#sorry for letting it sit in my inbox for ages

[silvergyus]

i was thinking about what type of person txt would be in a relationship with lol and yeonjun with a nerd is just making me 😵‍💫😵‍💫 like someone who is just a loser and never stops yapping but he’s just like “yeah tell me more 🥰”

yeonjun with a nerd 😭

I can see the relationship similar to his relationship with taehyun (but obviously more ~romantic~ lol) in the way that he just adores you and wants to hear your yapping. when tyun starts talking about science with his big sparkly eyes and the other members look at him fondly? that, but it's your sweet boyfie jjunie and you're curled up in his bed together just rambling about the universe

bonus points if you're a nerd about music stuff. mention his vinyl collection and how vinyl records work + how they're made vs cds and streaming and sound quality and specific hookups. he's staring at you smiling and soaking it in. and then, what do you know, he's upgrading his set up based on what you said.

but also like, imagine you're really into biology or nature and similar fields. going to the zoo together and yeonjun is so excited bc he absolutely adores pandas and you're excited about conservation efforts and the two of you just absolutely geeking out at the panda exhibit

or, I feel like he would just ask you silly questions all the time. your phone would just buzz with a text from him and it would be like "why do we have fingernails" and he'd be delighted when you knew the answer (I actually don't know the answer lol)

and he would absolutely brag about you to the other members. imagine he's on a quiz show or a trivia episode of todo and he gets a question right because he remembers you getting really animated talking about it and he's so so happy he maybe even lets slip that he learned it from his partner but definitely gives you lots of kisses all over your face when he gets home with his prize since you're his lucky charm and smartie pants nerd who taught him everything

[swordfright]

Tell me about how the structure of the medium impacts the story 🔫

My brother in Christ, prepare yourself for the most boring essay you could possibly imagine. I'm going to over-simplify a few things here for the sake of Getting To The Point, so bear with me.

I think a good starting place is that DSMP is an example of New Media. The go-to definition most folks use is this one: that New Media are stories told via "communication technologies that enable or enhance interaction between users as well as interaction between users and content." In other words, NM is basically this category of stories made up of convergent elements, which satisfy a multimedia requirement, and are heavily reliant on both participatory fan culture and recent advances in technology that allow creators/audiences to communicate with one another instantly.

There's a couple ways you can understand DSMP as a New Media, but as far as I'm concerned, one of the most interesting is prosumption. The term "prosumption" describes a creative situation where a piece of art is being produced (at least in part) by the same people that consume it; they're both audience and creator. DSMP is a really great example of this phenomenon, because A) it's serial and therefore the CCs had ample opportunity to respond to and engage with the audience's reception of their story; and B) because the chat feature allows CCs to interact directly with their audience during roleplay rather than after the fact. These features, among others, kinda set the stage for DSMP to function as a highly prosumptive piece of media.

In particular, the stuff that interests me is the stuff to do with storytelling convention (genre, perspective, etc) and how prosumption turns all that on its head. There are a number of altercations in DSMP canon where the course of the story is altered because of real-time interactions between the CCs and their chat - particularly times when a CC's chat warns them about events happening at the same time elsewhere in the server. In this kind of scenario, the CCs are static, they can't really leave their own stream. Their viewers, on the other hand, are able to jump between streams and talk to each other to figure out what's happening in the overarching story. When this happens, viewers have choices to make: are they going to tell a CC what's going down on the other side of the server? If so, how are viewers going to communicate those events? Viewers are biased, they directly inform CCs, and the information they divulge (as well as how they divulge that info) goes on to influence CCs' actions and thus the events of the story, to some degree. In my opinion, this is a pretty new and exciting way to prosumptively construct a narrative! Media has always been interactive to some extent (especially serial works), but the interaction being live and in real-time is pretty significant in my view because it can exert unique pressures on a narrative.

Speaking of audience choice, that brings me to the next thing I want to yap about: ergodic storytelling, a term that refers to stories “negotiated by processes of choice, discernment, and decision-making.” For reference, a good non-MCYT example of this would be hypertext fiction, because it's generally characterized by the ability of the interactant (that's the reader, in this hypothetical example) to explore material provided by someone else, either as a kind of conceptual landscape (think setting in a video game), or as puzzle pieces that must be put together in order to give the interaction the "big picture" of the story. Basically, with hypertext fiction, there is a core text (the main document that forms the skeleton of the story) and there are multiple hypertexts branching off of the core text - and whether the reader ends up reading those branches, and in what order, inevitably shapes that reader's perception of the whole story.

So here's where it gets tricky. In the case of DSMP, where is the core text located? Is there any one identifiable core text at all? Or is it more appropriate to consider each individual stream or VOD as its own singular core text, with the related Twitch channels and Youtube recommended in the sidebar being "branches"? Alternatively, if the streams and recordings distributed on the server members’ official channels are the central text in the grand hypertext fiction that is DSMP, then can adjacent spaces where audiences do the work of creating and archiving lore be considered their own story branches? I don't have answers to these questions. No one does. That's part of what makes DSMP exciting.

To translate the above quote out of Academia Hellspeak: in an ergodic story, the audience has agency, but the agency enabled and allowed by the text varies in its intensity and mode. Yes, stories told ergodically necessitate choice — and therefore enable agency, turning the reader or viewer into interactant — but that element of choice doesn't always look the same. Some hypertexts are more choice-reliant than others, or are choice-reliant in different ways. So, rather than being a choose-your-own-adventure story, DSMP is more closely analogous to a story where the audience chooses the perspective through which they view plot developments, in addition to having some influence over how plot developments unfold.

(☝️From a 2021 Polygon article, if you think I sound crazy☝️)

The web of choices DSMP presents to viewers is very complex, even compared to other forms of choose-your-own-adventure game. Because each CC approaches the task of story-creation from their own angle (bringing their own narrative baggage to the writers’ room, so to speak), those shifts in perspective this Polygon article describes often also constitute shifts in genre. For instance, cc!Wilbur brought his music production experience and interest in musical theater to the server, cited operas and stage musicals as some of his main inspirations; and accordingly, much of c!Wilbur's most crucial arcs observably draw from those sources. When you watch a c!Wilbur stream, you’re watching a story about statecraft, about revolution, about the triumphs and tragedies of ego that play out during the process of nation-building. On the other hand, cc!Quackity has repeatedly identified Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul as his primary influences; accordingly, his RP character’s story is closer to a piece of gritty prestige television in some places (especially LN series). Unlike with c!Wilbur, a lot of c!Quackity's tension does not revolve around a romanticized fantasy of revolution but around more personal conflicts: securing your place in a new regime, navigating exploitation as both exploited and exploiter, etc. In terms of both plot beats and character arcs, Wilbur and Quackity’s respective storylines embody many of the genre conventions the content creators are working within.

Moreover, a shift in genre often entails a shift in style or mode. Because cc!Wilbur was heavily inspired by musical theater, the presentation style of his character’s storyline is correspondingly both theatrical (i.e. only loosely scripted, nearly always televised live, and improv-heavy) and musical (featuring multiple instances of Wilbur singing in-character ballads and anthems.) On the flipside, Quackity’s streams (especially the later ones, since I'm mostly focusing on Las Nevadas era here) demonstrably mimic the prestige TV shows the CC draws his inspiration from, with lore sessions being pre-recorded rather than televised live, featuring distinctive sonic and visual aesthetics popularized by neo-Western thriller dramas. So, where a piece of media like DSMP is concerned, shifts in perspective entail shifts in genre, which in turn entail pronounced shifts in style. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say it's an entirely new story depending on which character the viewer decides to follow. In that regard, what initially appears to be a single choice (whose perspective to watch a plot event through) has the power to determine a wide array of other elements, as viewers’ responses to the options presented to them will decide the overall tone of the section of the story they're about to watch.

While I think the genre-switching is genuinely super cool, lately I'm a lot more interested in perspective-switching and how it's related to viewer empathy. One side-effect of DSMP being televised live is that yes, you can watch a plot event from 30+ different POVs, but you can't watch every POV live. Typically, you either have to switch between multiple streams, or you need to pick one streamer to watch live and maybe later you'll watch other characters' POVs as you see fit. This has an impact on your perception of how that plot point went down because watching something live feels very different from watching something after-the-fact. I haven't done study on this, so what I'm about to say is mostly conjecture, but I wouldn't be surprised if viewers felt greater empathy for (and greater degrees of kinship with) characters whose POVs they watched live.

The choice of which character to follow also has observable impacts on other kinds of narrative conventions (who is the main character of DSMP? the boring answer is c!Dream because the server's named after him, but the real answer is the protagonist is whoever's POV you watched most of the major plot events through) but to be honest, those questions don't interest me as much.

So, going back to perspective and empathy. I think viewers' reactions to Exile are a really solid way of exemplifying the thing I'm trying to say, so this is the part of the yapping where we gotta bring up the dreaded Exile discourse.

Even though the Exile VODs are available and new viewers can go back and watch them, those viewers experience the Exile arc in a way that is fundamentally different from the experience had by viewers who had to wait in between updates as the videos were being streamed serially in real-time. I would argue that viewers who were “present” during the whole arc noticeably felt the brutality of c!Tommy’s treatment to a greater degree, because the audience was effectively forced to sit in exile alongside Tommy’s character - stewing in anxiety, looking forward to the possibility of appearances from other characters, and living in fear of Dream’s next visit, etc etc. Obviously you could also make this point using c!Dream's time in Pandora as an example, but I'm using Exile here because I've actually seen a lot of fans bring this up when discussing the arc: "people who didn't watch live Don't Get It," "the reason newer fans don't see Exile as scary is because they didn't have to watch it live," that sort of thing. And while I have certain qualms with some of the implications here, I do think these are really fascinating responses! These sorts of responses show that viewers consciously perceive their viewing experience as having been fundamentally different from others' based on a temporal element that's unique to serial fiction!

This instance of a divergence in collective fan experience is an example of choice being rendered unavailable to viewers by virtue of the story’s structure and means of distribution; audience members who happen to accidentally miss streams or who begin following the story after major events have occurred will never be able to engage with and witness those events as LIVE viewers, merely as retrospective ones. They don’t get to make that choice, but they do get to make choices about which perspective (and therefore genre) they get to experience the story through. So it follows that each aspect of DSMP, a semi-ergodic story, can be categorized as either ergodic or non-ergodic, and whether a particular storytelling element is ergodic can change depending on WHEN the viewer began tuning in to the story.

I have a lot more shit to say (shocker) but I'm gonna cap it here for now. Though I do want to add that this is kinda why I have a lot of patience for the crazy diversity of interpretation you tend to get in DSMP fandom. If you took a random sample of fans and asked them what they think of various arcs, characters, and plot events, chances are they would all have fairly different things to say. To me, that's a feature, not a bug. Obviously I have my own opinions, and obviously I do think it's possible for a given interpretation to be "bad," i.e. not grounded in the text - but I have a lot more patience for it here, in a fandom where agreeing on what "the text" EVEN IS presents a challenge. We can't all agree on who the main character is, so I don't ever expect us to agree on more nuanced questions of theme and conflict resolution in the narrative. Again, that's a feature, not a bug. I don't think it was ever possible to reach a consensus with a piece of media like DSMP because of how inextricable the audience is from the story.

[piepiepiemag]

“They got turned into beans!! T0T TAT

I love the bean boys.

Btw these are raw pics from my game. Lol”

NO CUZ THEY ARE SO CUTE DJJFJFJFN I DIDNT EVEN GET TO SEE MIDAS IN GAME JDJFJF THANKS FOR SENDING THIS IM GIGGLING

[yourlocalabomination]

are you planning on taking part in the hatchetfield big bang this year?? i'm really looking forward to it :)

Hello! Sorry I let this ask sit in my inbox for a while, but iv been heavily debating participating for ages (especially because I have mutuals, both on the artists & writers side, joining this year).

As much as I would love to join, I actually have quite a few things happening over this summer in regards to university, and unfortunately it would be unwise for me to add another thing to my load.

If the Big Bang occurs again next year then I would love to join! But I’m afraid this year I’m caught up in preparations for my final year university project.

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

[soap-ify]

can you do a smut to fluff comfort where simon is overstimulating them and being super degrading and they safeword? Then Simon takes care of them and is basically just super sweet.

this has been sitting in my inbox for so long :( so sorry anon i hope you like it!!

cw — smut at first, degradation, use of safeword, gentle aftercare and lots of comfort.

simon had been frustrated that day, very frustrated after coming back from work. and you felt like trying something new for him.

“fucking slag… look at you takin’ this cock so well.” he spat bitterly, his girthy cock mercilessly ploughing into your tight cunt, his hands gripping your hips in a hard and bruising manner. “too dumb to even speak now, eh? only good for takin’ some cock.”

he had asked you so sweetly at first, if he could take his frustrations out on you, and you had agreed because you wanted to please your boyfriend so badly. plus some crappy porno made you think that rough sex can be amazing. silly reason, yeah.

but right now, all those insults spewing out of his mouth seemed genuine and scary, messing up with your head while your body was all sensitive from already orgasming a few times before. it was overwhelming, too overwhelming — and you knew that if you don’t speak up now, you’ll break down horribly anytime soon.

but god, you felt so guilty. you were supposed to be relaxing him, not turning it onto yourself.

“r-red…!” you managed to choke out, tears sliding down your cheeks as your fingers digged into his shoulder blades, causing simon to halt almost immediately.

