused about my feelings for Scar?!” He laughs, grabbing his crotch and adjusting himself. “He’s a bad guy but maybe he’d be fun.” He adds with a shrug

“You’re so fucking weird.” You laugh, shaking your head, nudging his shoulder with your own.

“Fuck off,” Dieter grumbles, scooting his hips down to get more comfortable and stretching his arm across the back, “Actually, no. Come here,” he says, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you closer to his side. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent with a smile. He lets out a sigh, laying his cheek against the top of your head. “I like this,” he whispers as you find a movie to watch.

“What?” You whisper, scooting closer to him.

“New hobby.” He hums, placing a kiss on your head, “Cuddling.”

You roll your eyes, biting your lip to keep from smiling. You are really beginning to like this Dieter. Sober Dieter is a lot sweeter.

—

Dieter sits in his art studio, contemplating what to paint. The drugs tended to spark that creativity in him, his hands moving mindlessly until some weird fucked up masterpiece was sitting in front of him. Except now. Now he sits wondering what he’s even doing in the room he’s avoided for weeks upon weeks. Unable to make that same spark come to life, staring out the window to his backyard. Maybe I could do a landscape, he thinks.

“What the fuck am I thinking?” He groans, throwing the paintbrush down in defeat, “I’m not fucking Bob Ross.”

He grabs his phone, opening it to the first thing he sees, a message from his dealer.

Hey Bravo. Been a while man, you good?

His palms begin to sweat, fingers itching to respond. What would he even say?

Sorry, your highest-paying customer is sober.

Hey, yeah everything’s great!

Actually everything is really fucking bad.

Can I stop by?

Then a notification pops up that you shared something on Instagram, deciding to click on it, his focus is immediately on you. He smiles, seeing the selfie you posted. You, with your soft lips, your sweet smile, your eyes twinkle like you’ve got a secret you’re not ready to share. Just you.

Dieter had a hard time admitting to himself that he loved you. Not the kind of love shared between friends but more. 

The first time it popped into his brain had been during a drug-fueled bender when you took care of him during and after, reminding him to drink water, laying in his bed with him because he didn’t want to be alone, scratching his back, and putting up with his demanding whines of discomfort.

The second time had been during a drunken night where he was trying to forget about his feelings. Only for him to wind up banging on your apartment door at four am, when he cried himself to sleep on your couch about how much he loved you, while you softly exhaled and shook your head with a pitiful face and told him  - Dieter, you’re drunk.

The third time and when he finally accepted it was the following morning, waking to the sunlight shining brightly into your living room. His body and head feeling so achy, slumping off your couch, making his way to your room. He smiled watching you deep in sleep, comforter wrapped around your shoulders and legs sprawled out. He let out a soft sigh, his feet slowly padding to your bed, nudging your shoulder when he was close, softly whispering - scoot over - before slipping under the covers as you created space for him, observing the crease of your eyebrows as you moved, the little pout of your lips, and the twitch of your nose as you slept. This is what he wanted to see every morning for the rest of his life. You.

He let out an exasperated sigh, putting his phone down to stare at the blank canvas again.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, quickly grabbing some paint and squirting red, yellow, blue and white to his pallet. Not even noticing the joint he’d left last time he was in this room on the side table as inspiration finally struck.

—

“Dieter!” You call out as you open his front door being met with silence as you make your journey further into the darkened foyer, “I got those tacos you like!” Trying to coax him out of wherever it is he’s hiding.

You’re certain he’s changed his mind on the deal you’d made. It’s been weeks since you heard from him, past the three month mark now and the only reason you’re here is because he hasn’t been answering his phone and worry was getting the better of you.

“Dee?” You try again, flipping lights on in each room you pass until you come to the kitchen, “This isn’t funny dude.” You shout, setting the bag of food on the counter before going in search of him.

Making your way deeper into his home, you notice a light shining from under the door to Dieter’s studio. You can hear movement on the other side of the door.

“Dieter?” You ask hesitantly, tapping the tips of your fingers against the door. “You in there?”

You hear a groan before distinctly hearing something plunk to the ground. Taking a deep breath, you push the door open to see Dieter lying on the floor in front of a blank canvas. Paint is splattered all over the place, his paint brushes skewed about, and a cup he kept close by lies on the floor, surrounded by a murky puddle of paint-infused water.

“Dieter,” you hesitate, approaching his still form. “Hey, man. Get up,” your foot reaching to kick against his leg lightly. His speech is slurred as he grumbles, something you can’t decipher. Well - at least he’s still breathing, you think, furrowing your brow.

“Come on, Dee.” You sigh, feeling defeated. Hunched over his form, “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” he murmurs as you turn him flat on his back. “Stay here,” he groans out, eyes tightly squeezed shut like a toddler who just got woken up from his nap, reaching his arms out towards you, waving them in the air until his hand makes contact with your arm. Dieter moves on his side pulling you down with him, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other around your waist, a satisfied hum leaving his chest.

“Dieter,” you let out an annoyed huff, “This is great and all, but uh- why the fuck are we on the floor?”

“Sleep,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I am not sleeping on the floor.”

“Shut up,” Dieter whines, tangling his legs with your own. “I want sleep.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head against his chest as he holds you against him. His breathing calms as you lay there in silence on the floor of his little studio, wondering what it might have been that he took this time. 

“I made it,” Dieter huffs against your hairline. As if the thoughts in your head were seeping through like osmosis into his brain. “Three months. No drugs, no booze, no sex.”

Your head tilts up, eyeing him suspiciously.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he grins, bleary eyes raking across the features of your face.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bravo.” You give a teasing glare. “So you really made it three months?”

“Mhm,” Dieter hums with a shit-eating grin. “Bet you didn’t see that happening.”

“No, I did not.” You comment, quirking your brow.

“I need to…” Dieter pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “I need to show you something.”

He gently moves you away, propping himself up to stand. “Ew,” he fusses, looking down at his soaked sock standing in the murky puddle of water. “Why’d you let us lay so close to that?!”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, giving him a pointed look.

“Right.” Dieter says bashfully, extending his hands to you, “Come on.”

Dieter gently pulls you to stand with him before taking a deep breath and leading you to the spot, the place he always puts his latest project to admire and contemplate, on the wall.

“So, I realized something during this three month stint.” He starts, clearing his throat before continuing. “I uh… Well…” he steps forward, turning on the singular light above the darkened spot on the wall, revealing a painting of you.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, shocked that this is what Dieter has been working on. A galaxy seeping into a meadow surrounding your face. The blues and purples of the galaxy blend in beautifully with greens and yellows of the meadow. The expression of your face stunning against the canvas. Is this how Dieter sees you?

“I’ve been working on this for weeks now.” Dieter mumbles shyly, scratching the back of his head, “I don’t know how to do this or how to make you believe me but…” he pauses, taking in a deep breath, “I love you.”

“Dee,” you murmur, taken aback by his confession, surging forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, one hand gripping the back of his neck to bring his lips to your own in a desperate kiss. Your fingers weave through his hair, gripping him to you tighter, sweeping your tongue against the seam of his lips he opens his mouth to let you in.

Your mouth trails down his jaw to his neck. “A- and not just like a friend but more than that. I know you’re probably gonna be all Dieter, you didn’t stick to the deal but I swear I did.” He hisses as the pulse in his neck thrums wildly against your lips, “I just-“ he gasps, feeling you lovingly bite against his pulse point, arms wrapping around your waist in a tight grip, “You initiated the bet - for me to get sober, and then I did. All these years I was doing all that shit to try and drown the noises inside my head but they aren’t so loud once I actually hear what they’re saying and the main thing they’re saying now is I’m an idiot for not being honest with you.”

“Dieter,” you let out an annoyed huff, looking into his melancholy russet eyes, “I love you too, okay? Now shut up.”

“Amazing,” he breathes out with a dopey grin, leaning forward to meet your lips again. You groan as his tongue slips between your lips, exploring your mouth with fervor. He guides you backward until the desk that sits in his studio bumps the back of your thighs. His hands glide down, cupping the back of your thighs, lifting you on top of the desk.

“Fuck,” you yelp, letting out a breathless laugh as his lips meet yours. Your hands reach for the bottom of his shirt, slipping underneath to feel the warmth of his skin against your palm.

“I love you,” Dieter breathes against your jaw, lips trailing down to your neck, “So fucking much.”

“Love you too,” you moan, bunching the shirt he’s wearing up his torso. He breaks away, letting you sweep it off him with a toss to the floor. Dieter grins, tugging your shirt off, reaching behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra with one hand, slipping the thin material off your shoulders to expose your chest to him.

“Nice,” Dieter hums, massaging your tits in his hands, brushing his thumbs across your nipples, “Always wondered what these bad boys looked like underneath.”

“Fucking christ,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “So fucking weird.”

He smiles devilishly before nipping your pert nipple gently, sucking it into his warm mouth, swirling his tongue around it. You let out a soft moan, feeling the ache between your thighs become more persistent. Fingers carding through the soft, wavy curls on his head, pushing at his shoulders.

“Off, " you demand as your hands grip the waistband of his pants, trying to push them down, “Off.”

“Easy,” Dieter smiles, slowly pushing his pants down, cock springing free and standing proudly.

“Fuck me,” you whisper in shock, taking in the sight of his length. Thick and long. You had a good idea, considering how many mornings you’d woken up with the thing poking you in the ass, but to see it hanging heavily between his thighs was monumental. He grunts when your hand reaches to touch him, squeezing him firmly at the base.

“Your turn,” Dieter hissed, grabbing your leggings. You let go of him, helping to lift your hips as he quickly tugged them down your legs. “Fuck me,” he utters, taking in the dark patch of your underwear, his hands rubbing up your thighs, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“Dieter,” you gasp, gripping his bicep, his thumb making tight circles around your clit against the cotton of your underwear. He hums, laving his tongue against your collarbone, licking a line up your throat as his fingers push the gusset of your panties to the side.

“Fuck,” Dieter pants, feeling the wetness between your folds. His fingers sliding up and down your seam, coating his fingers in your slick, teasing your entrance with the tips of two thick fingers.

“Dee,” you whine, breath hitching as your hips squirm on top of the desk when he pushes his fingers in torturously slow. “I need more.”

“You’ll get more,” he rasps, his fingers continuing their slow movements. In and out. In and out. In and out. His thumb moves to that bundle of nerves, alternating between sweeping back and forth and drawing firm circles around your clit.

You feel the pool of arousal building at the end of your spine, warmth spreading through your limbs like a wildfire. Your breath quickens as your walls tighten around his digits.

“Oh god,” you moan, gripping his bicep firmer, “Fuck. Dieter, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Come for me, baby.” He whispers against your ear. Fingers scrubbing against your walls faster, deeper until they hit that spot inside that feels impossible to reach on your own.

“Oh fuck!” You cry out, throwing your head back as the flames within consume you whole. Your back arching, pushing your chest against his, “Dieter,” you whimper, head resting against his shoulder as his fingers work you through your orgasm.

He scoops you up, flipping you over his shoulder, carrying you out the door of his studio, down the hall to his room.

“Dieter!” You shriek, giggling knowing he must be a sight to see right now. His heavy member bouncing between his thighs as he marches with you over his shoulder. “What about your back?!” You ask, grinning, taking notice of the walls of his room.

“Don’t fucking care,” he says, flipping you onto his bed, pushing your legs apart, creating space for him between your thighs. He crawls up the length of your body, arms resting on either side of your head. His cock pressing against your thigh, realizing what is to come next. “You sure you wanna do this?” He asks, his lips barely touching your own, breathing each other in, causing a dizzying arousal to pool in your tummy.

“Yes,” you breathe, hands trailing up the expanse of his back, gripping his shoulders. He grips his shaft; a breathy moan escapes you as he slowly strokes your seam with his tip. “Dieter,” you plead, nails creating half-crescent moons into his shoulders when his tip catches on your entrance.

“I got you,” he croaks, repeating himself as he pushes in, “I got you.”

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, feeling your walls make space for him inside your warmth. He lets out a hiss as your nails dig deeper into the skin of his shoulders, definitely leaving marks he’ll see tomorrow.

“Oh my god,” Dieter groans, his head coming to the crook of your neck, pushing his cock in deeper until you can’t decipher where you begin and he ends. You moan, feeling so incredibly full. You never knew sex could feel like this, and it’s barely even started. He holds still, allowing both of you to get used to the feeling of one another.

“Dieter,” you pant, squirming against him, “I need you to move.”

“Fuck me.” He grunts, feeling your walls clench around him. He slowly pulls out before thrusting back into your heat, his hips creating a slow, deep rhythm. “You’re so fucking perfect.” he whimpers, tongue flicking across your sternum. “So,” thrust, “fucking,” thrust, “perfect.” thrust. You release a broken moan into the room, the sound of skin slapping filling the air around the both of you.

“Harder,” you beg, “Dee, please. Harder.”

He releases a shattered breath, sliding one hand down your side and around your hip, bringing your leg up to rest against his ribs before snapping his hips into you.

“Dieter!” You scream out, back bowing off his bed. It feels so intense. His cock shredding up into you at this angle, hitting that spot perfectly just like his fingers. Your muscles begin to tense, thighs shaking as he continues thrusting into you at a frenzied pace.

“I’m not gonna last long,” Dieter admits, sitting up on his knees, grabbing your ankle to place your leg against his shoulder, staring down at you, watching your tits bounce with every firm thrust he gives you. “So fucking hot,” he groans, his hand sliding down your leg to your center. You let out a ragged moan as his fingers lightly pinch and pull your bundle of nerves, the impending wave of your orgasm getting closer and closer. “Need you to come, baby.” he all but begs, the muscles in his stomach tensing, trying to stave off his own orgasm, “I’m so fucking close.”

“I’m close,” you pant, nodding your head, “So fucking close. Kiss me.”

Dieter wraps your leg around his waist, collapsing on top of you, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. The band in your stomach tightens more as your tongues massage one another, your walls fluttering around his cock, beginning to milk him for all he’s worth.

“Fuck,” Dieter whines, hips stuttering, feeling him pulsate inside of you, painting his come against your inner walls, pushing you over the cliffs edge as your pussy squeezes around him tighter. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He whimpers, slumping against you, head resting between your breasts, trying to catch your breath.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” Dieter murmurs against your sternum, placing a chaste kiss before peering up at you. “Worth the wait,” he adds with a wink.

“Was pretty good, Bravo,” you sigh with a nod. He lets out a hiss as you clench around him.

“Stop that,” he says, pulling out with a groan and flopping beside you on the bed, lying on his side, arm propping up his head, facing you. “Ya know, I really wasn’t looking forward to the whole being sober thing.” He admits, with a mock frown, “But it isn’t that bad.” he adds with a shrug.

“No, it’s not,” you laugh softly.

“I thought it would be worse than it was, but I kinda like it,” Dieter smiles, hovering over you, “Especially since it led to this.” He places a kiss against the corner of your smiling mouth, “And if I stay sober… will this keep happening?” He asks in a whisper, hesitantly awaiting your response.

“Dee,” you hum, “You got me. Just gotta take it day by day.”

[cocoandthequill]

Beneath the Ruins

Part 2

Part 1

Shane Walsh x !Best Friends Daughter! Reader

Summary: After sucessfully escaping the chaos of the outbreak of the apocalypse it is time to get to the survivor camp in Atlanta where they can hopefully manage to get the cure to this mysterious virus.

Warnings: Age Gap, implied sexualization, mentions of death

Grief was a bitter pill to swallow, but you had no choice but to force it down. The world had already fallen apart, and every breath you took felt like it might be your last.

The infection spread quickly, faster than anyone had imagined. It wasn’t just the fear of turning into one of those things that gnawed at you—it was the fact that every day felt like a countdown. The threat of death hung like a storm cloud, and there was no safe place to hide from it.

You, your father, and Shane Walsh—your father’s best friend—were heading south to Atlanta. Rumors of the largest safe camp for survivors and a possible cure had spread, but no one knew for sure if it was real.

The road was treacherous, abandoned cars littering the highways—signs of the mass panic that had swallowed the world whole. Each time you passed a burned-out building or, worse, a body, it reminded you of how fragile everything had become. The road, once a symbol of freedom, now felt like a death sentence. Every mile, every turn, seemed to carry a heavier weight.

Shane’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, scanning the road behind you with the sharp intensity of someone who had seen too many horrors. You watched him, the rigid set of his jaw, the way his large hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together. He was trying to act like he wasn’t bothered, like this was just another stretch of road to cross, but you knew better. You knew Shane.

The silence between the three of you was suffocating, and no matter how hard you tried to distract your thoughts, they always found their way back to her—your mother. Her tragic end had been too quick, too sudden—like a punch to the gut you couldn’t prepare for. You tried to bury those thoughts, tried to push them down, but they resurfaced when you least expected it. That’s what grief did, after all. It was relentless. It clawed at you, just like the world outside.

But tonight, there was something else gnawing at you—something you couldn’t ignore. Something that twisted itself around your insides like a slow-burning fire.

Why didn’t Shane have any family? No wife. No kids. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him with a girlfriend, either. He was always alone in that way. He kept to himself, let his guard down only when he was with your father. But even then, there was something off about him, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You’d asked him before, countless times, always with the same teasing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You know, doll, I haven’t met the woman I’m planning on settin' down with yet."

"Doll."

It was a nickname he’d given you since you were a little girl, and in those early days, it had always felt like a shield—something warm and comforting in a world that felt so big and unpredictable.

But that answer never felt right. It was too rehearsed. Too perfect, like he was hiding behind it. And in a world that had lost everything—love, security, humanity—his indifference to settling down made no sense to you. He was more than just handsome and charming, with that rugged edge that made people stop and stare. Shane had always been the kind of man people gravitated toward, the kind of man who could make you feel seen without even trying. And yet, here he was, constantly pushing away any chance of connection. It didn’t make sense to you.

Your eyes flicked to him again as the car rattled along the desolate road, the harsh light from the headlights casting fleeting shadows across his face. And for a split second, your gazes met—his dark, intense eyes locking with yours. A brief moment, yet enough to send a chill down your spine.

He shot you a wink, that same casual grin curling at the corner of his lips, but this time it didn’t land the same way. It felt hollow. Almost forced. You saw through it. The cracks in the armor were visible, no matter how hard he tried to cover them up.

You wanted to ask him again, to push him further, but something held you back. The vehicle rattled on, the noise almost drowning out the words hanging in the air. You felt the weight of your father’s presence in the passenger seat, the quiet man who had been by your side through everything, now dozing off, oblivious to the tension between you and Shane. He hadn’t said a word in hours, lost to exhaustion, leaving the silence between you and Shane even more deafening.

You knew Shane was carrying something—a burden, a past he never spoke of. And you had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you. He kept pushing you away, kept calling you doll, but never once allowed the conversation to go deeper. You weren’t stupid; you could see the way he watched you sometimes, the way his gaze lingered longer than it should—and in places where it shouldn’t. And you knew, deep down, that you weren't just another person to him. Not really.

The problem was that he was so damn good at hiding it. So damn good at pretending everything was fine.

You stole another glance at him. His jaw was tight, and his eyes remained locked on the road ahead. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid. His usual swagger had faded. This was a man at war—not with the world, but with himself.

As you opened your mouth to finally say something to relieve the tension, your father shifted in his seat, muttering under his breath.

“Where are we headed, Shane? You keep saying Atlanta, but we don’t know if it’s any safer down there.”

He still sounded tired, worn out from everything you’d all been through, but there was an edge to his words. He was trying to pull his best friend into the conversation, trying to lighten the mood. But it didn’t work.

Shane’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his eyes darted to your father for just a moment. His response came out cold, sharp almost. "We’re headed south. That’s where we’re goin’.” His voice was clipped, almost defensive.

You felt the air shift in the car. Your father, for all his gruffness, must have felt the change too because his eyes flickered to you. You could almost hear the question in his mind: What’s going on with him?

Shane, as always, turned the conversation back to survival. “You know the drill. Keep your guard up. We don’t know what’s ahead.” But it was just words, nothing more. The kind of words that covered up something bigger, something deeper that neither of you were brave enough to acknowledge.

The miles ticked by in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the tires against the rough terrain. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. It felt like you were driving through a ghost world, a place that used to be full of life, now abandoned and barren.