“what?” his voice was gruff, eyes still a bit glossy from fucking you, though his grip had loosened significantly and worry was soon blooming onto his face.

“red…” you repeated weekly, lips wobbling as you quickly looked away, not wanting him to look at you crying over something like this.

simon gently eased himself out of you and rolled by your side, his calloused hands cradling your face. “oh, love… did i hurt you? was it too much?” he may have been sounding concerned and still reserved though he was internally panicking inside, wanting to rip and beat some sense into himself.

“yes,” you sniffled and nodded, your hands trembling as you leaned into his embrace, soft pants leaving your lips. “too rough..”

“fuck, m’sorry. so sorry, love. got carried away for a second, i-” he paused, his heart aching terribly with guilt and concern as he saw your face all soaked with tears. it soon dawned on him how mean he was being, even if you had agreed to it. he should’ve known that you were probably not used to this, maybe not even into it.

he slowly got up from the bed and helped you off the bed, his burly arms supporting you. he took you over to the bathroom and soon ran a warm bath for you, helping you sit in the bathtub, your little winces making his heart sink.

“i didn’t mean any of those words, y’know…” he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, his fingers gently caressing your head.

“i know…” you sniffled and smiled up at him sheepishly. “maybe i’m too soft for all that.”

simon sighed softly and sat by the edge of the bathtub, not caring about himself at all right now. all of his focus was solely on you, helping you clean yourself and dry up once you were done, dressing you in some comfortable pajamas.

once he came back after cleaning himself up, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked over at you, his once stern brown eyes now soft with love and pain. “i’m so sorry, i mean it…”

“don’t apologise, si…” you gently wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands supporting your hips as he carefully propped you on top of him once he laid down, caressing your lower back.

“i love you… never wanna hurt you, y’know. m’so proud of you for speakin’ the safeword. so proud of you.” he smothered your head with chaste kisses, his breath caressing your skin.

“i love you too…” you mumbled softly, exhaustion soon taking over you. you let his heartbeat lull you into sleep alongside his soft murmurs, feeling safe once again.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Honey Girl. Chapter Four.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine. Chapter Ten. Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky deal with the fallout of Cora's reveal. What's that saying? If you love something, let it go...

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Word Count - 5k

Author's Note - i can only apologise that this chapter took a little while!! my life is at a super weird place rn, so i'm just trying to find the time when i can. words cannot describe how incredible all of your support is for Honey Girl. the fact you all reblog and comment and send me asks means the world to me. love you all so much.

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

You can't breathe.

It's like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the air, leaving it dry, brittle, sterile. Your lungs are burning, scratched like sandpaper. The backyard is spinning, like teenagers at a roller rink - all flashing lights and endless rotations.

You haven't taken your eyes off of Bucky, and he hasn't taken his eyes off of you. If you were thinking more logically, you'd probably realise that you've been staring at each other for too long, and it's starting to look a little suspicious. You don't care.

Your ears are ringing. It's like there's been an explosion, and you're scattered amongst the debris. Smoke, flames, rubble. A catastrophic detonation in your parents backyard.

A gentle hand on your shoulder snaps you back to reality. The music is still playing, everyone around the table is still conversing, the house still stands. No explosion here.

"Sweetheart?"

It's your Mom, clearly sensing your distress. She probably thinks you're upset with her, for telling Cora. You are, but that's not what's causing the pain in your chest.

"Come inside with me, baby girl. Let's get away from the noise for a second."

She grabs your hand and pulls you out of your chair, still none the wiser to the magnetism preventing you from breaking your gaze that's locked on Bucky's. She practically drags you inside, the cool air of the kitchen waking you up.

"Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry. Cora overheard the conversation we had earlier. I thought it was good news, so I didn't think to ask her to keep it private."

She looks like she's being eaten alive by guilt. Your bottom lip quivers, your eyes well up, and before you know it, there are warm, salty tears dripping down your cheeks.

"Hey, hey. What's the matter?"

You sit down on the tiled floor, back pressed against the cabinets. Curling your knees to your chest, you try to stifle your sobs.

"Everything's such a mess, Mama."

She drops to the ground, gathering you in her arms. She holds you as tight as she can, rubbing soothing circles into your back and whispering comforting words in your ear. Eventually, she pulls back to look at you.

"What's the matter, baby? I thought Stella's call was a good thing - that you'd be excited to go back to California."

You take a shaky breath before replying.

"It's just... I think - I don't, it's... it's so complicated."

She traces her fingers over your cheeks, your eyebrows, your nose. She dances her fingertips over your face, as if she's committing it to her mind forever. It brings back warm and cosy childhood memories of her doing the same thing to help you sleep. The two of you would snuggle up against all of your pillows in bed, tucked up and safe. She'd lie with you until she was sure you were dreaming, before kissing you on the forehead and sneaking out.

"Talk to me. We can figure it out. We always do."

"It's not that simple. I just... there's a lot going on, I guess. I thought it'd be an easy decision, but it isn't, and it's all I can think about, and it's eating me up because I'm so scared I'm gonna do the wrong thing -"

You cut yourself off with a sob, resting your head on your knees.

"I knew there was something bothering you, sweetheart. Why didn't you come and talk to us? Even if we can't fix it, we can listen."

"I thought I could handle it. I thought I could figure it out on my own."

"You don't ever have to carry stress like this on your own, baby girl. Ever. You hear me?"

You nod and lean into her, letting her rock you in her arms on the kitchen floor.

"I'm sorry again, about Cora. She means well, you know she does."

"I know. Doesn't feel like it sometimes, but I know."

A pause.

"Okay, sweetheart. What are we going to do now? Whatever you decide, we'll support you."

"Your Mom's right," your Dad says from the doorway. "Whatever you choose, we'll be right alongside you. No matter what."

He strides over to join the two of you on the floor, sandwiching you between him and your Mom.

"If you need help packing up and moving, we're here. If you need us to create an elaborate lie to tell Stella, we're here. Either way, you've got us."

You smile at him gently, leaning to rest your head on his shoulder. Regardless of what happens, you have two parents that love you more than anything in the world. That has to count for something.

"You wanna rejoin us outside, or are you too tired? No one will blame you if you go home."

"I think I'll go home," you murmur. "I don't wanna face any more questions for today."

"Bucky's just gone too. Said something about an early morning tomorrow."

You inhale shakily at the mention of his name. You know you'll have to face him sooner or later.

Your Dad stands and grabs your hands to help you to your feet, before doing the same to your Mom. They both hug you tightly before walking you out to the front door.

"Promise me you'll call if you need anything. Anything."

"I promise, Mama. Don't worry about me. I'll be okay."

"Do you want one of us to walk you home?"

"No, it's okay. I think I need the air."

"Love you, baby girl."

"Love you too. Both of you."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You're halfway home when you decide to turn around. You need to talk to Bucky.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where he is. You can feel in your chest that he's close by, that he hasn't strayed far. He hasn't gone home, though. The Universe is pulling you in the opposite direction.

The beach.

You spin on your heel and start walking down the road, picking up pace as you go. You can feel rain in the air, threatening to spill from the clouds at any given moment. Before you know it, you're running, sprinting along the sidewalk in the direction of your soulmate.

You get to the small boardwalk and look out over the sand. The sky is grey as concrete, cold and unforgiving. You spot a figure in a worn brown leather jacket by the shore, and you know instantly. It's him.

You march onto the beach with your shoes still on, wrapping your arms around yourself to act as a shield from the wind. You left your jacket at your parent's house, too eager to get out of there in a hurry. The rain is suspended in the air, never quite reaching the ground. You know it's only a matter of time before the heavens open.

"Bucky!" you yell, practically bounding across the sand. "Buck!"

He doesn't turn because he hears your voice. He turns because he suddenly feels like he can breathe, which he hasn't been able to do for the last hour. He knew you were there before you shouted his name.

"Bucky, please!"

He spins on his heel and stops walking, waiting for you to catch up with him. You're sprinting, panting as you reach him. The ocean waves crash against the shore, dangerously close to his boots.

"Buck, just let me explain," you choke out, trying to catch your breath.

You finally stop running and look at him. He looks broken. His hair looks like he's pulled his fingers through it repeatedly, tear tracks staining his cheeks, lips bitten red. You've never seen him upset like this. It's the worst thing you've ever witnessed.

"There's nothing to explain," he begins calmly, trying to keep a lid on his feelings.

"There is, Buck. There is. I... Cora overheard me confiding in my Mom, telling her about a call I'd gotten, from a classmate at culinary school. It was just an offer - I haven't accepted anything! I never meant for you to find out like this, I swear. It's all just... it's all so fucked up."

He looks at you in disbelief.

"No, you know what's fucked up?" he asks, raising his voice. "Finding out that my soulmate is moving across the country from some alcoholic suburban mom at a dinner party!"

You've never heard him yell before. You don't like it at all. You gather yourself before replying calmly, determined to keep you emotions under wraps.

"I've been trying to find a way to talk to you about it, but I didn't know where to start. How do I even begin to explain any of this?"

"Maybe, I don't know - 'hey, Buck, I got a call and I'm thinking of moving thousands of miles away for my dream job,' would be a good place to start?"

"It's more complicated than that. I was trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"From blowing your life up for me!"

You stare at each other for a minute, both of you unblinking.

"What are you talking about?" he croaks out.

"You'd drop everything for me, Bucky, and I can't let you do that. You've worked too damn hard to let it all go."

He's dumbfounded, for a moment. Not because he doesn't understand. No. He's realising that you're right.

"I knew that if I told you straight away, you'd have persuaded me to let you come with, and I would have said yes. And then you'd regret it, and you'd resent me, and we'd be over before we've even begun."

When he doesn't say anything, you continue.

"The thing is, Buck, the selfish part of me would have happily invited you along. Me and you, in California, running a bakery? That sounds like a fucking dream. But I have to listen to the other side of me, the selfless part. And that part is telling me that you have worked too damn hard for too damn long just for me to take that all away."

You feel droplets of water on your face, and for a moment, you wonder when you started to cry again. Then, in the deep distance, you hear a crack of thunder. The rain begins to pour, both of you caught in a storm in more ways than one.

"You don't get to make a decision like that for me!" he finally responds, yelling to be heard over the downpour. "We're supposed to talk about these things! To figure them out together! That's what soulmates are - we're a team!"

"I can't think rationally around you, Bucky! It's like all logic goes out the window. I'm just so overwhelmed with-"

You stop yourself before the word comes out, but you both know what you were about to say. He feels it in his ribcage, the surge of emotion from you.

"-with how I feel about you. You're my forever, Buck, and I feel like -" a sob wracks through you, shaking your frame. "-like I've fucked it all up already."

Your tears mix with the rainwater, trailing down your cheeks. You watch as Bucky fights with himself, internally battling his feelings.

"You're not the only one fucking it up," he chokes. "You repeatedly told me we had to take it slow, but I just... couldn't help myself. I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you, and being away from you for even a minute is fucking torture. I moved us too fast, and now look where we are. We've become the equivalent of a married couple in a couple of weeks. No one can handle change that sudden."

"It's not.. none of this is your fault, Buck. I kept something from you, something big. I know it doesn't matter now, but I want you to know how hard it's been to not tell you. It was killing me."

"I felt it," he murmurs shakily, willing himself not to cry. "In my chest. You were so torn up about something, and I just couldn't figure out what it was. I should have pushed you more, but I was worried I'd push you away."

Your lip trembles as you watch him bite his own anxiously.

"I'm so scared, Buck," you whisper. "I feel so lost and so confused and like nothing makes sense."

"Me too," he whispers back, eyes never leaving yours. "I'm fucking terrified. Our worlds have been turned upside down."

"Is it... is it supposed to be this hard? Everyone makes it sound so easy."

"I don't know. Maybe the Universe heard that we were anti-soulmate and decided to be super tough on us. Cosmic karma, or something."

You choke out a laugh through your tears. The rain has plastered your clothes to your body, the salty wind chilling you to the bone. Without thinking, Bucky takes off his jacket and wraps it around you, unable to watch you shiver any longer.

"What now?" you ask quietly. If he wasn't standing so close, he wouldn't have heard it.

"Let's get out of the storm," he suggests, nodding his head towards the path home. "We can talk some more somewhere warmer."

You sniffle and take a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. Bucky surprises you by linking your hand with his, warm fingers intertwining around yours.

He doesn't let go the whole way home.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Bucky takes you to his house.

You haven't been here since before your Tethering. You walk in the door, and your knees threaten to give way.

It's overwhelming.

Everywhere - everything - smells like Bucky. His scent clings to every fabric, every upholstery, every room. There's pictures scattered across the mantelpiece, his handsome face staring at you wherever you go. The house is warm, cosy, and just so Bucky it makes your heart ache.

You walk over to the fireplace, taking a closer look at the array of frames adorning it. There's one of your parents and Bucky smiling, sat out on his lawn last summer; another of Bucky and his team of mechanics, stood proudly outside his garage. A small black frame catches your eye. You pick it up, and your breath hitches in your chest.

It's a picture of the two of you on the deck of his boat, the day after you found out you were soulmates. The wind is blowing your hair, billowing your shirts, sun beating down on your skin. You're both beaming at the camera, bright and blinding, completely content.

You're holding back tears as you put it back in it's original place.

"My favourite picture," he murmurs from somewhere behind you. "We look happy."

"We were happy," you whisper. Then, quieter, "We will be again."

A pause.

"You want something to drink? Coffee, cocoa? Oh, I have that tea you like, the apple one?"

"You do?"