As the hours dragged on, exhaustion started to settle into your bones. Your father had dozed off in the passenger seat, his breathing slow and steady, but Shane remained as tense as ever, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled determination. He hadn’t said much since your last conversation, and you could feel the heaviness in the air between you, thick with unsaid words.

Eventually, you saw it—an old, run-down sign for a lake just off the road, barely visible beneath the overgrowth of weeds and vines. It was small, secluded, but it would do. A place to rest for the night, away from whatever dangers lurked further down the road.

You pointed it out, your voice soft yet carrying an unspoken urgency. “We should camp here.”

Shane glanced at the sign, then at the darkening sky. He didn’t say anything at first, just kept his eyes on the road for a moment longer, the wheels turning in his mind. It wasn’t a safe place. You could tell just by the look of it. But then again, did you have the luxury to be picky in times like these?

He let out a long sigh and finally nodded, his voice low. “Yeah. We’ll make camp. We’ll take shifts.”

You could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but there was something else in his tone—a kind of resigned acceptance. Like he was used to making hard choices in the absence of good ones. Like he knew there was no perfect place to hide in a world like this.

He eased the car off the road and slowly steered toward the small clearing near the lake. The headlights illuminated the area briefly, and you could make out the faint glimmer of the water, surrounded by trees. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay, but it was better than nothing.

Once the car stopped, you all piled out, the weight of the day’s journey catching up with you in an instant. Your father stretched, groaning slightly, and Shane went to the back of the car to pull out the supplies.

“Set up by the water, but stay alert,” he said, his voice carrying the edge of someone who had learned to never let their guard down.

You nodded, even though you could feel the weariness seeping into your bones. It had been too long since you’d had a real rest, and the temptation to just let everything go for a few hours was strong. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

Your father wandered toward the water, his steps slow and measured, his eyes scanning the area as if he were searching for any sign of danger. Shane, on the other hand, was already moving with purpose, gathering the supplies and setting up a small fire. His movements were quick, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the trees, as though he was expecting something to jump out at him at any moment.

You worked silently alongside him, but as you moved to set up your sleeping bag, you caught him watching you out of the corner of his eye. His expression was unreadable, as usual, but there was something in the way his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. The air between you felt charged again, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t.

You wanted to ask him again, to press him for the truth. But you didn’t. You weren’t sure if you had the strength to do it tonight. The weight of the world was already heavy enough. And there was something about the way he seemed so determined to keep everything locked inside that made you hesitate.

Your father sat by the edge of the lake, his hands resting on his knees, staring out over the water. He wasn’t asleep. You knew that much. His body might have been still, but his mind was a thousand miles away, lost in the same thoughts he couldn’t outrun. He never slept soundly anymore—not after everything that had happened, not after the world had fallen apart around them.

But for now, he was at least still, the quiet of the night offering him a brief moment of peace. You could see it in the way his shoulders were slumped just a little bit less, as though the weight of it all had lightened, even just a fraction. It wasn’t much, but in a world that had stripped away so much, even small moments of peace felt like a gift.

You turned your attention back to Shane, who had pulled a blanket out of the car and was now sitting across from the fire, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the perimeter, never fully allowing himself to relax. His focus never wavered from the dark woods surrounding the small camp. It was like he was always waiting for something to happen, anticipating danger, the same way he’d lived his entire life in the chaos of this new world.

You knew he wasn’t the type to sit still for long. The longer you watched him, the more you realized just how tightly wound he was. He was good at keeping up appearances, at pretending to be unaffected by everything—by the loss, the fear, the survival—but you could see the cracks in the facade. You’d been watching him for years, and you knew the signs.

"Shane," you said quietly, breaking the silence, "you really think it’s safe here?"

He glanced up from the fire, his sharp eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away to the trees again. "It’s safer than out there," he replied, voice calm but guarded, the same response he always gave.

But you weren’t sure if he even believed it anymore.

You wanted to press him, to ask him more, but you held back. You knew better than to push him when he was in this mood. Instead, you shifted your gaze, taking in the quiet of the night, the eerily calm water reflecting the pale glow of the moon. It was a peaceful scene—one that didn’t quite match the world outside this small camp. And for the first time in a while, you let yourself take in the quiet, knowing that it wouldn’t last long.

[leiascully]

Fic prompt: Scully tells Mulder that he's her best friend. Bonus points if it's Season 5 or earlier.

Good news: it's season 2.

When Mulder wakes up, Scully is sitting beside his bed. She smiles and it’s like the sun has come out in his windowless hospital room. She balances an issue of JAMA on her knee and rests her pen on it.

“Hi,” he rasps.

“Hi,” she says, passing him a plastic cup of water. It’s room temperature and vaguely redolent of chlorine, but he drains it dry. The cup makes a hollow noise as he sets it back on his bedside table, his movements a little clumsy. The simple act of drinking has exhausted him. He sags back into the thin pillows. The mattress is stiff and uncomfortable underneath him. But he’ll be all right. Scully’s here.

For a moment, he just basks in the glow of her smile. He doesn’t know what time it is, but Scully has brought the golden hour with her. He would swear he can feel the warmth of her fond regard on his chilly skin. He turns toward her like a sunflower, his head heavy on his neck.

“You need to rest,” she chides gently, but she hasn’t picked up her pen again. That’s the sign of a serious Scully who’s no longer willing to entertain her convalescent patient. He knows her hospital-based tells rather better than he’d like. A specific crook to her brows means he isn’t out of the woods yet; a particular twist to her lips means she’s sick of his shit. But today he’s getting this smile like sunshine. Radiant.

She turns her head to look at something. Abruptly, he feels the weary cold striking out of his bones. The blanket covering his bed is pilled and worn, and the sheet is a little scratchy. He longs for the thick blanket he keeps on his couch. His toes are so chilled that they ache. He wants a duvet to wrap around himself and a hot water bottle for his feet, like the ones he had at Oxford, and he wants to sit in front of a roaring fire and drink a hot toddy while Scully explains the latest developments in medical whatsits and theraputic thingamabobs. Her voice is as warming as whiskey.

“Remind me where I am?” he says, just to hear her talk.

“At the military hospital at Eisenhower Field,” she tells him. “You were airlifted here after your shenanigans on that submarine.”

“Shenanigans?” He snorts. “That’s a weird way to say ‘crucial mission of international or possibly intergalactic import’.”

“Shenanigans,” she says in a firm dry tone. “I blame it on your antic disposition.��

“I can tell a hawk from a handsaw however the wind blows,” he says.

“Hmm.” She studies him. Heat blooms across his skin where her eyes touch him. “That’s not what your performance reviews say.”

“Those are confidential, Scully.” He pretends to glare at her.

“That’s why they put the ‘I’ in ‘FBI’,” she quips, and he can’t help grinning at her. His dry lips pull, the skin flaking a little. She pours him more water from a pitcher and passes him the cup. When he’s finished drinking, she pulls a tub of Blistex out of her bag and offers it to him. He dips a finger into the hollow her fingertip has made and smears the paste over his mouth. His lips tingle. It’s the medicated formula, with its whiff of camphor. He hands the little pot back over and she caps it and drops it back into her bag.

It strikes him, like a sliver of light has lodged in his heart, how precious she is to him. How glad he is that she’s here in this strange cold hospital room. It’s been so long since he’s known someone well enough to share lip balm with them. It was probably Samantha, a twist-up cherry Chapstick jammed in his pocket for when they were chapped by the sea air. But Scully shares her things, her thoughts, as easy as breathing.

“What did I miss?” he says.

She looks at him with mournful eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you, but….” For a moment he tenses, uncertain, but the hint of a smile in her eyes tips him off to the joke. “Mulder, you missed the Super Bowl.”

He relaxes back into his insufficient bed. “That’s fine. I’ll just borrow your highlights tape.”

She laughs softly. “Missy was so mad about that. She didn’t understand at all.”

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“She likes you,” Scully objects, but she’s too honest to leave it unqualified. “Mostly.”

“I should have brought bonbons, huh,” he says.

“A nice amethyst crystal would have been more up her alley,” she tells him. “Maybe one of those singing bowls.” She shakes her head ruefully. “She gets protective. You’re not easy to explain.”

He tries to pretend nonchalance. “What did you tell her about me? Least favorite rental car chauffeur? Most dramatic slide show reveal?”

She ducks her head and shakes it from side to side. “I’ve had worse chauffeurs. I tried telling her you were my partner, but I don’t think she understood. It didn’t make sense to her, the things you did while I was in the hospital. The way you sat with me. Colleague didn’t seem to cover it. Not even partner.”

“So what did you say?” His mouth is dry again.

“I told her you were my best friend,” Scully says in a quiet voice. There’s some depth he can’t plumb in the way she says it, but she’s smiling like she’s holding something close.

“Good,” he says. He reaches out and taps the edge of her journal with one fingertip. “When you spring me from the joint, we can go down to the boardwalk and get those puzzle piece necklaces. And some salt water taffy.”

“Now that’s a worthy welcome-back gift,” she teases. “A little out of season, unfortunately. I don’t think it’s boardwalk weather today. Not in this hemisphere, anyway.”

“Remind me in the summer,” he tells her. “I owe you.”

They chat for a while. She makes him sip more water and sees him helped to the bathroom. She checks his temperature with the backs of her fingers and prescribes him another blanket, promising to return in the morning. He senses the potential for contraband rations: an Egg McMuffin concealed inside an innocent handbag, maybe even a hashbrown if she feels sorry enough for him in his refrigerated state.

He catches at her hand as she turns to go. “Scully. You didn’t tell me who won.” It’s a flimsy excuse, but it’s all his muddled brain can manufacture.

“The 49ers beat the Chargers.” She rubs her thumb absently over his knuckles. Probably some kind of diagnostic, like when she pushes her fingers through his hair. He wonders what secrets his body reveals to her. “Good night, Mulder. Get some rest.”

He slides quickly into sleep once she’s gone. His mouth still tingles like the kiss of a salt breeze. The creak of the bed reminds him of gulls calling in the distance, and he follows them down into a dream of summer sun glinting off Scully’s hair and making her eyes crinkle. Her fair skin is the color of the sand; her eyes are the sea and the sky, an endless blue horizon that calls him out of his body and into some blissful eternity. In his dream, her lips taste like taffy, and they are both healed.