"Yeah. I, uh, bought some last time I went grocery shopping. In case you stopped by."

"Tea sounds good. Please."

You stay stood in the middle of the living room while Bucky puts the kettle on the stove, worried that your wet clothes will ruin his couch. As if he's read your mind, he pops his head around the door.

"There's a load of fresh clothes folded on top of the dryer. Grab whatever you want, dry off a little."

You wander into the laundry room, sorting through the pile. You find a t shirt with his garage logo on the back in big, white letters.

J.B.B. Motorcycles and Automotives.

The blocky, bold font swirls across the black material. You run your fingers over it, tracing the curves and spikes of the typeface. It's something you've seen him in a million times. You inhale deeply as you slip it over your head, revelling in the way it smells like him. You grab some boxer shorts and slip those on too, glad to finally be warm and dry.

Bucky loses his breath when you walk into the room. He's never seen you in his clothes before, and for good reason. He's about to have a goddamn heart attack.

"Tea is on the coffee table," he chokes out. "I'm gonna change, and then we'll talk, yeah?"

You nod gently, settling into the cushions of his couch and tucking your legs underneath you, mug warming your hands.

When Bucky returns, he's in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that you want to burrow yourself into. He takes his place, careful to put a little distance between you. Far enough that you're not touching, but close enough that you almost are.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm not good at this."

"Neither am I," he smiles gently. "It's my first time having a soulmate."

"Mine too," you laugh softly.

It floors you, his ability to always be able to comfort you. It's like a superpower, the way he always knows what to say or do to put you at ease.

"I think we got a little ahead of ourselves," he begins, careful to keep his voice low and deliberate. "I keep forgetting that we have forever. Literally. I was so eager to rush into this with you because I got excited. Don't get me wrong, I'm still ridiculously excited, but I'm realising now that our version of 'slow' wasn't slow at all."

"This whole Tethering thing makes everything so intense. There have been times where I honestly thought I was going to drop dead if you didn't kiss me."

"The feelings mutual," he chuckles.

You lace your fingers with his, never breaking eye contact, before addressing the elephant in the room.

"What am I gonna do about California, Buck?"

Your voice cracks just saying the word.

"Stella needs an answer, and I've upset you, and my parents are clueless, and I just - I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do. Please."

"I can't tell you what to do, honey," he soothes, running his thumb over the back of your hand. "And I'm not upset. I was, in the backyard... but I was mainly just blindsided. I kinda get it, you not telling me. I'm not sure what I'd do in your situation either."

"I just feel like both decisions are wrong. I can't win."

"Hey, hey. Look at me, pretty baby."

Bucky cradles your face in his warm hands, forcing your eyes to meet his ocean blue ones. You have to focus on his words, so you don't get lost in the waves of his irises.

"At the end of the day, it's completely your decision, and no one in the world can change that. But-"

He takes a deep breath, and continues.

"I think that you'll regret it every day for the rest of your life if you don't take the incredible opportunity that's been offered to you."

You take a second to process what he's telling you, your mind running at a thousand miles an hour.

"Are you... you're... are you saying I should take the job?"

"Like I said, it's your decision, but... yes. I'm saying you should take the job."

Your eyes well with tears, and you bite your lip to stop them from escaping. Inhaling carefully, you put your hands on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat under your palms. He's calm. He's sure. He's collected enough for the both of you.

"What about us?" you ask, barely above a whisper.

"Like you said, baby. I'm your forever." Buck leans in, resting his forehead to yours. "We have time."

"All the time in the world."

You connect your lips to Bucky's softly, testing the waters. He kisses you back with so much feeling, tears slip from your lashes without warning. He's crying too, emotion mixing with yours, dousing you both.

You pull away and wrap your arms around him, curling yourself into his chest. He holds you as tightly as he can, knowing this will be the last time for a long time.

"So you'll go."

"I'll go."

"And I'll stay."

"You'll stay."

"And we'll be okay. No matter what, we'll be okay."

You and Bucky fall asleep in each others arms, cherishing the feeling of home one last time.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The happiness is starting to seep through.

You're devastated to be leaving Bucky behind, but you're trying to look on the bright side. Sunny beaches, new people, your dream job. If you think about the positives for long enough, the Bucky sized hole in your chest hurts a little less.

You're packing up your bookshelf when your phone rings, scaring the life out of you.

"Bitch!"

You know who it is instantly.

"Hi, Lacie."

"Where have you been? Why didn't you answer my text from last night?"

"Shit, sorry. I've been packing. What's up?"

"We're going out tonight. Not just us - all the girls. We're throwing you a goodbye party!"

You groan inwardly, massaging your temples with your fingers.

"A party? Lace, I don't need a party."

"Babe, you do. You really do. It'll be fun! I thought you'd be excited!"

You take a deep breath, and remember what you've been telling yourself. Focus on the positives.

"Okay, fine. Where? What time? What should I wear?"

"I knew you'd say yes! Come to my place at like... six? We can get ready together, like old times! And wear something sexy."

She doesn't wait for you to argue, just hangs up the phone. She knows you too well.

You know it'll be good for you, to see your girlfriends - but the thought of all the goodbyes you're about to say breaks your heart a little more.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"Okay, what the fuck is going on with you?"

You're sat cross legged on Lacie's living room floor, sharing makeup that's scattered across the coffee table. You sip your wine for a moment, trying to come up with an excuse. It's no use.

"I don't know."

"Bullshit."

You turn to look at her.

"What?"

"It's bullshit, babe. Something's going on. You've been given your dream job, and you're moping around like you just got broken up with or something. Why aren't you happy?"

There's no malice in her voice, just pure love. She adores you. You adore her. She's the one person with an outsiders perspective on all of this. So, you cut the act.

"I had my Tethering."

Silence.

She's processing.

"What?!"

"Yeah."

"When? Who? Where? How? Oh my God what is happening? Why didn't you say anything? Fuck, I'm gonna cry. I'm so overwhelmed right now, I'm so happy for you! Wait... are we not happy?"

"It's... complicated."

There's a lump in your throat, but a levity in your heart. A weight has been taken off you. Telling someone the truth has made you feel a little lighter.

"Who is it, babe?"

You take a deep breath, and look her in the eyes.

"Bucky."

Her jaw drops.

"Your... your Dad's best friend Bucky?"

"That's the one."

"Oh. My. Fucking. God."

"Yeah."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"This is complicated."

"Yeah."

"Aw, babe."

She pulls you in for a hug, not caring about the makeup you're smearing across her shirt. You cling to her as tightly as you can, savouring your best friends comfort.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. We decided not to tell my parents for a while."

"Shit. No wonder you've been so sad lately. You're moving across the country, away from the one person you're supposed to be near."

"It's really hard," you whisper, tears threatening to spill.

"I can't even begin to imagine," she murmurs, holding you close. "I wish you'd told me sooner. We could have talked about it."

"I know," you sniffle. "I thought I could handle it on my own, but I really can't."

"You're not on your own, okay? You have Bucky, and you have me. You can always talk to me about this stuff. God knows I talked your ear off about Cameron."

You laugh softly, thinking back to that day that feels both like yesterday and a million years ago.

"Where is he tonight?"

"Out with his boys. It's good for us to spend a few hours apart."

You smile at the happiness that's radiating off her. She's glowing, beaming in all directions.

"Thanks, Lace. I love you. You know that right?"

"Of course I do. I love you too. So much," she leans forward to kiss your cheek. "Now let's have one hell of a last girls night, shall we?"

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You've lost track of exactly where you are.

You know you're downtown somewhere, in one of the bars. This one smells like wood and whiskey, lowlit and smoky. You hit the cocktail bar first, then the one covered in leopard print, then the monochrome pink one. Now, you're here.

The six of you are sat at a booth, high heels tangled and legs intertwined under the table. The wood is sticky with lemon wedges from tequila shots, salt scattered across the surface.

"If you find any hot west coast men, will you send them my way?" Reese asks, nudging you with her shoulder.

"And if you find any hot west coast women, will you send them mine?"

Everyone laughs, the scent of perfume filling the air.

"Rosa, what happened to Aubrey? We liked her!"

"Caught her kissing my ex girlfriend. So now they're both my ex girlfriends."

"Jesus Christ."

"Man, that's rough," Lacie giggles next to you.

The other girls continue to talk about Aubrey's infidelity as Lacie leans to whisper in your ear.

"Have you said goodbye to Bucky yet?"

You nod.

"Yesterday. I stayed the night, we fell asleep together. Said our goodbyes in the morning. It was awful."

"Love you," she whispers, squeezing your hand under the table.

"Love you too," you reply, squeezing back.

"There's a table of super hot guys over there," Maggie observes, tilting her head in their direction. "Maybe we should conveniently dance that way in a little while."

You don't bother to look over, knowing that none of them will compare to your soulmate. The other girls seem interested, though, so you smile along with them.

"Babe," Sam hisses, kicking you under the table. "There's a hot guy at that table, three o'clock, that keeps staring at you."

You glance over, and your heart stutters in your chest.

Bucky.

His blue eyes pierce your soul, even from across the room. For a moment, it's only the two of you, all the noise forgotten.

You're snapped back to reality by Sam.

"Fuck, he's hot. If you don't want him, I do."

"You should talk to him," Lacie suggests quickly. "Why not, right?"

She's practically pushing you out of the booth, high school wrestler style. In another life, you think, she would have made a good football player. All five foot four of her.

You walk past his table, eyes still locked on him, and towards the bathrooms. You know he'll follow you. You walk to the end of the hallway and out of the door, into the fresh night air.

You feel him appear before you see him. You lean your body against the wall, head resting on the cold brick. Bucky stands in front of you, shirt stretched across his shoulders gorgeously.

"Hi."

"Hi, honey baby."

You smile softly at the nickname.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got dragged to a boys night. What are you doing here?"

"I got dragged to a girls night."

He laughs, and all the tension melts from your muscles.

"Thought we said our goodbyes. I didn't think I'd see you again before I left."

"Me too. But you know the Universe. It hates us."

"Cosmic karma," you whisper.

The two of you stand down the alleyway, looking at each other carefully. Neither of you wants to spook the other person. You'd processed your leaving, said your emotional goodbyes. And now he's here, standing in front of you. You don't want to have to do it all again.

"I should probably get back inside, before the girls get the wrong idea."

"Baby, I followed you to the bathroom. They've already got the wrong idea."

You chuckle, kicking at a rock on the ground.

"Yeah. I don't know how I'm gonna explain this."

A smile. A pause.

"I'll let you get back to your friends, then."

You lean up to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

"Bye, Buck."

"Bye, pretty girl."

You push off the wall and walk away towards the door. Suddenly, a warm hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you into a solid chest.

Bucky kisses you like a man possessed. There's nothing gentle about it - just pure, unadulterated passion. It's all teeth and tongue and nipping and biting, neither of you willing to be the first to pull away.

He walks you back into the wall, pushing you against the rough brick. You hike a leg up onto his hip as he grabs your thigh to pull you closer, desperate to feel all of you. Your hands are in his hair, around his neck, tangled in his collar, his shirt, his belt loops. Anything you can get your hands on, you grab.

A distant chorus of cheers break you out of your lust fuelled haze. A bachelorette party walks by, one of the women winking at you as they go. You and Bucky take a step away from each other, straightening out your clothes and fixing your hair.

"Promise me you'll call me if you need anything," Bucky murmurs, leaning to rest his forehead on yours.

"I promise," you whisper, almost against his lips. "Goodbye, Bucky."

"Goodbye, honey girl."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The salty ocean wind whips through your hair, sun beating down onto your skin, some upbeat pop song humming from the radio. You keep your eyes glued to the road in front of you, begging yourself not to look back. You know if you do, you'll turn the car around and run straight back into Bucky's arms.

Let the happiness seep through, you remind yourself, gripping the steering wheel.