[yukimiyum]

-> MY PROTECTOR | 2,977 words (~22 minutes reading time). gn!reader, hybrid!kakucho, graphic depictions of violence, gore and murder, breaking and entering.

author’s notes: this came to me from a post from silas and i just got stuck in a chokehold since then 😟

taglist: @qichun @fuyuswifey @unriding -> join the taglist!

there's probably something wrong with you.

maybe. it's up for debate, really. i mean...being a woman living alone in the city, naturally you install more than one lock on your doors. it's almost comical watching you unlock them before opening your door to invite friends or acquaintances in. no one has commented on it yet but one of your close friends, who suggests the idea of a hybrid to protect the house.

"i have one," she says, gesturing to the man standing behind her. silver hair frames his face, eerie purple eyes staring directly into your soul whenever his gaze lands on you. his ears are like little circles above his hair, flicking every now and then at the sound of the café around them. a pretty tail curls and flicks behind him as he keeps his hands behind his back. his earrings clink together as he looks around them, bored. his collar does the same-a deep purple with a pretty golden bell. no leash.

izana, she said his name was. a snow leopard hybrid.

"he's no guard dog," she comments, opening one of the sugar packets on the table to dump into her coffee, "but he's good at scaring off creepy men. i'll bring someone home and if they don't pass his sniff test, they don't get in bed with me.”

you laugh a little. "what, does he do, 20 questions or something?"

"no. i just know."

izana's voice is higher pitched than you thought it would be, but his tone is ice-cold. as chilled as his gaze. a predator, constantly eyeing the prey around him. fiercely loyal. you don't know if he has claws, but you imagine he does to fend off his attackers. at the very least, the sharp teeth tucked just behind his lips would do the trick.

"makes sense." of course a natural predator hybrid would know if something was up.

your friend lifts her coffee to her lips as she slides you the business card to the shop she got izana from. "it's technically an orphanage," she remarks, "so..just be prepared. if i could adopt all of them, i would. but...don't comment on anything. just pick the one you want and get out. you can't save them all."

your heart breaks a little bit in your chest as you take the card. "okay."

you're heading home a few days later with a doberman hybrid curled up in the back of your car.

he has a muzzle on his face, but you know he's not aggressive. he acted that way at the orphanage, watching them stuff him in the back of your car, and who are you to say something? you're no justice warrior. you just want some goddamn peace of mind. protection. safety. but... the way he'd looked at you. he wasn't aggressive.

you knew immediately he was the one as soon as you walked in. you'd locked eyes with him, his multicolored gaze staring you down, a cry for help so emblazoned on his face that you couldn't look away from him. and a doberman? one of the best guard dog breeds out there? yeah, you'll take him.

you also decide to keep his name. kakucho.

you try not to think of the handlers as you pull into your apartment complex's garage, parking and turning your car off. he's safe now, and he'll be happy here. happier than there, anyway.

kakucho stirs in the back of the car, having curled up in himself once the sleeping pills had kicked in. lazily blinking open his eyes, he locks onto you immediately as you open the back door. "wanna come out?" you whisper. you'll have to be quiet with him; he doesn't like loud noises, apparently. it's a trigger for him.

he nods. you're not sure if he can speak, or if he knows how to. either way, he groggily slides out of the car, latching onto your hand. it's big and warm, slightly trembling as he takes in all of his surroundings while you walk to the door. nobody bats an eye at you; it's not unheard of to have hybrids around. pets do still exist, since hybrids can be expensive, but you seemed to luck out with kakucho.

or they just wanted to be rid of him. perhaps both.

by the time you get to the apartment, kakucho seems awake enough to help hold the door for you as you open it. "thank you," you say, entering your home, and beckoning him in, "come on in, honey."

he stiffens at the nickname, blinking at you, but following you anyway.

your apartment isn't much. it's a nice studio, your bedroom cordoned off from the kitchen with a nice japanese foldable divider. a tv sits in the corner, your bong on your bedside table. you turn back to the door as kakucho meanders in, locking all the locks on the door. as you turn back, you realized he watched you lock them.

analyzing. assessing.

a true guard dog mentality.

you drop your keys on the kitchen table, moving to the cupboard to grab some water. "i got you a bed," you gesture into the rest of the studio, a large crate next to your bed with pillows and blankets inside, "but you can always go to the futon instead-"

kakucho is inside of the crate before you can get the rest of the invitation out, sniffling the blankets and pillows and humming.

"you smell good."

you chuckle, a blush appearing across your cheeks. his voice is raspy, like he doesn't use it a lot-gentle toned, cautious, deep-pitched. it's... it's beautiful. he's beautiful. one of the prettiest men you've seen. his big (unfortunately docked) ears standing pointed and proud above his head, turning every which way, taking in all of the new noises of footsteps above you and clattering noises in the hallway of other tenants coming and leaving.

"thank you, kakucho."

you pour your water, grabbing a second cup for him as he makes himself at home in the crate, curling up and gnawing on one of the toys inside of the crate that you'd gotten. “do you drink out of cups?"

"yeah. i know how to use silverware too. i'll eat anything. no allergies."

he sounds like he's listing off the ingredients on a prescription bottle as he says so. you hesitate to crack a joke at him—you don't have the camaraderie yet, and you don't want to make him uncomfortable right now.

not when he's dozing off with his face stuffed into one of the soft blankets, covering a big squishmallow that you knew he'd like.

you place the water next to his crate. an invitation to drink it when he wakes up, as you move to the futon, grabbing your bong as you do, turning the TV on. kakucho's head perks up as you do, looking from the bong to the TV, as if asking permission to join you on the couch.

you pat the seat next to you. "c'mere."

he does, grabbing the squishmallow as he stalks over, curling up on the couch with you, his head leaning on your shoulder as a rerun of lord of the rings appears on the screen. the metal of his muzzle digs into your skin, and you fidget a little, before turning to him.

"can i take this off?"

he stiffens. "are you sure?"

you cock your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "are you gonna bite me?"

"no."

he answers so quickly, and he notices as well as a matching blush covers his cheeks. "i, uh, i mean, no, why would i?" he stammers sheepishly, scratching the back of his buzzcut-head. it makes his ears stand out way more against his human skin.

your hands find themselves on the buckles and clips, gently undoing them and sliding the metal off of his face.

he's so pretty.

big white and red eyes stare at you as you take him in, without the metal grate blocking half of his face. his skin looks so soft, save for a mottling scar across one side of his face. his white eye... he's blind from it, the scar curving across it. you reach out to touch it.

he flinches, but not enough to scare you. instead, you pause, your fingers inches from the raw skin.

"can i?"

he nods once.

the shiver that wracks his body when you press the pad of your fingers against it gives you a sick sense of satisfaction. not in the sense that you want to corrupt him or anything, but rather that you want to protect him. funny that, how you got a guard dog to protect you, and all you want to do is the opposite. would he be good enough?

unfortunately, you’re going to find out very quickly.

leave me alone.

the text is simple as you walk into the door of your house. you send it off without a second though, pocketing your phone. it’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten kakucho, and he’s gotten very used to you and your routines. he doesn’t even need the muzzle; he never needed it, not around you. he wasn’t dangerous. he was just afraid; afraid, and angry at the world for discarding him in such a horrible way.

he comes to meet you immediately as you walk in, like velcro, as you set your bag down with a huff. “what’s bothering you?” you hear him murmur as his face curves into your neck, nuzzling into your warmth as his arms wrap around you. he’s so gentle with you; holds you as if you’re made of glass as you sigh again.

“just my weed dealer. he’s being fucking weird again.”

you can tell kakucho’s slipped into his guard dog mentality immediately; if he were an actual dog, his hackles would be raised. he bares his teeth in disdain as he moves to look at you. “should i be worried?” he asks softly, and you shake your head, smiling at him. “he’s harmless. he’s been like this before and nothing came of it. it’s just a fight. i’m his best customer, i doubt he’d do anything to compromise.”

kakucho doesn’t answer. his gaze is unnerving.

“are you sure?”

you nod. you’re not, but you nod anyway, because you don’t want to worry him more than he already is. “why would i be worried when i have you?” you whisper instead, scratching in between his ears, his scalp fuzzy with hair growing back from his buzzcut the shelter had given him. he preens underneath your touch, fangs returning back behind his lips as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

the kiss feels like a burn. he’s never done that before.

“if you’re sure.”

he moves away, then, going to the couch and curling up as if waiting for you. you join him, putting on whatever show that comes up on your TV to watch, and nestle in, his head landing on your lap. time passes, dinner comes and goes, and finally you’re fighting to stay awake as the hit you just took softens all of your senses. this…hits harder than you thought it would. it was a new strain from your dealer that he gave you today, something that “would make you feel real good”. he’s normally dependable with that, and you pay it no mind; you’re just tired. sleepy. it was a long day. even kakucho seems at ease, snoozing in your lap as you begin to nod off.

completely forgetting about the window to your right, that you’ve left open. for a draft.

somehow you end up in bed, yawning and telling kakucho a lazy good night before falling into your bed. your covers feel like silk against your face, and you hum, pushing your face into the pillow in front of you. sleep is already gripping at you, and you don’t bother to remove your clothes properly. it’s too late for that, anyway.

completely missing the figure standing right outside your window, watching you sleep. analyzing. a glint of steel in his hand.

you awaken with a start to screaming.

it’s not your screaming; it’s coming from the living room. and it doesn’t sound like kakucho either; kakucho doesn’t scream, or hasn’t done so. if anything he’d bark or yowl. no, this sounded far too human to be a hybrid. you’re still quite deep in your sleepy high still, yur brain fuzzy and delirious as you pull the covers over you, smushing into a ball and staring fearfully at the door as you hear horrible noises on the other side of it—screaming, which turns into gurgling, which turns into nothing at all.

except for a low growl at the very end. an animalistic noise that…horrifyingly, causes you to feel a warmth pooling between your thighs.

you, by all accounts, should not go into the living room, but you’re not thinking straight at all. it feels unreal, like a dream that you’ve forgotten to wake up from as you groggily open the door, the cold metal of the doorknob not doing you any favors to rouse you more.

the stench of blood hits you first, the iron smell clogging your nose so heavily that you fight back the urge to retch all over the floor. it’s awful. it smells of death, a smell you’ve only encountered at funerals. and even then, it wasn’t always obvious; the smell of formaldehyde and others overtaking it.

your gaze crosses the room.

the window in your living room is smashed. glass litters the floor, bloody stains gleaming on them under the moonlight from outside. the oven clock glares an early hour in sickly green, but you don’t move to enter. not when you notice the perpetrator in the room lying on the floor, motionless.

it’s your dealer.

you let out a squeak of fear, covering your mouth. you’re not afraid of the fact that there’s a gaping hole where his throat used to be, or the claw marks all over his body; no, you’re frightened by the fact that he did not take no for an answer this time. the horrifying realization covers your body as if someone poured cold water all over you—that weed was laced. you knew it didn’t smell right or taste right, and you smoked it anyway.

he could’ve harmed you. he could’ve killed you. but—

but he didn’t know about kakucho.

the hybrid stood tall over his body, also motionless. blood dripped from his hands onto the floor, his face seemingly craned to stare at the dead man in front of him. the man that he killed for you. the man who he’d protected you from. you can’t imagine how he must be feeling right now; and even though you’re still stuck on the fact that there’s a dead person in your living room, there’s a sense of relief flooding your veins that you can’t deny.

kakucho turns to you, slowly, as he hears your noise.

his red eye is darkened, his other maintaining its cloudy look as he zeroes in on you. mouth covered in blood, the maroon almost matching his eye as he holds his hand up. he’s shaking like a leaf.

“don’t come any closer. i’ll come to you. the glass is everywhere.”

you obey him. you’re not dressed in much, and without shoes and in your delirious state, you’re bound to step in something and warrant a visit to the ER. you wait for him to cross, the crunch of broken glass under his boots dulled by the roar in your ears as all of your emotions crash into you.

but you’re still relieved, despite it all, especially as kakucho corrals you into your room, shutting the door behind him.

saving you from staring at the gruesome scene for much longer.

he crowds you into your room and onto the bed. there’s blood all over him, but the stench is not nearly as bad as the living room. you don’t care. why would you? you’re used to blood…not in this context, but it doesn’t frighten you nearly as much as it should. not when he’s looking at you the way he is right now. searching your face.

looking for confirmation that you’re okay.

“i’m okay,” you answer the unspoken question as his hand comes up to cup your face. he’s definitely going to leave a stain.

he sighs. it’s as if that one sentence, that one approval has released him of all of his adrenaline and emotions. what could he have been feeling in that moment? would he have done anything differently?

you almost hope not. you almost feel satisfied that he did his job. worrying about that will have to wait until tomorrow.

right now, you focus on him. on his nuzzles into you, his shudders and shakes as he begins to sob, clutching and grabbing at you as if he can’t find purchase to calm down. you pet at his head, scooching up the bed so he can lay on top of you better, his face buried in your bare stomach, panting against your skin.

it’s a horribly compromising position. you know that.

“i killed someone.”

“have you ever done it before?”

“yes. but not like that.”

that raises even more questions, but you choose not to pry. now isn’t the time for interrogation. you scratch your nails against his head as he holds you like a vice. his shaking subsides as you coo at him, telling him that he’s such a good boy. that he protected you. that he did his job well, even if he had to take a life for it. that he saved you.

“my protector,” you hum, and he sniffles, looking up at you.

“of course,” he croaks out, “i’d never let anyone hurt you. ever.”

and you believe him.

divider credit: @/tattooedeverything

© yukimiyum 2024-2025 | disclaimer: DO NOT copy or repost my works, or use my fics for fodder for AI generation training for any reason. translations are acceptable, but please ask for permission first!

[fen-luciel]

A bad day

Qimir x Reader

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy/discomfort/no smut

The sky was so dark that you could barely see a hand in front of your face.

Lightning illuminated the sky, but luckily, the neon lights and billboards provided enough light to navigate despite the heavy rain.

You came back soaked; the hood had barely managed to keep you dry, the fabric filtering the water and dampening even the clothes underneath, not to mention your dripping hair.

Yes, you were a mess, but that was the least of your problems at the moment.

You slipped through the city's streets, the wet snow turning the pavement into a nightmare to walk on, but at least you were sure you wouldn’t run into anyone outside.

Reaching the metal door, you pulled out your key card, which unlocked the door with a click. Your boots made an annoying wet slap with each step. The corridor lights were blinding white, the interiors pristine—it felt like walking through an elegant hospital. At first, you had loved Alderaan's wintry, noble atmosphere, but now, after months of negotiations and the recent attack, you had had more than enough.

After climbing to the third floor and taking a few uncertain steps up the stairs, you finally reached your room, swiped the same key card, and let out a sigh of relief in the darkness of it.

It had been a truly awful twenty-four hours. You hated political chatter—hated it even more when it was accompanied by childish drama. You had grown up believing Alderaan was a planet of nobility and brilliant minds, but now you realized it was just a giant playground for children with too much money.

Luckily, your role was secondary, just a bodyguard assigned to whichever family member needed one. A dull task, especially when your charge was either an arrogant old man or a lady too invested in petty family drama.

Then, today, the tensions that had been building up for a month of negotiations exploded.

Literally.

Even with Jedi abilities, predicting an explosion was impossible. It was hard to believe someone had even attempted it. Getting so close to the conference hall meant security was terrible.

But the bomb planted in the next room had caused nothing more than a shockwave, a few cuts, and bruises from the shattered wall. A glorified firecracker—frightening if you didn’t expect it, but not truly destructive. The building had been designed to last decades, its walls thick and made of top-quality materials. Planting an explosive was just plain stupid.

Again, just spoiled children with too much money.

The problem was, you had been leaning against that very wall when it blew, sending you flying onto the long table and leaving a massive bruise on your back. It could have been much worse. No one else had been hit by anything serious. You were more startled by the blast than actually hurt—you had seen your fair share of battles over the years. You weren’t some inexperienced Padawan.

But your problem wasn’t just the bruise.

It was that damned chipped tooth.

Of course, the entire day had been thrown into chaos—the doorman arrested, panic spreading among the Jedi and nobles.

If there was anything worse than an attack, it was an attack executed by incompetents. Relations had officially soured, and now everyone was preparing for war if necessary.

Vernestra was beside herself.

Hard to blame her, given the disaster.

You threw yourself into the shower to wash off the damp chill, tossing your Jedi robes into the laundry and finally slipping into a soft pajama set. They had covered you in just enough medigel to get through the day, but you’d need to take a few pills if you wanted to get rid of that ugly, multicolored bruise on your spine.

You wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone if they had asked, but you cried a little under the hot water. The reality of what could have happened made you want to vomit. You had grabbed a quick breakfast before running after yet another politician, then the explosion, the panic—and with a great deal of acting talent, you had managed to convince everyone you were fine and that the only priority was getting the families to safety.

But you couldn’t hide from everyone.

You knew that, at some point in the day, Qimir had found out what had happened. He must have. And as much as running to the other side of the city had helped you avoid more interrogations, it was only a matter of minutes before he showed up at your door. He had probably searched for you everywhere.

He had every right to be worried. You were worried.

But you just wanted a moment of peace.

Everything was happening so fast, and you hadn’t had a second to process it—not even to regret it, if that was what you were supposed to do.

The Jedi quarters were modest, at least as far as these "small apartments" could be called that. The room you had as a Padawan, and later the one you had shared with your master, had always been tiny and barely furnished. But Alderaan had a different concept of space.

This was a modern apartment in every sense. You still smiled at the memory of Vernestra's astonished face when they showed her room. Each suite had a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom with a bathtub, and a small bedroom, still bigger than the one you had at the Jedi Temple.

You had been given a couple of days off to recover while they figured out the next steps. The situation had spiraled all at once, and the Council needed to reorganize.

So, knowing you wouldn’t have to get up early the next morning—and anticipating the inevitable visit—you grabbed a blanket, threw yourself onto the couch, and turned on the TV. But you refused to switch on those blinding white lights in a room that was already too white even in the dark.

It only took one episode of "Love Wars" before the doorbell rang.

You stared blankly at the TV for a few more seconds, your eyes unfocused, your breath slow and heavy.

Then, the frantic knocking pushed you to your feet.

You rounded the couch and, with a trembling hand, opened the door.

You. Would. Not. Cry.

The blinding hallway light hit you for only a moment before a tall, dark figure blocked it.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back inside. The door shut behind him, and you took a second of clarity to lock it and toss your key card onto the floor, not caring where it landed.

Then, your arms tightened around that warm body.

"My love—"

Qimir's voice was hoarse, strained. It sounded like he had already cried—or was barely holding it back. But that alone was enough to make your eyes well up.

He knew what had happened. He was holding you, but gently. A trembling hand ran over your back, his head buried in your neck, his warm breath brushing against your skin. Even hunched over you, you struggled to rest your head on his shoulder, so instead, you just tucked your face into his chest. You hoped the thick, dark sweater he wore was enough to keep him from feeling the silent tears soaking into the fabric.

"I couldn’t find you anywhere. They told me you were fine, but—"

There was no need to finish the sentence.

"How do you feel?"

He pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders. In the darkness of the room, it was hard to see, but the storm outside seemed to have settled right over the city, lightning illuminating the space every few seconds through the large window overlooking the small balcony.

He had glossy eyes, his lips trembled almost imperceptibly, and those dark locks you loved so much fell over you. The warmth of his tears trickled down your skin, tickling it, but you didn’t really care.

“We’re fine—” The words slipped out in a trance, whispering a secret only the two of you knew, but he shook his head.

“First of all. How are you?” He emphasized the question with a firmer tone, moving to slide his arms under your legs. You tightened them around his waist like so many times before. He carried you through the living room toward the bedroom, the TV now forgotten.

“I—I’m fine—” you murmured, unable to hold his gaze for long. “I suspected things would get heated, but I didn’t expect this—”

He let out an irritated huff.

“They planted a bomb made by some second-rate pirate. I don’t even want to imagine how much they overpaid for it. We already suspect who it was.” He gently placed you on the bed, your back sinking into the soft pillows, your head resting against the intricately carved wooden headboard.

Of course, painted white.