Let the happiness seep through.

tag list part one -

@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff  @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara   @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen   @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance  @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk

[toruro]

i just think….toxic ex bf!dino who starts hoeing out to make you jealous.. he fucks any random girl at any random party but only thinks of you, making sure his hickeys are visible enough for you to see them, posting pics with randoms on his socials 💭

nectar of the gods

tags: smut (18+), angst, toxic chan (duhh), pet names (baby), creampie

w/c: 1.4k

a/n: this concept is insanity actually anon i am in love with u (WINK WONK WINK WONK WINK WONK) ..,,, pls visit my inbox more often :3

thinking about your toxic ex chan.

it's funny when you say that, because he was the one who said he wanted to end things on good terms; told you he wanted "none of that drama ... none of that petty shit." chan had said it so casually that you're now having a hard time trying to figure out if you're going crazy.

crazy, because just three nights after you two ended things, he was posting on his finsta (which, by the way, he demanded you stay on for the sake of keeping peace and not cutting ties) at some party you weren't invited to with some girl you didn't know dancing—no, grinding—on the same man whose lap you were bouncing on just a week earlier.

crazy, because two days later you go to hang out with your group of friends and of course chan is there (because when isn't chan there?), and you swear you haven't seen him wear a shirt with a collar that low in ages and ... is that a hickey? you might go crazy.

crazy, because you aren't sure if he expects you to stare ..,, crazy, because you swear you see his lips curve upwards into a smug smirk when you turn your eyes away, bashfully heating up in the cheeks. "you good?" he asks casually, when you choke over your water a little when you decide to glance back at him and catch second and third splotchy, bruising mark under his collarbone.

crazy, because you aren't sure why your stomach bubbles up with some nasty feeling of ... anger? uncertainty? jealousy?

crazy, because how could you be jealous? you broke up with him—told him you've got too much going on in your life, and while chan was great and all, you don't really have the time for a boyfriend right now. so really, you have no right to be jealous, isn't that correct?

fuck, you've gone crazy.

it doesn't help that you try to avoid him. the next week, you don't sit next to him in the lecture you have together, and you don't think chan'll make a fuss about it. after all, it seems like he's moving on just fine, so you hardly consider the fact that he might be just a bit bothered by the fact that you choose to sit next to seungcheol instead.

you don't expect him to walk up to you afterwards with a frown etched deep into his lips as he scoffs, "already throwing yourself on my friends?" to which you'd like to respond with: "aren't you doing just the same?" ... 'cept you don't say that, because that would mean you're jealous, right? and you're not jealous ... no way!

so you just shake your head softly and say that you're sorry for causing a fuss. that you'll sit with him next time. that you'll start talking to seungcheol less. chan grins at you and nods his head, and as he turns away to head to his car, you catch the fading mark on his neck from a few nights before, and wonder if you should say something.

you don't, of course.

that night you go home, and you're scrolling on your insta and then there's that bright ring around the chan's finsta and so curiosity undoubtedly kills the cat. maybe you tear up a little at the sight of a an obviously faded chan who's got his cheek pressed up against another girl's, both of them grinning as people party in the background.

and so you call him, and he's sweet at first. asks you, "hey what's up ... hey are you crying?" to which you respond with more sniffles. and you wanna hang up, you wanna hang up so bad, but then you think that if you cut the call he's just gonna go off and talk to that girl—or worse, he'll fuck her—and you're totally not jealous but you also totally can't let that happen.

and so you cry a bit harder—you replay the image of those stupid, big fat hickeys on his neck—and you let your tummy churn while you wallow in your own self pity.

"what's wrong baby?" chan asks you from the other side, and in the background you faintly hear the blaring techno and you briefly consider telling him you miss him, which is odd because you don't miss him ... do you? you just don't want him to go off with what's-her-face ... right?

and so you're silent, tryin' to figure out what you should say but then you hear this voice and it's too high pitched, too bubbly, too girly to be chan's, and suddenly your heart sinks right down to your stomach.

"channie, c'mon! let's have some fun?" the voice of a girl calls in the background, and you're just about to open your mouth and say something when chan beats you to it.

"i gotta go," he tells you in a rush and oh the sound of the line being cut will be you're undoing, because now the image of chan fucking this random ass girl burns into your skull and for some reason, you can't seem to shave it down.

and so you drown yourself in your tears, pressing yourself into the cushions of your couch and your sobs rack through your empty living room while chan is probably in some strangers room fucking the living daylights out of a cunt that isn't yours.

you think you might just fall asleep like this—alone in this dimly lit room with nothing but your tears dropping onto your lap; and so when you hear chan's voice you think this might be a dream, but then you look up and suddenly you see him.

he stands in front of you in all his glory, face flushed and faux blonde hair brushes just over his eyes as he walks closer to where you sit on your couch. chan shushes you when you ask him why he's still got your keys—tells you that isn't important right now—and he cups your cheeks and wipes your tears, asks you why you're crying, why there are tears in your eyes when "channie's right here ... channie's not gonna leave you ..."

and then he's kneeling in front of you, askin' you again why you're crying and so you cry even harder ... his hands are all over you, stroking your cheeks and then rubbing your shoulders, then one hand's on your hip and kneading the soft flesh and you think he's just trying to comfort you and so you cry even harder because you wonder whether he had his hands on that girl just moments earlier.

but then he's whispering in your ear, tellin' you he's gonna "make you feel better ..." but only if you'll let him.

his hands feel so nice all over you, rubbing up and down your thighs and—fuck, when did he slip his fingers between your legs? not that you care anyways, because even with your mind deluded with tears, you find the want to slowly hump your hips into his touch until he's slipping his hand down your pant, asking you if this is you letting him "make you feel good."

of course, you whine through your tears, nodding dumbly when he slips his rough fingers into your soaked cunt, murmuring into your neck 'bout how "channie's always gonna be here to make you feel better ... channie's never gonna leave ..."

he fingers you for a bit, and then he fucks you into the couch. it's hot and sloppy and heavy and messy, and it has you crying and panting—hands all over each other because you can't get enough of him.

your lips run all over his neck, his chest, collarbone—all of it, because you are in no way jealous, you just enjoy marking your territory. and chan fucks you so deep, groaning, "this pussy's made for me—just for me, you hear me?" and you are not a jealous person but you grin to yourself in this fucked out haze because chan is right.

you wrap your arms around his neck as he fucks you missionary, raking your nails into his back, tugging at the roots of his hair—doin' everything you fucking can to show chan that he might not be yours but he is yours, and you are his.

the thought that this might come and bite you in the ass crosses your mind briefly, but chan is quick to fuck your worries away, tellin' you "no one's gonna fuck you like this ..." and so you moan, and chan takes that as an agreement, so he fucks you harder until you're choking over your own sobs of pleasure.

"this pussy's mine, you got that baby?"

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Hello my love could I please request Thor with “Vampires AU” please for your 6k celebration 💗🫶🏼

.⋆｡Blood Bag｡⋆.

Thor x plus size reader

You need a job and the ancient and powerful vampire on the edge of town needs blood, of course nothing could go wrong

Warnings: Vampire!AU, virgin!reader, lots of blood talk, age-gap (obvi), brief mentions of vamp!Loki and a different reader insert, flirting WC: 1.5k

6k Follower Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, you thought as you looked up at the huge wrought iron gates that separated the old estate from the real world. The job listing had been simple; ‘Blood donations for vamp wanted. Virgin preferred. Guaranteed $5000 per feed.’ At first, you disregarded it, letting your gaze travel to the smattering of other postings on the site. But that number tugged at your mind well into the night, practically haunting your dreams until, in an act of temporary madness, you sprang up at three in the morning and filled out the application, sending it in before you could second guess yourself.

By the time you awoke several hours later, you had a nice fat contract sitting in your inbox and a request for a clean physical from your prospective employer. You hesitated to accept until you saw the upfront money you would receive before your first donation, it would easily cover your rent for the next two months.

So here you were, a paper with your clean bill of health in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, staring up at the biggest house you had ever seen in real life, knowing that by this time tomorrow, you would be a few quarts lighter. The gates creaked as they swung open for you and suddenly, you wondered if this was actually the beginning of some horror movie starring you as the gullible first victim.

Yet you stepped forwards anyway, following the long trail of your shadow up the drive. The gravel crunching under your feet quickly grounded you, it was well-known that vamps could literally smell fear and it would do you no good to sour your blood before your first meeting. 

Only a few windows were illuminated as the sun dipped below the horizon, urging you to move faster and get in the house before night truly fell even if what was inside the manor could bring more danger than anything that roamed the grounds under the cover of darkness. 

“You’re early.” Golden eyes gazed down at you from the now open front door. 

“Jesus! Oh shit, sorry I should not have said that. I-“ The man smiled and stepped back from the entryway, gesturing for you to come in.

You stumbled into the huge foyer, the tension locking up your joints slowly loosening as the warmth of the home seeped into your body. “Do not fret, many of the stories you have been told are false. We are not harmed by any mere name so there is nothing to apologise for. Now, may I take your things? I will file away your physical in a lock box in the Master’s office. A room has already been prepared for your stay. I do apologise if the bedding is not to your liking, I fear it has been many centuries since anyone in this house has felt the need for sheets and pillows.”

The man, who you could now carefully observe in the soft light of the chandelier above you both, took your things from you before you could fully digest what he said. “How many people live here?” He danced at you with a soft smile, his lips pressed together so as to not reveal the deadly fangs that all of his kind possessed.

“Only four. We do have several maids that come in every few weeks but they don’t reside on the property. You will only be feeding one person, don’t worry. The Master’s younger brother lives in the West Wing along with his wife who provides the blood he needs.”

“And your Master?” The man’s golden eyes sparkled with something akin to affection as you walked alongside him, your footsteps echoing through the otherwise silent halls.

“You may call him Thor, he is a kind man. It was only at my suggestion that you were brought here, vampires can only live off of animal blood for so long before they need fresh human blood. The Master has spent the last 50 years refusing to harm a human in order to fulfil his baser instinct,” The grand staircase led you to a long hall of doors with intranet tapestries between them, “He has grown weak, he needs to properly feed. And now that humans have accepted vampires as a natural part of society, he was far more open to the idea than before.”

He stopped in front of the second to last door, gracefully pulling out a key to allow you entry. “Here is your room. I’ve left some toiletries and snacks out for you, please eat before and after the feeding but if you forget, I am sure the Master will remind you. If you need anything else, you can ring that bell,” he gestured to the pull cord in the corner of the room, “Or simply call my name and I will come.”

You nodded but as he turned to leave, you spat out, “Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Heimdall, miss.” The door clicked shut, leaving you alone once more. 

Indeed there were snacks on the desk below the call bell, although it looked more like they were bought by an 8 year old who was just let loose in a candy shop with their parent’s credit card than anything else. But you supposed that ancient vampires didn’t really know how to food shop for humans. You picked out a packet of Twizzlers as you wandered further in, taking in the ornate bedroom that looked like it was pulled directly out of Pride and Prejudice. An ensuite connected to the room revealed a huge clawfoot tub (that you were shamelessly fantasising about using after meeting the man of the hour) and a large vanity with some fancy soaps by the sink.

“I hope you are pleased with your room?” A deep voice rumbled from somewhere behind you.

You whipped around in a panic only to be met with the sight of the most handsome man you had seen in your life. He stood well over six feet tall but the bulging muscles of his arms and legs made him look even bigger. His blond hair was cropped short, immediately drawing your gaze to the eyepatch over his right eye, though you quickly looked away, not wanting to seem rude to the man. He tutted and gently guided you back to face him with a hooked finger under your soft chin.

“You are more beautiful than I thought you would be.” You faltered, and his blue eye shone.

“Oh um thank you.” The floorboards creaked under his weight as he stepped closer, letting his touch trail down from your jaw, stopping briefly on your neck before travelling down to your collarbone, his large thumb fitting perfectly in the divot of your throat. Your pulse grew stronger as you caught a flat of his fangs. 

“You’re frightened, aren’t you little one?”

“No.” His plump lips curled up in a prideful smirk.

“Good girl.” Your chest seized. “Now, I believe we need to discuss your limits before you provide me with a meal.” Thor released his hold upon you but your skin still burned with his touch, urging you to chase the feeling once more yet you remained glued to the spot. 

He turned to look at the pile of sweets that were left for you. “I wonder how sweet these will make you.” He muttered almost to himself.

“Do you want me to shower before you feed?” He hummed. 

“I would prefer you not, strong scents tend to sour the blood.” 

“And, do you um do you want to drink directly from me?” That earned you a deep rumbling groan from the man, his eyelid fluttering. 

He seemed to lose himself for just a moment before his broad chest inflated and he faced you fully once more. “Only if you allow me to. If not, Heimdall has already prepared an IV.” Bashfully, you clasped your hands together.

“I’m scared of needles so I think directly would be fine.” He chuckled and gestured towards the huge bed in the centre of the room that had far too many pillows on it.

“Then shall we get started?” Your shoes skittered along the hardwood floor as you kicked them off before shedding your oversized sweater, revealing the very low-cut top you had picked out for today. Thor’s gaze burned into you as he hungrily traced your curves. “I seem to find it hard to believe that you are a virgin. You are ethereal, little one.”

Your lips parted but the only thing that escaped them was a squeak of surprise. “Oh I liked that sound, I think I need you to make it more often.” You ducked your head and climbed onto the mattress, Thor following closely behind. He knocked off a majority of the pillows, leaving only a couple on the left side of the bed. You kneeled next to him, your knees barely brushing his hip.

“Come closer, I cannot feed when you are so far away.” His hands grabbed your wide hips and pulled you onto his lap without so much as a breath of exertion. Your soft legs parted, allowing for his body to slip between them as he sat back upon the headboard, a dangerously pleased expression colouring his features. “There we go. Now, we stop whenever you feel uncomfortable.”

Your hands fell to his expansive shoulders, giving the muscles a soft squeeze. “Yes sir.” You answered in a daze.

Using his right hand, Thor tilted your head, exposing the delicate vein along your jugular. “Good girl.”

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[worksby-d]

Could you write something about dad's bestfriend!Andy comforting reader after telling her parents they're together didn't go well?

YEP 🫡

Pairing: dad’s best friend!Andy Barber x fem!Reader

Summary: Exactly what the request says ✨

Warnings: Age gap, comfort sex, 18+

Word count: ~1,300

a/n: Look at me sloooowly clearing out my inbox recently 🤭 Two years late, but dbf!Andy never goes out of style amirite girlies! Not sure if this was maybe supposed to tie in with a series back then, it could probably be read as part of A Great Mentor if so ☝️ 

─── ✧

Andy has tried his best to keep you in good spirits throughout the past week. And it’s worked for the most part. You’ve been grateful to be able to spend so much time with him, finally free of the weight keeping your relationship a secret was beginning to put on you. 

But as soon as you have a moment alone or a second without Andy purposely distracting you, you feel like shit deep down, unable to think about anything but the fact that your parents still aren’t talking to you or him.

You've been waiting for a call, or at least a text... Anything.

He has you cuddled next to him tonight as you watch a movie together, but your mind is racing, causing your heart to do the same, panic beginning to set in from dwelling on your negative thoughts.

You lean closer against his side, closing your eyes as you try to relax, but you need to be even closer.

Mustering some energy, you gently and wordlessly move so you’re straddling him, wrapping your arms around him like a koala. His arms hug around you tightly without any questions, and you melt against him, nestling your face against his neck. 

He knows you’ve had a hard couple days. He’s pressing soft kisses to the side of your face and your shoulder, and rubbing your back. 

“I love you,” he whispers, not missing the chance to reassure you. 

“You still love me?” You ask, almost inaudibly, voice muffled as you speak against the fabric of his shirt covering his shoulder. 

“I love you extra,” he says, knowing you need it. “I know this week was hard for you. I’m sorry.”

“After everything?” You continue to press.

“Of course…” His heart breaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong, angel.”

You’d beg to differ right now.

“I feel like I did everything wrong and dragged you with me while I did it.”

He does his best not to laugh at your dramatics. “No one did anything wrong. If I could fix everything right now, I would. But it’ll just take time.”

“I know,” you murmur. You have no choice, your voice would crack if you spoke any louder. “I love you, too.”

He does what he’s best at – Holding you and quieting the nerves that were overtaking you moments ago. 

“I wish I would have been there with you,” he speaks up softly. 

You insisted on breaking it to your parents alone. 

“I don’t,” you assure him with a faint scoff. You find it in you to joke a little bit. “My dad was so angry. I don’t know if you would have lived to tell about it.”

“I know,” he chuckles. “I just...” His voice trails off. He lets it go for now, no use in focusing on what ifs. “Are you ready for bed? We can go upstairs.”

“Not yet,” you say quickly. “Can you just hold me here for a little longer?” You add more quietly, comfortable in his embrace like this. “Please.”

“Yeah, baby.”

─── ✧

When he senses you falling asleep in his arms, he makes the decision for you. The calmest you’ve been the last couple days is when you’re sleeping, so he knows your slow breathing and relaxed weight on top of him means you’ve dozed off. 

He hates to do it, but he carefully pushes off the couch to sit up straighter. He holds you tighter as you begin to wake back up, not wanting you to have forgotten where you are and nearly fall out of his arms. 

“You fell asleep,” he whispers. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Letting out a yawn, you nod sleepily and climb off him. He keeps an arm around your waist to help you up the steps and toward his bedroom.

As he lays you on the bed, you hold your arms around his neck, bringing him down with you. 

“Andy,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.

Your breath is warm against his lips and he can never resist you. His lips press against yours in a slow kiss, climbing into bed with you. A content sigh escapes him as he gives in completely.

Sharing deep and languid kisses, you subtly roll your body against his, once again plagued by the feeling of needing to be even closer. He doesn’t notice until your hands begin to wander, slipping down to the bottom of his shirt to untuck it from his pants. 

He pauses, reluctantly pulling away from you, just enough to peer down at you. 

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he says quietly. 

If it’s possible to be too considerate, that’s what Andy Barber is. 

You refrain from rolling your eyes. “It’s not taking advantage if I’m asking for it,” you joke, but there’s desperation in your voice. 

“I know,” he chuckles. “But I know you’re upset–”

“Stop, please,” you ask. Your voice barely reaches a whisper, eyes falling shut to put your all into not letting the thoughts back in your head. “I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight. Help me forget.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, studying your face, waiting for you to look back up at him. 

You don’t answer with words, instead pulling him back down, nodding softly before kissing him again. 

The way your hands roam each other’s bodies is slow, but not calculated. He finally lets you tug his shirt off of him, and his fingers fumble helping you out of your own clothes. 

When he moves down your body, he trails kisses along every inch of your skin, eliciting soft gasps from you, fingers digging into his skin as you grasp onto him. 

He situates himself between your legs, but you reach for his hands to get his attention. 

“Need you closer.” You shake your head, only wanting him on top of you. “Please.” 

He listens, coming back up so you’re face to face again. Your arms wrap back around him, as if you’re scared of him leaving. 

“Relax, pretty girl.” 

His voice is soft and comforting, contradicting the shot of pleasure that courses through you as his cock presses against your center, igniting a wave of warmth that washes over your body. 

You rest your cheek against the palm of his hand that’s cupping your face, letting out a moan, one in unison with him as he sets a steady rhythm. 

He knows your body better than you do, you think sometimes, knowing exactly how to make you come undone, make your eyes roll back, make you see stars. 

His lovemaking is mind numbing. 

You swear you don’t regain your senses until you feel him trying to gently push off of you, but you glide your hands from his sides to rest on his back, silently asking him to stay where he is, needing to feel him close to you longer, while you catch your breath. 

Resting his forehead against yours, he does the same before rolling over carefully, bringing you with him to lay on top of him. 

His chest is definitely up there on the list of most comfortable places to lay your head. Your heartbeat continues to go back to normal as you listen to his against your ear. 

“I love you so much. I never want you questioning that,” he whispers, rubbing your back. He knows you wanted to be done with that for the night, but he needs to do his part in continuing to reassure you. “Okay?”

Tears roll down your cheek and he can feel them wetting his skin as you nod. He’d like to hear you say you believe him, but he’ll take it for tonight.

─── ✧

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[pedgito]

okay i had this idea of eddie and reader fucking in a closet or an enclosed space of some kind yk being real sneaky and shit. and the reader lets him finish in their mouth. then he kisses the reader with his cum in his mouth bc he nasty like that. sorry if this was a really specific request it’s been sitting in my brain for ages.

author’s note: full warning, if this grosses you out, don’t read. and i don’t want to hear how much you don’t like it in my inbox because i don’t care lol. but for those of you that do read this, enjoy my nasty eddie thoughts.

cw: 18+ (minors dni) semi-public (in a closet), voyeurism (if you squint), oral (m receiving), fluid play/bonding (idk they share eddie’s jizz yeah), established relationship, eddie is v gross but we love that shit, if i missed anything lmk

word count: 1.7k

Eddie didn’t do parties, ever. It was just another spectacle and a place for him to be laughed at, wondering who invited the freak to drink and kill the vibe—but for you, he endures it. That and everyone knows to keep their mouth shut around you. It’s nice, Eddie can admit that—but it’s also damn near impossible for him to keep his hands off of you in public, not that you had a problem with it.

Dating Eddie hit you completely out of nowhere, ending up in an after school detention with him that left very little to be discovered about each other, both in your likes and dislikes, but also your bodies.

And so what if you fucked Eddie with only one twenty minute conversation under your belt—he was levels above most of the guys you fucked, even if he was a little bit inexperienced in the beginning.

He’s more surprised at how easily your perfect persona is tarnished in front of him—good grades, nice friends, always smiling at everyone who walks by. You were never mean to anyone, which is why no one ever said shit when you started your mornings cuddled up to Eddie at his locker.

They could look and stare, but no one dared to comment on it.

Eddie’s quick to feed into it, openly kissing you in the halls, grabbing at your ass under the short confines of your skirt or tight jeans—it would emit a few groans, but you didn’t care.

Not for a second.

He’s insatiable, really—and nasty to the core. You never really expected to like it as much as you did, settling for missionary and doggy style in most of your hook-ups, minimal eye contact, and getting straight to the point; not to say you didn’t enjoy it, but with Eddie, it’s kismet.

You could never say no.

“Hey, hey,” You murmur against his lips, his hands blindly reaching for the doorknob to shove you into Steve Harrinton’s bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack, “we can leave if you want—do you wanna leave?”

“Mmm,” Eddie shakes his head, breathing hotly against your mouth, “don’t think I can wait that long, wanna fuck you right now.”

You giggle softly, arms wrapped around his neck as he hoists you up, licking into your mouth with the same edge of depravity he always carried, growling lowly. His hands slip past the waistband of your jeans, contacting the bare skin underneath.

“No panties,” Eddie notes, “dirty girl.”

“Do you expect anything less?” You tease, squealing softly as he buries his face into your neck, nipping at the skin.

But, the loud ramblings of another pair of bodies stumbling down the hall has you both in a panic—Eddie nearly shuts the door close, but you’re hopping off of him to pull him into the closet before he can act, sliding the slatted, wooden doors close, leaving little light to leak through.

You force your hand over Eddie’s mouth, his features barely visible aside from the tiny spec of light that hits his face from the lamp on the table beside the closet. He blinks, confused.

It doesn’t take long for you both to realize that it’s Steve—and some girl you’ve only talked to a few times at school, who seemed a lot more familiar with Steve than you expect, hands reaching under waistband of his boxers from where his jeans hang open loosely, you avert your eyes quickly, connecting with Eddie’s.

He’s got that ridiculous smirk on his face, having caught you in the act of peeping, shifting the closet door shut tight—no more peeking on his account. His hands keep busy, whether on your neck, your breasts, over the expanse of your back, just touching because he wanted to—but you can feel how impatient he’s being, hard in his jeans from where’s pressed up against you in the small space.

“We can’t,” You whisper softly, feeling Eddie’s hands squeeze at the slope of your ass, pulling you in closer, “Eddie, I’m serious.”

“It’s Steve,” He murmurs, lips connecting with your neck briefly, “he won’t even know.”

Eddie was right—but the hesitation was still there.

“I’m not letting you fuck me in a closet,” You force out in a hushed whisper, “get over yourself.”

Eddie chuckles lightly, fumbling with the front of his pants carefully, mouth still busy against your skin, “Never said anything about that, but if I need to find a way to keep that mouth occupied, I can think of a few.”

You look at him sternly—Eddie can faintly read your expression, smiling confidently as his belt jingles quietly, slow to unzip his jeans.

“Because as much as I love to hear you talk, that mouth is good at other things,” Eddie says knowingly, “unless, of course, you’d rather watch Steve—“

“Fuck off.” You mutter, sinking to your knees with ease, yanking Eddie’s jeans down his hips impatiently and reaching under his boxers for his cock with a ferocity that has Eddie feeling for the walls, hands coming up to brace himself.

“Jesus,” He grunts softly, your grip tightening around the soft, velvet skin, his cock thickening to full hardness under your touch, “—a little warning next time, sweetheart.”

You scoff lightly at that, the deep hum of the music traveling upstairs and under the gap of Steve’s bedroom door—it didn’t help drowning out the sounds of Steve and the girl only a few feet away, but it did help muffle the sounds of Eddie, who couldn’t help his noise level when your mouth finally closes around his cock.

You lick at the tip slowly, right along the slit until Eddie’s reaching for your head, hand squeezing at the root of your hair. Eddie never tried to be soft, or caring—he always was regardless, but he was also just as intense.

“Fuck, take it, baby—“ He pushes a little deeper, forcing you to inhale on the push, moaning against him, “oh, fuck—“

It was easy to wreck Eddie’s ego, watch it come crashing to the ground every time you touched him. You bob your head with his movements, slowly until he’s holding you still, rocking his hips into your mouth with harsh, precise thrusts—fucking your mouth just like he would your pussy, reminding you just how devastating it was that he couldn’t have you right now.

There’s a creak on the bed that has you two pausing your movements, mouth still fully engulfing Eddie’s dick as footsteps approach. Eddie’s thumb pressing at your cheek gently, rubbing in small, comforting circles—almost a way to soothe or ease your worry.

“Hurry.” The girl giggles, followed by Steve’s ruffling through the drawers of the table placed beside the closet.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

And the double entendre of it has both you and Eddie forcing a laugh back down.

When Steve finally retreats a safe distance you feel Eddie rub at your jaw, urging you to continue.

You double down, shifting down to mouth at his balls, the weight heavy against your tongue as you swirl it gently over the skin—Eddie raises his fist in silence, biting down to stifle the filthy groan that almost escapes. It’s the easiest way to fuck with him, knowing how much he liked it—and you don’t stop.

Your hand pumps steadily, stopping to squeeze at the head occasionally, smearing the precum over the head and down, the friction unbearable as you made it your absolute mission to make Eddie come—fast and hard.

It doesn’t take long before he’s grunting softly, yanking gently at your head to pull you away.

“Need somewhere,” Eddie begs, “Steve’ll never forgive me if I use his shirt to clean up my jizz, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know,” You tease, “think it’s kinda hot, actually.”

It would’ve been easier for him to ask to come in your mouth, but that was a little too straightforward—he didn’t do it often, mostly because things would’ve led to sex by now, but it’s still one of his favorite things, your eyes wide and attentive on his face as he cums, thinking he might actually pass out from the feeling of it all.

“Your mouth, baby,” He finally says, voice strained, clearly holding himself back, “god, let me cum in your mouth, please.”

You smile widely, despite how hard it is to make it out in the poor lighting and nod, which he does feel.

You close your mouth over the tip, feeling his hand leave your hair to tug at his dick, jerking himself off with fervor, breathing harshly through his nose.

“I’m gonna come,” He forces out in a hushed tone, giving you the small warning you need to pull back, tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, as he lets out a litany of curses, “fuckfuckfuck—“ in the same deep tone that makes your thighs clench together harder, reminding you how greatly you were lacking his touch.

You flinch when the warmth of it hits your mouth, warm and pooling in the dip of your tongue as Eddie tries his best to suppress his groans, squeezing himself until there’s nothing left, the head of his cock dragging against your lips as he pulls away—your immediate instinct is to swallow, rid yourself of the musky taste and find the best route of escape, but Eddie stops you.