The news drew a small smile from you. It wasn’t surprising, but you hoped those bastards had spent a fortune on that scam.

“Yeah, well—it didn’t even flip the table, so—” You exchanged a glance before bursting into nervous laughter. You wiped your eyes with your sleeves, drying your damp cheeks.

“I’m fine. I saw a doctor,” you said once Qimir sat in front of you, pulling your feet onto his lap. His thumbs pressed into the soles of your feet. The colorful star-patterned socks weren’t the most charming choice for the moment, but no one seemed to care.

“When? Vernestra told me you disappeared after bringing the others inside. She said you were in shock and—” You pressed your lips into a tight line, a burning sensation spreading in your chest.

“Of course I was in shock!” you snapped, cutting him off.

“The explosion threw me forward, and I crashed into that damn table. I thought—that—” The tears came like a flood as you tried to stifle a sob, covering your mouth.

“That something had happened to our baby.” You hid your face in your hands, feeling vulnerable as you voiced your fears. The mattress shifted when Qimir moved beside you, pulling you against his chest. One arm wrapped around your knees, lifting you into his lap.

This had gotten out of hand years ago.

You had been classmates, friends, colleagues—you had gone through every possible stage before stepping onto a path of no return. You had tried to convince yourself that what you felt was just deep respect mixed with undeniable attraction. But it was useless to lie—Qimir was a man. A breathtakingly beautiful man.

And despite never caring much for physical desires, too focused on study and training, Qimir was like a comet streaking across a starless sky.

You couldn’t help but notice him.

Maybe respect came first, then friendship. Maybe, deep down, the first thing you had noticed were his pitch-black hair and those even darker eyes.

And then, there was the way his muscles flexed when he trained, the sweat trickling down his skin, the way his hair clung to his neck.

Oh, you had fallen hard. You wanted him so much it hurt.

And he had realized it before you admitted it to yourself. One day, he asked you out, as “friends.” That same night, you kissed.

Weeks, months, years passed, and it became clear that neither of you would ever end that forbidden relationship.

The Jedi did not forbid physical pleasure—the Code forbade attachment.

And love was perhaps too weak a word to describe what you felt for each other, to the point that your feverish dream of pink and lilac sometimes turned into a deep crimson.

“Is everything okay? What did the doctor say?” His hand stroked your head, fingers threading through your hair. You melted against his chest as he leaned back against the pillows.

“We’re fine. It was a nasty hit, but my back took the worst of it. The doctor gave me something for the anxiety. He said my panic is more dangerous than the bruises. If I don’t feel well, I can take one, and—” You wiped your nose on your sleeve and buried your face in his neck. His free hand traced gentle patterns along your leg as you clung to his shirt like a child.

“He promised not to tell. You know—patient confidentiality. He gave me a prescription for lighter medication so I can get them without providing any ID,” you explained, trying to steady your breath. His presence had a miraculous effect on your nerves.

“That’s what matters, then. Soon, we’ll leave, and—” but you interrupted him again.

“When?”

You shifted against his shoulder, gently pushing him with a hand so he would look into your eyes.

“I know we have to be careful, but—” You sighed, pressing your nose to his. You could feel him breathing deeply beneath you, the faintest tremor betraying the hardened expression he had slipped onto his face.

“I don’t want—I don’t want to be humiliated,” you admitted tensely, a wave of shame squeezing your heart. “I was so worried, but I couldn’t cry or ask for help. I kept thinking about the look your Master would give me if she realized what was happening. I wanted to bury myself.”

You opened your eyes again, drowning in his dark irises.

“Let’s leave. Not in two months. Not one. Now. I— I understand-like, not today, but—” You began stammering incoherently, trying to explain yourself, mostly afraid of what he would say.

Of course, he wanted to leave as much as you did, but he had good reasons to wait, maybe even earn a few more credits.

“Alright.”

Those few words shook your chest more than the heavy lightning outside the windows.

“We’ll go back to Coruscant tomorrow. Vernestra spoke with the Council, and they believe it’s better to send more experienced people—or, at worst, some soldiers. I’ll ask a friend for a ship, give it a day, maybe two, and I’ll get us out of here.”

He whispered the promise against your lips—the promise you had longed to hear for weeks.

You remembered when you first told Qimir about the pregnancy. You had trembled like a leaf, but you were so sure he would take it well that all the complications that would come after seemed like a distant echo.

Now, though, you regretted not thinking about it sooner. Guilt weighed heavily on you for placing all the responsibility on him while you lived in your little dream of a happy family.

He had organized the credits you both had. Neither of you wanted a confrontation with the Council. The plan was to leave a farewell letter, along with your lightsabers, and close that chapter forever.

He had thought about transport, where to stay at first before finding an apartment, and even the job he would take while you embraced motherhood.

It was too much. It felt like too much for you, for both of you.

You felt like a terrible mother.

“Hey—” He looked surprised to see you crying again. He cupped your cheek, brushing away a few salty tears.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a burden since the beginning. I’ll be a terrible mother—” Maybe the hormones were already talking, but the guilt was eating you alive, and his tender gaze only made it worse.

“Don’t say such nonsense. We made this choice together, but I would have done anything to make you happy. I know this will be the hardest path, and you’ll bear the greatest burden, whether you want to admit it or not—” He smiled gently, kissing your forehead.

“It’s been a bad day. You’ll feel better. We’ll have a beautiful child—” he kissed your cheek, “a wonderful family—” he kissed the crease between your brows, “and we’ll live a normal life from now on. Together. Right now, you need me. One day, it’ll be the other way around. Our child will need us both. We’ll make mistakes, we’ll learn, and we’ll become the best versions of ourselves. Together.”

You moved to wrap your arms around his neck, your lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of salt, the tension of the past hours completely melting away as you surrendered to that sweet gesture.

"I love you,"

you whispered against his lips before curling up once more in his neck. He pulled the covers aside before shifting the both of you under them. The faint hum of the still-running holoscreen and the distant rumble of thunder filled the air, yet that moment felt like the closest thing to peace.

"Those dogs should be grateful we're leaving. Or I would have killed them,"

he muttered at last, closing his eyes.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the implication of his words, at those rare moments when you thought you saw a shadow lurking behind his eyes.

But you ignored it.

Everything would be fine.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 37

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 34, part 35, part 36

The house is quiet when Dustin wakes up. Which isn’t unusual here. With how big the house is, and how little people lived in it, it was always somewhat quiet. But there were more people here than normal, so he was expecting it to be louder.

They must all still be asleep.

He wanders out of the guest bedroom that he claimed for when he stayed over. Down the hall to the guest bathroom. Hearing the gentle snores from Steve’s bedroom. Letting Dustin know that he’s still there.

Wayne bumps into him when Dustin leaves the bathroom. Softly apologizing before shutting the door. The shower starting to run.

Dustin goes to the kitchen. Thinking he could eat some of the cereal that he likes but his mom doesn’t buy that much. A box of it always in Steve’s pantry.

The kitchen’s not empty when Dustin walks in. Nancy sitting at the island, drinking coffee while reading a book.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” he says. Digging through the pantry to find the cereal.

“Me and Robin stayed over last night.”

Dustin’s used to Nancy being a part of his life. He was his best friend’s sister, after all. But that was like a completely different section. Tied to certain places in his life. This was the different sect of his life. Steve and Robin, until spring break, were one half. The party was the other. Now they seem to be coming together a lot more.

Not that he’s complaining. He likes it when the people he loves get along. Act as one big group instead of tiny separate ones. It takes some getting used to.

Robin comes down the stairs when the cereal in Dustin’s bowl gets soggy. Immediately beelining for the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. Making it to her liking. Not saying anything until half of it’s drained.

“The fact that you look that good this early in the morning should be a crime,” she says toward Nancy’s direction.

Nancy who was completely dressed, hair pulled back with some clips. Carefully composed like she always is. While Robin stands in what Dustin’s sure is one of Steve’s old t-shirts and a pair of shorts with the drawstring taken out. Hair tangled and puffy.

“Not my fault you are the worst morning person.”

The minute those words are said, Wayne comes down the stairs, gets himself a cup of coffee, and immediately walks back out again. Nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

“I can’t be worse than that,” Robin jokes.  

Robin sets her coffee down, going to root around in the pantry before emerging with a pack of strawberry pop-tarts.

“You are not.” Nancy finishes her coffee. Going over to the sink to wash out the mug. “Is Steve still asleep, he’s normally up by now.”

“He was when I left,” Robin mutters over a mouthful of a pop-tart. Too impatient to wait for them both to be toasted. One in the toaster while she eats the other one dry.

Dustin’s stopped questioning why Robin and Steve share a bed sometimes a long time ago. They have some weird friendship that he will never understand.

“I saw him take some migraine pills last night,” she continues. “I think another big one is coming.”

Nancy sighs. “It has been like a month since the last one.”

“Yeah, I just thought it would start getting better again. Like last time.”

“Well last time he wasn’t strangled twice and had to get a blood transfusion.”

Dustin doesn’t always know what’s going on with Steve’s health. Always kept in the dark for longer than he should. Definitely longer than he wants to be. It was something, if he had the direct control over, he would learn about immediately. So he could track it. Know when to chill down and ask someone else for a ride.

But instead, he’s none the wiser about Steve’s migraines. Always missing “the big one” that apparently happens every month. Because no one ever tells him about it until Steve is MIA for a few days. Called off work to sit in his bedroom, alone. No one but Robin coming over to make sure that he doesn’t die.

Which sure, that one makes sense, he guesses. Who else, other than Robin, would do that? Or who would Steve feel comfortable with doing that?

It would just make Dustin feel better if he knew about them. So he wasn’t so out of loop. He wasn’t some dumb kid anymore who saw Steve as this badass figure higher than everyone else. He knew that there were debilitating cracks under the surface. Knows that sometimes, Steve can’t be the one to fight.

And that was ok. Someone else could take the load for a while. Watch over everyone. It didn’t need to just be Steve’s job. It could be someone else’s job for a while.

A door creaks open down the hall. Thuds of crutches echoing through. Before a second door opens and shuts.

Eddie was awake. Out of the hospital. Here. It still didn’t feel real.