“Come here,” He urges, letting him pull you up, your face tilting in his grip as he closes your mouth with his thumb, rubbing the underside of your chin, “—how does it taste?”

You raise your eyebrows expectantly, gesturing to him before opening your mouth, beckoning him to get a taste—and Eddie’s never shied away from things like this, always willing to try things at least once. So, he does, his tongue dipping into your mouth quickly, the taste of him lingering between you two briefly as you hurried to swallow the rest.

“Dirty,” He repeats his earlier sentiment against your lips, “—fuck, if I didn’t like you so much I would never do shit like that.”

You giggle quietly, reaching up to press a gentle kiss against his lips, “I know.”

And you can say that with full confidence, because it’s true.

“Now, how do we get out of here?”

You shrug, “Don’t know—but, I got something that’ll keep you busy, if you want.”

Eddie was more than eager to please.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

[kryptznnn]

♛- PLAY-HARD I

1st part/ 2nd part (Mature Audience Community Label)

Series Masterlist ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

➳ INTERESTS; - olo’eyktan!jake x fem!omatikayan reader

➳ BACKGROUND; - working alongside Mo’at has helped you and your family in various ways, as a way to repay her for your free working she pairs you along side Toruk Makto to aid him in small departments he needs assistance in, but more importantly to find a Tsahik suitable for the Olo’eyktan, but he isn’t always cooperative.

➳ WARNINGS; - 3.1k wc slight age gap (25 and 21), takes place after the great war, eventual smut, slow burn, sexual tension, use of alcohol, vomiting (mentioned once), wet kisses, hickies, jealousy, power imbalance, pet names, fluff, bit of angst if you squint, nipple!play, slight p!play.

➳a.i; first fic i’m very very nervous, but i hope u all enjoy ^^, i take requests so just hit my inbox 🌸

*na’vi translation will be provided*

Mo’at was not joking when she spoke of Jake Sully and his stubbornness, the reason why she decided you’d be a perfect aid is due to your patience, which was running very thin at the moment.

“I’m here to assist you, but i cannot do my job if you refuse to go against my requests.” you stated sharply, his ears pinned against his hair and his lips tightened into a straight line, he simply crossed his arms. This was the 3rd date you’d set up for him that he’s rejected.

Not the first, or the second, but the third time. To make matters worse whenever you’d complain to Mo’at she’d simply tell you to just push a little farther.

“I told you I didn’t like her” he said sternly, repeating the same statement he has for the past 2 weeks. “skxawng, [moron] you’ve said the same thing for the other 2 na’vi i’ve tried to pair you with, do not be selfish, think of the future of our people-“

“That’s all I think about y/n, I might be many things but selfish isn’t one of’em. You can’t just force someone with me, if im going to be with some girl for the rest of my life at least let me make my own decision.” He quickly cut you off, now unfolding his arms and placing a hand at his side, eyeing you up and down. You’d be lying if you said he didn’t make any good points, if you were in his place you’d be more than frustrated, but regardless you’re job here was to help and provide for the olo’eyktan, which is exactly what you were going to do.

“Mr. Sully, please-“

“Jake. It’s jake kid” He buds in, smiling softly.

“Jake, I understand what you’re saying and how you feel, but part of my job is providing, and what i’m doing is providing for you and your future” You correct yourself, giving him a pleading look, searching in his eyes for a look of understanding, which you soon found. He relaxed a bit and wasn’t as tense as before, nodding in approval. You quickly smiled, thankful this situation didn’t have to escalate to a serious argument like it has before hand. Those times were the worst times for the both of you, and thankfully you’ve both been able to talk them out and set boundaries and learn from past mistakes, if anything Mo’at would repeat how times like those strengthens the relationship you two share, and she wasn’t wrong.

“m’sorry” He said quietly, but loud enough for you to hear, rubbing his hands together and sitting down, his tail curling up beside him with his head down. “syeha si tam [breathe, it’s okay], you have nothing to apologize for, i’m sorry too, the position you’re in isn’t easy, trust me I know” you said calmly, slowly walking over to him, just for him to open up his arms. You slowly walked over to him, quickly embracing him just for him to do the same with you. You sighed and smiled softly, your head resting on his.

Come to think of it Jake was always a physical kind of person, “touchy” is what the term is. Whenever things would go wrong with him or the clan he would drain out quickly, before he didn’t have anyone to rely on, not a friend close enough for him to talk to so he would create a relationship with Mo’at, asking her for advice and methods to aid him, right before he came across you. You would be seated with Mo’at, mixing herbs for her while listening to their conversations, on specific days jake would speak about certain na’vi women attempting to court him, which made you giggle when you first heard it

“Who is she?” Jake asked quickly glancing over at you, as you quickly covered your mouth to stop any other laughter. Mo’at turned to you and back at Jake softly smiling. “Her name is y/n, I love her like a daughter of mine,she’s been under my arm for the past 12 years” She said proudly, Jake nodded his head, not taking his eyes off of you, watching as you walked over and stood beside Mo’at.

“Ohe ahasey sa’nok” [I’ve finished mother] You said, placing the bowl in Mo’at’s hands, smiling at her, she thanked you and introduced you to Jake. “Te suli, this is y/n, y/n this is tsyeyk suli, our olo’ektyan” She stated, directing her hand to you than back to jake. You quickly signed the “I see you” gesture saying “Oel ngati kameie” as he nodded and repeated the same action. You looked him in his eyes, just to realize he was looking at you this whole time, you quickly looked to the side and began to distract yourself.

He had such an intense gaze, does he look at everyone like that? You asked yourself, your tail thrashing back and forth recalling the scene that happened just seconds ago.

“If you need extra assistance I can always have y/n accompany you, she’s always wanted to to explore other fields of work, I think she could help you a lot” Mo’at spoke soothingly, placing the bowl you gave her down and adding bandages to it. Jake continued to watch you, listening to Mo’at’s words carefully, still grinning ear to ear.

“I’d love that” He said, slowly standing up to take his leave.

That was 4 months ago, since then Jake has been very open with you, always in need of a hug and consolidation, which you were happy to give. Although it was painful how often you’d have to remind yourself not to mix pleasure and business, you’re helping you’re olo’ektyan, he’s just worn out and exhausted. Surely tonight would help him, deeming the celebration would be in his favor, celebrating his successful raid with his party and no injuries or casualties were gained.

“I’ll see you tonight?” He asked,slowly releasing you from his grasp and looking up at you, you just looked down at him smiling and nodding softly. “Of course, just don’t expect me to be there early, i’ll be coming with Za’yukto” You said, slowly backing up ready to leave, jake quickly grabbed your hand as soon as you turned around.

“Who is that?” He asked, you turned to face him to see his demeanor quickly changed. His jaw had clenched and his grip on your hand was getting tighter by the second. “Just a friend of mine, he didn’t want to go alone so I volunteered to take him, just for a while” You said harmlessly, he tilted his head, looking at you up and down before responding. He opened his mouth just to slowly close is and take a deep breath, making direct eye contact with you. “Just… just don’t be too late okay? I’ll be waiting for you” He said softly, his ears lowering slightly as he let go of your hand.

“Of course, and if you ever get too bored you can talk to all of your other friends there” You joked, quickly getting your belongings and leaving shortly.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

You glanced in your small reflection for a final time before leaving your small hut. You haven’t done much to your appearance other than brushing out your braids and changing your purple beaded top to a red one, you’ve always liked how the colors looked on you.

This’ll do. You thought, it was too late to turn back and change now, you’ve already gone so far anyway. You looked pleasant, eye-catching, which was the exact look you were hoping for, hopefully you’d get someone to look at you during tonight’s celebration, or maybe a specific someone. Of course that specific someone being non other than J-

“Y/N!! Are you here?” You stopped dead in your tracks quickly walking over to the entrance of your hut.

That’s Za’yukto’s voice. “Hi, sorry, ohe am lonu to sìltsan” [I’m ready to go] You stated, stepping outside and quickly setting down the entrance of your hut with a smile, looking up at him. He smiled in response and complimented you, to which you thanked him and began making your way to the spirit tree for the celebration.

Soon after you two arrived, you quickly began to adjust your top, brush off your loincloth and hair, saying your goodbyes to Za’yu as you made your way to look for Jake, thankfully finding him quickly-

He’s with someone, you thought, seeing him off to the side laughing with a large drink in his hand, obviously being alcohol, of course stronger than any human substances and yet tasting even sweeter than anything you’ve ever had before. Seeing him happy like that did nothing more than make you smile a bit, he’s been stressed lately, he needs some sort of release. You quickly walk to the side getting closer to him just to see he’s doing more than just talking.

More than just laughing, and not with any someone, with a woman.

And he’s…. he’s kissing her? They’re kissing, they’re definitely kissing, and he’s not kissing just any woman, it’s the first na’vi you ever brought towards him to consider that he immediately rejected, simply telling you “There’s nothing special about her”.

Ewya.

You didn’t even bother making your way over to him, you’d already seen enough, feeling your face heat up out of sheer embarrassment and your eyes beginning to burn. On one swift motion you turn around to find Za’yu and to your surprise he already had a large cup waiting for you. You quickly grabbed it and chugged it down, your face immediately going from a sour look to more relaxed.

“Syeha si y/n!!” [Breathe y/n!!] Za’yu said, quickly taking the now empty cup from your hands as you just smiled at him. “I’m fine, come dance with me?” you asked, holding his hand. He just shook his head and placed the cups down on a table beside him, quickly taking you to the center of the dancefloor and began dancing with you in his arms.

This is a party, a place to let loose and celebrate, and that’s exactly what you planned on doing. You hooked your arms around Za’yu’s shoulders, pulling him a little closer, and looking at him intensely. You’d be lying if you said Za’yu wasn’t attractive, he was insanely attractive and overall perfect, everything a woman would look for in a man, he was skilled, intelligent, good looking, and strong? A complete package. Especially with the fact he’s such a gentleman, that’s what triggered your friendship so quickly.

He looked down at you, his hands traveling from your back to your waist, grinning at you. You slowly pushed yourself up against his body, feeling your beaded top clink against his broad chest. You slowly climb up on your tippy toes closer and closer to his face, as he too moves in closer, just for you to reach towards his ear and kiss it.

“Can you get me another drink please? I’m so thirsty” You ask him playfully, rubbing your 4 fingers against your throat slowly, licking your lips at him. He nodded and reached down to your collarbone, kissing it softly before leaving to get you a drink.

Soon after dancing by yourself you feel a hand rest on your stomach and trail down to your pelvis, holding you securely as your back rests on his back, you lift your head up quickly to see Za’yu, with your drink in his hand as he smiled down at you. You slowly got onto your tippy toes and kissed him, just to taste residue of alcohol that he previously consumed, smiling at the sweet taste, and taking the cup from his hands and quickly finishing it, dropping the cup and turning to face him, kissing him again.

Honestly at this state you’re wondering where jake was, if he was enjoying himself with his dick probably down that girls throat, but at the same time you were too fucked out and having way too much fun to care. Your shared kisses with Za’yu quickly became more intimate and more active, exchanging saliva and practically moaning into his mouth while still dancing, now slowly beginning to grind yourself onto him.

“Za’yu-“ You moaned softly against his lips, barely being able to catch your breath. “I know tìyawn, I know, mawepey” [I know love, I know, be patient] He said softly, his kisses trailing from your lips to your jawline and down to your neck, beginning to suck on you softly.

You rested your hand on the back of his neck, slowly playing with his hair and mewling softly, your ears perked up and your tail curling around your leg. He continued however, lowering down to your collarbone, kissing it softly before continuing his assault.

“ ‘Yu, can w- can we go back to my place? Please” You whimper softly, as he slowly moves his head up to look at you, kissing you softly. “Whatever you want y/n”. He said, quickly going to hold your hand, just as you turn around someone crashes into you spilling their drink all over you.

Of course it was none other than Ninat, whos throat Jake was previously shoving his tongue down. “Shouldn’t you be all on the olo’ektyan?” You muttered quietly, thankful no one heard you. Before listening to her pleads and apologies you simply just shoved past her, clinging onto Za’yukto tightly. “Don’t worry we’ll get you cleaned up, come on” He said.

Soon enough you both arrived to your hut , walking straight into the back of your hut and dragging him along, to which he quickly obliged. You stepped into the small pond behind your hut and began removing your strained top and loincloth, ushering him to do the same, which he quickly did.

“I’m going to clean you up first” He said, smiling down at you and grabbing a nearby rag to wipe any access alcohol off of you. He was gentle and caring, he only looked above your collarbone and refused to look lower, to make sure ‘you felt comfortable’ was his excuse, you found his caring and respectful nature cute though, knowing there were a lot of navi men out there who would not do the same. You just helped guide his hand to where he had to clean off until he kissed you again, letting his hands trail up from your waist to your soft breasts.

“Is this okay?” He asked softly, looking in your eyes for complete confirmation, to which you nodded and smiled in response. He let his fingers graze against your nipples a few times before toying with you, lowering his head before taking your left breast into his mouth, rolling his tongue onto your nipple, making you moan softly, quickly gripping onto the back of his hair softly. “That’s not the only place that needs attention, i’m still dirty elsewhere” You teased, he looked up at you repositioning himself, giving you a cocky look before answering.

“Oh yeah? Where would that be?” He asked, you quickly took his hand to show him, hovering over your stomach, but before you could continue a wave of sickness hit you, making you pause. Za’yu quickly took notice of this and how your expression changed. “Hey, what’s wrong what happened” He asked, now completely serious as you now grabbed onto his shoulder for support. “I feel a little sick” You managed to make out weakly, he quickly finished cleaning you off and immediately got you out of the small pond, drying you up and taking you inside to get you into something, but not before you threw up on the side of the mossy ground twice before crying.