Dustin finally gets up to pour the tinted milk down the drain and wash out his bowl. Adding it to the dish rack, but not leaving the kitchen. Waiting to see Eddie. Proof that he’s really here.

A few minutes later, Eddie comes down the hall. Wincing slightly with every step. “Morning,” he says with a grunt. Sliding onto one of the barstools.

“Morning,” Nancy replies. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee,” Eddie says almost immediately. “And probably some water, so I can take my meds. Has Wayne been down yet, I’m pretty sure he still has all of them.”

Nancy sets a cup of coffee in front of Eddie. With a small container of sugar and the creamer.

“I can go ask him,” Dustin suggests. Happy to help. Already moving out of the kitchen before anyone can stop him.

Lucky for him, Wayne isn’t hard to find. Halfway down the stairs in different clothes. “You need something?”

“Yeah, Eddie was looking for his meds.”

Wayne nods, turning around and heading back up the stairs. He comes back down with a few brown paper bags, each one with a different slip of paper stapled to the outside. They walk back to the kitchen.

“You need to eat something before you take these,” Wayne cuts to the chase. “Coffee won’t cut it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Hands shaking slightly as lifts the mug to his lips. “What do you have?” he asks in the direction of Nancy and Robin.

“Pop-tarts, cereal, I think some bagels, if not that then toast, fancy jams,” Robin rattles off, the list getting longer.

“Some toast is fine.”

Robin nods. Grabbing some bread from the bag on the counter and popping it in the toaster.

Steve finally makes his way downstairs. Dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. He looks miserable. He bypasses the group of people in his kitchen, heading straight to the cabinet for a glass. Filling it with water and pulling a pill bottle from his pocket.

Robin gets close to him. Bumping her shoulder against his. Steve shakes his head, slowly. She nods and goes to close the kitchen blinds.

Eddie stares at Steve like he isn’t allowed to look. A mix of concern and confusion in his expression. Only interrupted when Nancy slides the plate of toast to him, asking if he wanted anything on it.

“Robin said there were fancy jams?”

Something reminiscent of a scoff comes from Steve. “They’re not that fancy,” he slurs.

Robin snorts. “It’s not generic. Therefore fancy.”

Nancy pulls out a raspberry jam from the fridge. “My family uses the same kind. It’s not fancy.”

Everyone keeps looking over at Steve. Waiting for him to move. He just stands there, white knuckling the countertop. Robin tries to touch his arm, but he shrugs it off.

“Give it a second,” he mutters under his breath.

She nods again. Pulling more bread out of the bag and sticking it in the toaster. The setting lighter than he normally likes it.

The only sound that happens in the next few minutes is the slight crunch of Eddie eating, and the pop of the toaster. Robin gets some butter out of the fridge and puts some on each slice. Careful not to rip through the pieces.

With a deep exhale, Steve turns around. Leaning against the counter behind him and grabbing the plate she hands him. Ripping apart the toast into small bites.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks Eddie.

Eddie looks surprised that he asked him anything. “Good. Much better than a hospital bed. Bigger too, that was nice.”

“Sorry I didn’t have anything better for breakfast. I was planning on making something, but-.” He trails off. The obvious staying unsaid.

“That’s fine. I don’t eat much in the morning’s anyway.”

Steve nods. Placing his plate on the counter. About a half a slice of the toast left. “I won’t be around that much to help you get settled in. I was supposed to close tonight, but I’ll probably end up calling out.”

“If you’re about to apologize for that, don’t.” Eddie stares at Steve with an expression that Dustin can’t quite read. “You don’t have to apologize for things that aren’t your fault.”

Steve pauses. Taking a second to stop himself, reset what he was going to say. “If you need anything, Rob should know where it is. And if not, I’ll just be in my room.”

All Eddie does is reply with a small nod. Then Steve is walking out of the kitchen with Robin in tow.

(i forgot to post yesterday because i got fixated on a new knitting project, no joke i worked on it for like six hours straight)

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

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@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[estellan0vella]

Sunshine's Guide To Murder│Lee Minho

Chapter Six: Playing Baby Sitter SS: 11 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 2.4K Content Warnings: Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Discussion of disappearances and murder, brief mention of vomit,

Previous Next Masterlist

The street corner is enveloped in an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant murmur of late-night traffic and the occasional figure passing by. Minho stands there, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he adjusts the weight of Hayun in his arms.

She leans heavily against him, her senses clouded by a mixture of alcohol and drugs, rendering her unable to stand on her own. Her black mini skirt hikes up slightly, and her cropped top, barely reaching below her chest, provides little protection against the chill of the night air. Draped over her attire is an oversized Packers jacket, while her knee-high boots bear the marks of numerous stumbles on the uneven pavement.

Minho, clad in his trademark black leather jacket, with silver chains catching the light under the streetlamps, and torn black jeans, seems completely out of his element in the role of a babysitter. He steadies Hayun with one arm, while the other delves into her clutch. His fingers find a small orange pill bottle, and a wave of concern washes over him as he reads the label: Oxycodone.

"For fuck's sake," he mutters under his breath, slipping the bottle back into her bag before closing it up.

Hayun groans softly, her head lolling to the side as she tries to focus on something, anything, but her vision is swimming. Minho rolls his eyes, muttering, "I barely know you, and here I am playing babysitter for your high ass."

Just then, Chan's car pulls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the darkness. Minho sighs in relief as Chan hops out, looking between Minho and the practically unconscious Hayun with raised eyebrows. 

"Is this Hayun?" Chan asks, already moving to help.

Minho nods. "Yep. Help me get her in the backseat."

Together, they manoeuvre Hayun into the back of Chan's car, her limbs limp and uncooperative. Minho slides in next to her, cradling her head in his lap to keep her from flopping around too much. Chan hands him a plastic bag before getting back into the driver's seat.

"Just in case she throws up," Chan says, glancing at them through the rearview mirror as he starts the engine.

Minho nods, holding the bag with one hand and keeping a steadying hand on Hayun with the other. Her breathing is slow, her eyes half-open but unfocused.

"Jeongin was right in the group chat," Minho says after a moment of silence. "I found a bottle of oxy in her bag. It's prescribed to her, though."

Chan frowns, keeping his eyes on the road. "You think she's got someone to write her a fake prescription? The way Jeongin described it made it sound like she's not exactly getting them legally."

Minho sighs, looking down at Hayun's pale face. "Probably. Jeongin, Felix, and Jisung are still out because Hayun said she didn't want to see them yet. I'm going to take her back to their place and stay with her tonight. I don't know if Felix and Jisung know about her habit, but clearly Jeongin does."

Chan's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel as he navigates the quiet streets. "You sure she'll be okay? It's pretty heavy stuff she's on."

"Yeah," Minho replies, though he doesn't sound entirely sure. "I'll keep an eye on her. If anything seems off, I'll take her to the hospital."

They fall into silence again as Chan drives toward the house. When they arrive, Minho pulls out the key Jisung gave him through Hyunjin and unlocks the door while Chan carries Hayun inside. The house is quiet, eerily so, with only the soft buzz of electronics humming in the background. It feels strangely empty without the usual chaos of Felix, Jisung, and Jeongin filling the air with laughter or heated podcast debates.

The two of them head upstairs, Hayun's weight a burden Chan carries with ease. They push open the door to Hayun's room, and both of them stop for a moment, taking in their surroundings.

"Jesus Christ," Chan mutters under his breath, his eyes sweeping over the room. "She has a lot of books."

Bookshelves line the walls, stacked high with everything from thick psychology textbooks to crime novels, true crime memoirs, and random pieces of literature that look like they've been read and reread a hundred times.

"Yeah, she seems the type," Minho says, watching as Chan carefully places Hayun onto her bed, arranging the pillows so she's lying on her side in case she throws up during the night.

They both stand at the end of the bed for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Minho folds his arms, glancing down at Hayun's unconscious form. Her breathing has evened out, and she seems more or less settled, but he's still on edge.

Chan and Minho sit at the edge of Hayun's bed, both keeping a careful eye on her to make sure she stays on her side. The silence in the room feels thick, broken only by the soft sound of Hayun's slow, even breathing. Chan shifts slightly, glancing over at Minho.

"You don't have to stay, you know," Minho mutters, not taking his eyes off Hayun.

Chan leans back, shaking his head. "Two people are better than one, right? Besides..." He hesitates, then sighs. "Even though I don't know her, I'd spend the night worrying about her if I left. Not really my style to leave someone like this."

Minho lets out a small grunt of agreement, his eyes still fixed on Hayun. "Yeah... I get that."

There's a pause before Minho speaks again, voice quieter this time. "You know, you'd never be able to tell she was an oxy addict unless you caught her like I did. She hides it well."

Chan nods, glancing toward the stack of books on Hayun's bedside table. "Sometimes you can never tell with a person. I mean, look at her, Felix, and Jisung. Their whole brand is Three Sunshines—people see them as these happy, upbeat podcasters talking about murder like it's nothing. But there's always something more beneath the surface."

Minho's expression hardens slightly. "She's got demons, Chan."

"Don't we all?" Chan replies softly, leaning forward with a sigh.

Minho doesn't respond, his gaze flicking toward Hayun's desk. Something catches his eye—a stack of notebooks, their spines neatly arranged, diaries maybe. Without thinking, he stands up and walks over to them.

"What are you doing?" Chan asks, watching him carefully.

Minho fingers the spine of one of the notebooks before opening it, flipping through the pages. "When we talked to Lia about the night Yuna disappeared, she mentioned that Hayun vanished at the party. They didn't find her until the next morning, passed out."

"So?" Chan leans forward, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"So..." Minho continues, scanning the dates on the spines of the diaries. "They were at one of Song Mingi's parties. It's odd that no one could locate her that night, don't you think?"

Chan's eyes narrow. "You're going through her diary? That's a massive invasion of privacy, man."

"The night Yuna disappeared, no one could find Hayun until the next morning. I'm just making sure I'm not working with the person who killed Yuna. Or my sister."

Chan doesn't say anything for a moment, just watches Minho as he pulls out the diary from five years ago and flips to the entry around the time of Yuna's disappearance.

"Here it is," Minho mutters under his breath. His eyes scan the page quickly, and then they narrow as he reads the words aloud: "I wish I couldn't remember. I wish I had never met Shin Yuna or Song Mingi. I wish they both died."