“It hurts” You said, your voice hoarse and dry, which reminded Za’yukto to get you some water, he instructed for you to stay in your room and get dressed as he fetched you something to drink along with a small herb to help with the burning of your throat.

You quickly got changed, sitting patiently for Za’yu, and he soon came telling you to swallow one of your own handmade herbal medicine and a glass of water behind it, which you did. “You need to get some rest, you’ve had a long night” He said, placing his hand onto your shoulder, rubbing it softly and smiling at you. You didn’t respond, only placing the glass down and sprawling yourself against your bed, your back now facing Za’yu.

A moment of silence has passed, he hasn’t left and you haven’t fallen asleep yet, why is he still-

“I’ll stop by tomorrow to check up on you” He quickly stated, interrupting your thoughts, you don’t answer and he takes the silence as a sign you must be asleep, big mistake.

“Hopefully tonight didn’t change anything within our friendship, i’m not looking for a mate or to court anyone now, it was never my intention to move so quickly with you” He mumbled, but loud enough for you to hear, and shift in the bed as a response, you waited to hear the flap of your hut close before letting the tears in your eyes roll out over your nose and stain your bed.

This was going to be such a long night, and tomorrow morning even longer.

[muffinsin]

Can you please write dimitriscu sisters with child reader ?

Where the reader is attacked by a lycan or something gets found by the sisters (separately) and the immediate response of the reader when seeing each women is calling them mama ? I don't know if you accept these but if you do can you write what their reaction would be ? And the aftermath of it ? Like how their mundane life would be?

I don't think this breaks any of your rules or preferences but I'm sorry if it did

-( I'm not new to your blog but this is my first request)💜

This is such an adorable, heartwarming request! It’s been in my inbox forever, so I’m very happy I can finally get to it! :) as it comes a mundane life; I doubt any of them would live one tbh! They are absolutely ready to treat this child like royalty🙌👀

Splitting this into 3 parts btw, due to the length of each. This is Bela’s part, Cassandra’s will be linked here, Daniela’s will be linked here once it’s out🙌

Let’s get into it!

Masterlists

Bela

She’s out hunting, at last not too busy to tend to this activity as well

It feels like it’s been forever since she last hunted with her sisters

Cassandra, despite her tough exterior, clings to her side subtly, hunting and retrieving prey only to bring it to Bela to show off. Daniela was less subtle, her arm hooked with Bela’s, her own hunt dismissed as she takes the opportunity to talk to her eldest sister and chat a little

Clearly, Bela is not the only one who missed this. Her heart aches a little knowing her busy work schedule forces her to neglect the time spent with her sisters

Where’d the time go? When did she become busy planning and working and managing things, rather than playing and looking out for her two younger sisters?

She shakes her head, dismissing these thoughts. She’s here now, she reminds herself

And as hours go on, she finds herself enjoying the hunt more and more again. Her senses are sharp, her reactions imminent

When Cassandra suggests a game, a competition of which sister can find the best prey within the last two hours left to them, she complies

Perhaps she could get a deer for them. She knows better than to go for varcalocs and larger lycans

What she doesn’t predict as she wanders and flies about, though, is the sweet, innocent cry she hears in the distance

No animal. A human

A cry, with no malice or aggression to be found

A helpless cry. A pained one. A scared one

A young one

Did a villager stray too far? But; the cry is so young, it can’t possibly come from an adult, from a hunter no less

Naturally, she investigates

And yet, when she finds you after moments already, she finds herself unprepared

You sit in the dirt, your back to her

Your little body shakes with every sob that leaves your wet lips. Your fingertips slide against the muddy ground anxiously, your other hand holding onto a stick far too rough for your small, soft hands

She frowns, unsure whether to make herself known or not

She can’t see your face, but you can’t be any older than eight, she figures

Upon inhaling, her nose scrunches up in disgust and her expression turns to one of concern. You reek of a lycan

Perhaps she should leave, she wonders to herself despite everything

She hardly ever stirs good emotions within people, after all. No matter their age

Yet..her heart aches and urges her to act with every little sob and cry that comes from you

Her natural instincts scream at her, urge her to act. She remembers her sisters, how they would cling and depend on her, look up to her, feel safe around her and only her

Something tugs at her heart when you begin hiccuping between your cries, your body shaking, your muddy hand raising to your face

She swarms around carefully, making sure she approaches you from the front rather than behind

When she does, though, she is greeted by yet another surprise

Upon getting close, she sees your wet, tear stained face. Your red cheeks, your puffy eyes, your wet lips, your red button nose

She spots the trap your leg is caught on immediately. A snare, the rope wrapped tightly around your little, swollen ankle

Yet, this isn’t what surprises her the most, but rather the words that fall from your wet lips the moment you lay eyes on her

“Mama!”, you all but yell desperately, your bottom lip wobbling, your muddy hands reaching out to Bela in a silent, desperate plea to be picked up

Mama?

She doesn’t quite understand, but doesn’t hesitate

Easily, she snaps the rope from around your ankle. Easily, her hands slip under your armpits and pick you up

You’re sat at her hip, carefully held by her. For once, she doesn’t care about her dress being dirtied by mud

“Mama!”, you repeat, your voice mixing with whimpers

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know you

Yet, you seem so sure

“Bela”, she introduces herself

You stare at her blankly for a moment, then grin a little. Mama has a pretty voice

“Mama”, you confirm again

“Do I know you?”, she wonders. Could you be someone from her past life, maybe? It’s a life she has left behind after being infected, one she can’t remember, nor wishes to return to. She loves her family more than anything- Mother, Cassandra and Daniela. This is her family

You shake your head. No, you don’t know your mama. But you know, this is your Mama

With this, it seems you’re done talking. Bela gasps in surprise when you shift closer to her, your head rested on her chest, your little cries finally calming and quieting down as she rubs your small back lovingly

She doesn’t understand; don’t you know what she is? Probably not

And yet..she wants to keep you, and so she does

She holds you close to her as she walks back towards the castle again, a gentle smile on her lips as she sits and waits for her sisters

You’re cuddled up to her, a little bundle in her arms. You look…relaxed, like this

Still, she takes note of your swollen ankle, your cut cheek and dirtied face and clothing, your bruised ankle and the rash seemingly growing on your hands. You look malnourished, and almost sickly. She doesn’t notice, but holds you a little tighter

You seem so perfectly content in her arms, your little fingers hooked into her dress, your lips slightly parted as you sleep

“That’s a…unique catch!”

Bela jumps at Cassandra’s words and quickly turns to face her sister. In her hand she drags a wolf, nearly the same size as her, by far larger than you are

Next to her stands Daniela, a large, juicy deer dragged behind her, a big grin on her face

Bela rolls her eyes, her arms wrapping around you protectively

“They’re not for eating. I found them”, she clarifies, and with a stern glance, both her sisters shrug and refrain from more jokes

Once in the castle, Bela’s priority is to nurse you back to health

You whine sleepily as she draws you a warm bath and sets you down in it, but squeal in happiness almost at the many bubbles she’s added just for you

Bela carefully washes you, using a cloth and sponge to clean off all the dirt and mud still sticking to you

Thankfully, whatever lycan that was in proximity to you must have only scared you off, rather than attacking and landing a hit on you

You nearly fall asleep again when she washes your hair, her movements precise and careful

She ensures no water or soap gets in your tired eyes and scratches your scalp gently as she massages the soap into it and your hair

Soon enough, unruly and tangled hair is soft and clean and she can comb her fingers through it effortlessly

You aren’t familiar with this much warm water, bubbles and delicious scents and can’t help but cry and cling to her when it’s time to leave the bath again

You watch curiously as she dresses you, her touches gently and guiding, her voice soft as she talks you through it all

You glance around as she does

The fabrics are impossibly soft and good to your skin, her fingertips even more so. You don’t remember life at the village all too well, but recall the constant fear. You recall, your mother’s touch was never as soft and guiding as your Mama’s- Bela’s- is

Her room is large, larger than any house in the village. It’s also warmer than anywhere else you’ve ever been

When done dressing you, she rises, ready to find you something nurturing

But, the moment she moves from you, a hoarse whine and cry comes from you

Immediately, she picks you up and back into her arms, and likewise immediately you calm again

You mouth at her collarbone and shoulder, hungry, in pain, whining occasionally

When she walks out of the warm room, she notices you stare curiously

You hold onto her dress still, content to quietly stay with her. She doesn’t mind that you aren’t too talkative, instead opts for holding you close as she wanders to the kitchen

Inside, the staff immediately begins to gush about you. A child in the castle is…a rare sight, certainly

She doesn’t understand why; not yet, but possessiveness stirs up in her nearly immediately. She holds you closer to her, her emotions calming a little when you whine and push yourself closer to her in return

Now, each sister comes with a special, unique reputation

Daniela, the unpredictable one. Cassandra, the brutal one

Bela, the smart, level headed one

That is, until she isn’t anymore

You jump in surprise, a gasp, the loudest noise that’s come from you yet

A maid reaches out, and you flinch back instinctively. Yet, just when her fingers were about to touch your arm, Bela’s arm shoots out

As it does, her sickle is summoned and a single swipe is all it takes for the woman’s hand to come clean off

Three of the staff members scream, the others lower their gazes to the ground

You cry quietly, the noises all too familiar. And yet..you find it’s not all that bad, because your mama is still with you, still holding you close

You calm faster than Bela would’ve expected, even more so when the staff is dismissed and you’re left alone with her

And still, when she looks in your eyes…she doesn’t find fear like she expected

From this day on, you are practically inseparable

She is your mama, and everybody knows. You have her, her sisters and Mother wrapped around your finger

She teaches you to be strong, to be fast, to be smart. She guides you and inspires you, teaches you to go after your interests and encourages you to tend to your hobbies

She loves you, she realises very early on

The maternal connection between the two of you is pure, real, and immediate

She vows to always protect you, and always does. Always has, and always will

You’re her world

[cz19y]

Heyyy, I was wondering if you could pls do head canons with sae, rin, isagi, n shidou (separately) w/ a fem!s/o who is thick (big booty n pudgy stomach)? It can be either sfw or nsfw. No pressure tho, take ur time n have a good day! 💕

MY LOVELY ! [HCs]

Multiple × Thick!Fem!Reader

FT.: Sae & Rin Itoshi, Isagi Yoichi, Shidou Ryusei

∆ SFW/fluff & suggestive, mention of bad comments, hint of insecurity, mention of abandonment issues[Rin’s part], characters aged up, OOC[? prob], some of them will be quite short[sorry], first time writing thick!Reader, grammar spelling errors[?].

NOTE: I never had an ask before and I have NO experience in writing for thick!Reader, so, perdon me for bad writing (:’0

I tried to do some research/reference from other fics cuz I really don't want to get y’all uncomfortable with incorrect wording, perdon me once again. Aside from that; I was shocked when I saw that I had a surprise in my inbox[I was giggling and going crazy bc I got nervous]. I hope I got the request right ! Srry if not :0

[ Stating . . . ]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ SAE ITOSHI

Glares and glares hard when someone makes you uncomfortable.

Likes to steal you from whatever is occupying your precious attention and makes ya take his afternoon nap with him.

Pinches softly your sides — finds it soft.

His fetish can be clear as a say behind locked doors haha-

No place on this earth is better to take a nap on your tummy.

He had no idea of what to do when you first got insecure — he’s aware he lacks comforting skills and for that moment, he was desperate to learn it for the sake of his heart to see you happy again.

Keeps you away from the public's eye if you're comfortable with attention.

But if you're okay being seen in public, he's also okay.

Although, he likes keeping you to himself.

His manager is tired of him running off or ditching him to some place because he saw something that you’d like.

I feel like he'd get a little jealous when you interact with Shidou a little too much.

Keeping you away from Shidou.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ RIN ITOSHI

Takes notice of every outfit and his eyes soften every time he can admire you.

So pretty. So beautiful.

Thinks you're breathtaking and will shut down whatever makes you uncomfortable or insecure.

His words are sharp — nobody dares talk badly about you anymore if that was ever the case.

Rin craves touch if knowing him enough — watching horror movies while cuddling are the best.

Tries his best to comfort you whenever insecure.

“Don't let those lukewarm lowlifes get to you.”

If his lover worries about him going for someone better; just know that he’ll never do that.

He knows what it feels like to be abandoned — he’s somewhat emotionally mature[I think], Rin wouldn't get emotionally attached to someone just to abandon them.

“You know I’ll never abandon you, idiot.”

Reassures the best he can.

Likes kissing your gummy hands. Adores how they feel.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ISAGI YOICHI

Hypnotized when you sit.

The fat of your thighs only makes him lose the goody-shoes manner he has.

Dreams of sleeping in between your tight.

Fetish aside, finds you stunning.

Really- he worships you with stars in his eyes and kisses all over his beloved, favorite girl without being asked or hesitant.

Likes cuddling after practice or a tired day. You fill out his energy bar like no one can.

A feeling of proudness washes over him seeing you getting along with his friends.

Slur Isagi can be found outside the field if anyone talks bad about you.

begs Talks to Chigiri to give him some tips with girl stuff cuz he has no experience with it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ SHIDOU RYUSEI

Absolutely in love with you.

No matter your form — thick, chubby, fat, — he doesn't care.