Chan's eyes widen slightly, but he shakes his head. "She was fourteen, Minho. That sounds like teenage angst to me. Don't jump to conclusions."

"Maybe," Minho says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. He pulls out his phone and takes pictures of the pages, just in case.

Chan watches him with a frown. "Didn't Jeongin say she was scared of Mingi?"

"Yeah," Minho replies, his voice tense. "Any time he's mentioned, she shuts down. It's like a switch flips in her. She goes stiff, looks terrified. There's definitely something there."

Chan rubs the back of his neck, leaning back against the bedpost. "Me and Changbin asked around campus like we said we would. And you were right—there's something off about that guy. The women we talked to clammed up the second his name came up. They wouldn't say shit."

Minho nods grimly, placing the diary back on Hayun's desk. "Jeongin mentioned that when we go to talk to Mingi, Hayun won't come with us. She refused. Whatever happened between them, it's deep."

"That's what worries me," Chan says, his voice low. "There's gotta be a reason why the women on campus won't talk about him. That's not just a coincidence. He's dangerous. You can feel it."

Minho clenches his fists, his jaw tight. "We'll figure it out. Someone will talk. There's no way someone like Mingi operates without leaving cracks. We'll find out what the fuck he's hiding."

Chan leans forward again, glancing toward Hayun's unconscious form. "I just hope we're not too late, Minho. I mean, she's already—" He stops, nodding toward Hayun. "Look at her. She's on fucking oxy. Whatever happened five years ago, it's still eating her alive."

Minho sits back down at the foot of Hayun's bed, his gaze heavy as he watches her sleep off the effects of whatever cocktail of substances she'd taken. He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I think I know where she's getting the drugs."

Chan's eyebrows raise as he leans forward slightly. "Yeji?"

Minho nods, a bitter edge to his voice. "Yeah, that's who Yuna used to get whatever pills she was on from. Chaeryeong told me back then. And Yeji hasn't exactly stopped, has she?"

Chan frowns, his expression darkening. "Hyunjin doesn't associate with her anymore, even though she's his cousin. He hates that she sells. Blames her for half the addicts on campus."

"He's not wrong," Minho mutters, eyes flicking back to Hayun. "She's probably the main supplier for students who are trying to deal with their shit."

Chan sighs, leaning back on his hands as he stares up at the ceiling. "Jeongin mentioned that Hayun only takes them when her anxiety gets bad. I guess if something terrible happened to her at a party, like we think, then going to an outside rave like the one you guys just came from would definitely trigger that anxiety to spike."

Minho looks at him, clearly confused. "Then why would she go in the first place? Why put herself in that situation?"

Chan shrugs, his face softening with a kind of understanding. "She's a university student. She's young, she wants to fit in. And when you find something that helps you cope, even if it's destructive, it's hard to let go of it. Her way of dealing with her anxiety is using those pills, even if it's fucked up."

Minho's jaw clenches at that, frustration boiling under the surface. "Mingi's connected to all this, Chan. I just know it. He was always glued to Yuna at parties because Lia rarely went. She only ever showed up when she took Jisung and Hayun with her. Chaeryeong told me that."

Chan leans forward, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "What the hell was Lia thinking, taking two fourteen-year-olds to those calamity parties? That's insane."

Minho shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know any of them well enough to ask about it. I mean, I only met Hayun last month, and I've barely scraped the surface of what's going on with her."

Chan sighs again, rubbing his temples. "I've known Jisung since we were both ten, but Hayun never really hung around when Changbin and I were with him. From what Jisung told us, she's had a shitty life. Bounced around in the foster system. Her mom was in and out of her life—a heroin addict. Hayun never had it easy."

Minho's face softens for a second, understanding but not entirely surprised. "That explains... a lot."

"Yeah," Chan continues, "Jisung always looked out for her, but there's only so much he could do. She built her walls high. I'm sure there's a lot of shit she's never even told him."

Minho glances at Chan, his curiosity piqued. "What's the deal between you, Changbin, and Jisung? Changbin hates his guts, and I never got why."

Chan looks slightly uncomfortable but decides to explain anyway. "I don't have a problem with Jisung, personally. But Changbin? It's complicated. Just before we got signed with JYPE a few months ago, 2RACHA was supposed to be 3RACHA. Jisung was supposed to split his time between the podcast and recording albums with us. But out of nowhere, he quit. Dropped his music production minor and chose to focus solely on the podcast."

Minho's eyebrows furrow. "That's why Changbin's so pissed?"

Chan nods. "Yeah. Jisung helped us produce our first album—he gets royalties from it, and he's featured on a few songs. But Changbin felt betrayed because it had always been our dream to be a trio, signed to some big label. And right when that dream was about to come true, Jisung bailed. It hit Changbin harder than anyone expected."

Minho tilts his head slightly. "So, it wasn't just about the money or the music, then?"

"It was more about the betrayal. We'd been a team for so long, and for Changbin, it felt like Jisung walked out right when everything was falling into place," Chan explains. "But Jisung... well, he's always been unpredictable. And, to be fair, the podcast is massive now."

Minho stays silent for a moment, processing everything. He looks down at Hayun, who's still sleeping, and his mind races with a million questions. Between Mingi's looming presence in their investigation, Hayun's hidden past, and now the tangled relationships between his own friends and Jisung, it feels like everything is slowly unraveling.

"We're all wrapped up in something, aren't we?" Minho finally says, his voice low.

Chan lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Welcome to life, I guess. Everyone's got their shit to deal with."

Minho sighs. "I just hope we can figure this out before it gets worse. Whatever happened five years ago... it's not over."

Chan nods, his gaze fixed on Hayun. "No, it's not." He hesitates, then adds, "And I have a feeling when the truth comes out, it's going to wreck more than a few people."

Minho doesn't respond, but the knot in his stomach tells him Chan is probably right.

Taglist: @hityoulikebahng @drewsandsebastianswife @fackeraccount

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Sick Call

Amelia Shepherd x fem!reader Warnings: established relationship, pure unadulterated fluff, seriously so fluffy, sickfic, would that we all had someone taking care of us when we were sick I mean come on Word Count: 0.8k

Summary: You wake up sick in the middle of the night, but your doctor girlfriend won't let you go back to sleep without a full check-up and some taking care of.

You tossed and turned in the bed, head pounding. You’d tried to convince yourself it was just a headache, just allergies, just anything except actual illness. But if your aching head, stuffy nose, and chills were any indication, you were really and truly sick. You coughed and pulled the blankets up to your ears, trying to keep warm. Unable to fall asleep, you propped yourself up to look out the window at the lighted coast and the darkness beyond. Your house was too far away to hear the ocean, but you knew it was there. You fell back down on the pillow with a soft groan, pressing your fingers into your temples. Beside you, Amelia stirred.

“You okay, bean?” Amelia’s voice was gravelly with sleep as she turned to face you.

“Yeah. Just sick. Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Amelia’s hand shot out of the dark and wrapped around your neck.

“Ow!” you exclaimed.

Amelia sat up. “Your lymph nodes are swollen,” she observed. She moved her hand to your forehead. “And you’re definitely running a fever.” She sat up and turned on a lamp.

You groaned and squinted. “Jesus.”

Amelia launched herself out of bed and strolled into the bathroom.

“Amy,” you protested weakly. “I’m fine. Come back to bed.”

You could hear Amelia rummaging in the bathroom closet. “That’s what you always say.”

“Yes, but eventually I’m always right,” you called, yawning and propping yourself up on your elbow.

Amelia returned to the room carrying several pill bottles, a wet washrag, and a thermometer. “Open up,” she said, pointing the thermometer at your mouth.

You raised your eyebrows. “Amelia. It’s the middle of the night. I have a cold. This is a little overkill, don’t you think?”

Amelia looked around the room, as if gesturing to an invisible audience that this was unbelievable. “I’m sorry, who’s the doctor here?”

You wordlessly rolled your eyes and opened your mouth. Amelia popped the thermometer in and started opening pill bottles.

“Are you gonna pull the doctor card every time I have the sniffles?” you mumbled through the thermometer.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “Now shut up so I can get an accurate read.”

The thermometer beeped and Amelia removed it, peering at the screen. “102.6,” she read. Amelia shook two pills into her hand and opened your water bottle. “Take these.”

“What is it?” you asked, swallowing the pills quickly.

“NyQuil,” said Amelia. “Drink, like, half that water bottle.” She set the bottle of NyQuil and the thermometer on your nightstand.

You drank obediently, then set the water bottle aside. You watched Amelia watching you and felt a surge of love for her furrowed eyebrows, a tell that she was working out how to solve a problem. In this case, the problem was you being sick.

“Now lay down,” Amelia commanded.

You did as you were told, grimacing as you laid your head back down on the pillow and the throbbing resumed.

Amelia leaned over you from her seat on the edge of the bed, brushing a sweaty strand of hair out of your face. She held your head gently, leaned down, and planted a kiss on your forehead. She covered the spot with a cool washrag, letting her fingers linger on your skin a bit longer.

“Thank you, Dr. Shepherd,” you whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Amelia said, walking back to her side of the bed.

Amelia pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer out of her nightstand and squirted some into the palm of her hand.

“Are you using hand sanitizer?” you said, peeking out from under the washcloth.

“Duh. I don’t want your nasty bug.”

“You don’t want to be sick together?”

“Of course not,” Amelia said, pulling up the covers. “I want to be healthy together.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

After a few moments of rustling, Amelia spoke again. “Having established the consistency of the biomarker in a fairly homogenous group of high-risk participants, the broader app–”

“What’s happening right now?” you interjected.

“It’ll take about 30 minutes for the meds to kick in,” Amelia explained. “I’m reading you to sleep.”

“Aw,” you cooed. “That’s so sweet!” You reached over to squeeze Amelia’s thigh.

You couldn’t see it underneath the washrag, but Amelia looked at you with so much love, she thought she might burst. She shook her head and picked up her e-reader again.

“Now, go to sleep and listen to JAMA Neurology.”

You breathed deeply and nodded as Amelia continued reading.

“... the broader applicability of the derived threshold from Oxford Discovery was in a multicenter cohort consisting of a heterogenous group with variable risk of developing PD or related dementia, including GBA1…”