Says it's even better that you have that extra fluffiness.

Can't keep his hands to himself — adores how your tummy is soft and warm.

I can picture him taking a chomp out of you.

You're not allowed to feel insecure, not under his watch 🗣️🗣️

We all know he slapped your booty [more than] once.

His whole team is tired of him talking about his girlfriend — especially Rin, he’s ready to cut out his ears and fill out the hole with concrete.

Likes your tummy rolls. Finds them adorable.

You two can go nonstop about anything and everything half asleep while his hand caresses your sides.

[runariya]

Hey! A oneshot about junkook

Emojis: 🥸🥂🦢💎

Sentence: Under the starry sky, on a quiet rooftop, he gently pulls Y/N closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Dance with me?” he whispers. With the soft hum of distant music, they sway in sync, their eyes locked, saying everything without a word.

Is it too much to ask?

(yandere+party+dance+mafia) part of the prompt game pairing: mafia heir!Jungkook x f!reader genre: mafia!AU, idrk tbh... warnings: yandere-ish, psychological games, knife, murder word count: 1.475

a/n: First off, I'm deeply sorry for taking ages to get back to you...this ask has been sitting in my inbox for two weeks or so 🥺 and also, I'm sorry too that I turned your sentence into a whole scene; I just couldn't manage the themes any other way...I hope you're still enjoying it tho...

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The city shines beneath you, raw and electric, its pulse resonating deep in the soles of your feet as you stand on the rooftop of Jungkook’s club—darkness unfurling in every direction like a ravenous beast that devours all that dares exist within its reach. Below you, the night roars with a dissonance of fragmented voices, music, and chaos, but up here, the world recedes into a distant rumble, a barely perceptible murmur as you breathe in the cool air under a starlit sky that stretches endlessly. There is a peculiar intimacy in this place, a stillness held together only by the rhythm of your own heartbeat, a world that feels exclusively yours and his.

And him—Jungkook—stands in the darkness, the faint amber glow of distant city lights slicing across his features, casting him into an aura more menacing than the whispered legends. They speak of him as a mafia heir, a heartbreaker, a killer—the very embodiment of temptation and danger. You have heard every tale, repeated them to yourself until the fear wrapped in desire became a sickening thrill. Now, he watches you, his black eyes smouldering under the muted light, filled with an inscrutable intensity that makes your skin crawl in ways both unsettling and exhilarating.

He is the one who chose this place for your meeting, away from the searing heat and relentless beat of his club—a sanctuary where bodies press together in abandon, where souls dissolve into music, each moment crafted for excess and oblivion. You recall earlier, being immersed in that turbulent whirlwind of sound and colour, every motion deliberate yet devoid of meaning. You observed him from across the room, a dark figure amid the frenzy, solitary despite the throngs eager for his attention.

But now, it is just the two of you. You feel his breath carried by the wind that coils around you, sense his gaze tracing your form with a predatory warmth concealed beneath his dangerously alluring charm. From the moment you met him, you recognised his peril—danger that insinuates itself into your veins before you realise, too late, the gravity of your mistake. Each encounter, each step forward has been a testament to a decision you should never have made but did anyways.

Your hands instinctively curl at your sides, the smooth edge of the knife pressed reassuringly against your thigh like a talisman since the day you learned about his obsession for you. The rooftop remains silent, you have played this game for so long, you’re not even sure how not let silence reign. Every glance, every word a strategic move in a game of masks and deceptions, with an ending that has always seemed inevitable.

“Dance with me?” he whispers, his voice low and seemingly tender, the sort of sound that could be mistaken for affection. But you know better. You understand the truth hidden beneath the softness, the destruction in every action and breath of Jungkook’s.

And so you nod, almost laughable how easily you surrender to this illusion of tenderness, letting him draw you close, his strong arms encircling your waist, his warmth and magnificent scent enveloping you. The rooftop feels smaller, the world compressed to the space between you as you begin to sway, a slow, gentle rhythm where neither of you leads. The stars blink down, your hearts the sole soundtrack to this moment.

His touch is deceptively mellow, his fingers grazing your back like a lover’s caress. You tilt your head up, locking gazes with him, and there’s something there—something that makes you reconsider everything you’re here for. His eyes are dark and fathomless, promising both violence and sweetness, and you briefly wonder what he truly sees when he looks at you.

For a moment, you let yourself dissolve into the intimacy, shedding the burden of your own deceit. There’s a part of you—a hidden, secret part—that has yearned for this, craved this proximity. It is almost twisted, how much you have longed for the danger he embodies, how you have relished the thrill of being so near to something so perilously lethal.

But soon enough, reality intrudes. The cold, harsh truth shaking your thoughts, reminding you why you are here and what you must do. You have followed him for months, shadowing his every move, orchestrating moments, manipulating events to draw close enough. And now you stand here, wrapped in his embrace, your body pressed against his, the perfect moment within grasp.

“Why do you trust me?” you ask softly, your voice dripping with naive sweetness. He smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a smile that conceals secrets you will never fully uncover.

“I don’t,” he replies simply, as if the answer were self-evident. His hand tightens slightly on your waist, just enough to remind you of the power he wields, the danger embedded in every movement of his. “But perhaps I like living on the edge.”

A silence stretches between you as you gaze in each other eyes, and you know this is the moment. Your hand moves almost instinctively, retrieving the blade from its concealed place at your side, the cool metal catching the light as you prepare to strike.

But Jungkook is quicker. His grip on you tightens abruptly, his hand darting up to seize your wrist with a vice-like strength he’s known for. The look in his eyes shifts, a flash of dark, knowing intent before his lips curl into a dangerous smile.

“So it’s you,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr that ought to terrify you, yet instead makes your heart flutter. “I’ve been wondering.”

Your head spins, adrenaline surging as you attempt to pull free, but his hold remains firm. You feel the expanse of his strength, the taut muscles flexing beneath his shirt, the effortless power he commands. Yet you suppress your fear, focusing on your purpose, remembering why you are here.

“You’re not as clever as you think,” you hiss, your voice sharper than intended, tinged with desperation. “I’ve been watching you, following you. I know everything.”

He laughs softly, a rich, chilling sound that courses through you as he leans forward to brush his lips against your temple. “Do you, though? Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

For a fleeting moment, doubt creeps in, your resolve wavering in the face of his calm confidence. He is too composed, too collected, and it unnerves you. But then you remind yourself—this is merely another layer of his game, another manipulation. He seeks to destabilise you, you claim you like a possession, and finally to make you doubt yourself. But you refuse to let him.

With a sudden burst of effort, you wrench your wrist free, the blade pointed, ready, as you aim for his throat. But Jungkook is faster—always faster. His hand shoots up, seizing your arm with a force that sends a sharp pain through your limb, and before you can react, he twists the knife from your grasp, sending it clattering to the rooftop floor.

Breathless, heart pounding, you refuse to back down. You lunge at him, but he effortlessly restrains you, pulling you close once more. A smirk curls on his lips, dark satisfaction in his eyes, and it fuels your anger.

“You’re too reckless,” he murmurs, his voice a low, hot hum against your ear. “Too emotional.”

But you no longer listen. Your mind races, your body trembles with adrenaline, and you know this is your only chance. You must end this—now—before he ends you.

In a sudden, desperate move, you twist in his grasp, reaching for the knife on the ground. You feel the cool handle beneath your fingers and, in one distressed move, drive it upwards towards his chest.

Time seems to slow. You feel the resistance as the blade penetrates flesh, hear the sharp intake of breath as Jungkook’s body tenses. His eyes widen slightly, a fleeting surprise crossing his features before it morphs into something darker, almost… satisfied.

Then he is falling, his grip loosening as he collapses to the ground. You rise, standing over him, breathing heavily, staring down as the gravity of your actions begins to settle in.

Jungkook lies there, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes still fixed on yours. There is no fear, no anger—just an almost amused resignation.

“Guess you win,” he rasps, his voice barely a whisper. “But… was it worth it?”

You remain silent, unable to answer, because for the first time, you’re unsure.

The rooftop is quiet now, the city below still murmuring its distant song, but up here, everything feels still. The stars blink down, as indifferent as ever, and you finally realise that the danger, the thrill, the chase—it was never really about him. It was about you.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Hello!! I love your work so much ❤🥰. I wanted to know if I could request something with Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia? Something fluffy, loving with him?

Thank you so much ❤🥰

Dr Cupid.

Synopsis - Mickey Garcia passes out in hospitals. Luckily, this time there's a pretty nurse there to catch him.

Pairing - Mickey Garcia x Nurse!Reader

Warnings - a little cursing, a lot of tooth rotting fluff. mentions of blood and hospitals. brief abuse mention.

Age Rating - 16+

Word Count - 1.5k

Author's Note - thank you for this request!! i love mickey so much. i've been a HUGE danny ramirez fan for years, so i was so excited when he was cast in top gun, and mickey did not disappoint. an angel <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

You pull back the crinkly blue curtain with a bit too much force, startling the man sat on the edge of the bed.

"Sorry!" you apologise, closing it behind you. "These things are always lighter than I think they're going to be."

"It's alright, ma'am. No worries."

He's handsome. Really handsome. Big blue eyes, golden blonde hair, an air about him that exudes intelligence and compassion. You smile at him gently before retrieving his chart, giving it a once over quickly.

"Lieutenant Robert Floyd. United States Navy."

He introduces himself, shaking your hand formally. You tell him your name, and he repeats it carefully.

"Pretty name."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Please, call me Bob."

"Thank you, Bob."

He smiles at you bashfully, nodding his head.

"So, Bob, what seems to be the problem today?"

"Training exercise gone wrong. I'm clumsy. You can probably tell by my medical history."

You look over the chart, and laugh softly.

"So you are. What happened this time?"

"It's just a little cut, on my shoulder. I fell onto it, onto the tarmac. I told everyone I didn't need to see a doctor, but they insisted."

"Well luckily for you, I'm a nurse," you wink, chuckling when he blushes. "Let's get this shirt off you so I can take a look. You mind if I cut it?"

"Go ahead."

You cut a line clean down the middle of his t shirt, an old, grey thing. It falls off of him, allowing you to see his shoulder wound.

Just as you're about to explain your next steps, the curtain flies open, a man in a flight suit rushing in.

"Sir, can I help you?"

"He's with me. He's in my squad," Bob reassures you. "Fanboy, you don't have to be here."

"I want to be."

"Fanboy?" you ask, confused about the unusual name.

"It's my call sign. We're pilots. US Navy."

"Why didn't I know they had pilots in the navy? I thought that was the air force."

Fanboy grins at you, all gleaming white teeth, before holding his hand out for you to shake.

"Lieutenant Mickey Garcia. Weapons Systems Officer."

You tell him your name, followed by 'nurse', which makes them both laugh.

"Well, Mickey, if you take a seat, I'll patch up Bob here and you can both get back to flying your jet planes."

Mickey steps around you, eyes darting over Bob as he goes. He catches sight of his bleeding shoulder, and all the colour drains from him.

You've seen this before.

He goes pale, and then wobbles on his feet. You stride over and wrap your arms around him, catching him as he passes out.

"Shit," Bob swears. "I'd help, ma'am, but I'm a little out of commission right now."

"It's alright," you chuckle. "This happens a lot. I'm stronger than I look."

You manage to walk Mickey backwards, sitting him in the chair that you originally sent him towards. You cradle his face in your hands, holding up his head. His eyes flutter open, straight onto you.

"Did I die? Is this heaven?" he whispers.

Both you and Bob try not to laugh as you check him over.

"I'm afraid not, Lieutenant. You're in the hospital, visiting Bob. He's hurt his shoulder. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," he murmurs, embarrassed.

You grab him a cup of water, placing it into his hand carefully.

"You okay?"

His big brown eyes are locked on you, not leaving for a minute. He's beautiful, you realise suddenly. Yes, Bob is handsome, but Mickey is beautiful.

"I get a little weird around blood."

"You're telling me."

The smile he gives you is enough to move mountains.

"Okay, Garcia, listen up. You're gonna sit here and drink your water. Take big, slow, deep breaths. And do not, under any circumstances, look at Bob, okay? Keep your eyes on me, no matter what."

"Yes ma'am."

You leave him in his chair, returning your attention to the blonde. You take a good look at the wound, and decide it'll need a couple of stitches.

"I'm gonna clean this up for you, and sew it shut. I'm sure you'll heal fast, being a healthy pilot and all."

You glance over at Mickey, and see that he's still watching you. Gazing at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"Bob, I won't lie to you. This is going to hurt. Feel free to hold onto me if you need to."

You numb his shoulder, before getting to work stitching it up. You flick your eyes to Mickey intermittently, smiling gently when his stare meets yours.

"Garcia, did you bring any spare clothes? I had to cut Bob's shirt off. I doubt he wants to walk out of here shirtless."

"Yeah, Phoenix has a bag in the waiting room. I'll go and grab it."

You watch him carefully as he stands, making sure he doesn't pass out again. He leaves, and Bob grins at you.

"He likes you."

"Everyone likes me, Bob. I'm a good nurse."

"No, he likes you. That's the quietest I've ever heard him sit. And he took your orders. He doesn't do that for anyone."

You shake your head, smiling as you do it.

"Are you single?"

"Very forward, Lieutenant."

"For him, not for me! You're beautiful," he justifies, "but I'm sort of dating my copilot."

"Sort of?"

"It's complicated."

"Then make it uncomplicated, Bob."

He thinks for a moment, before nodding.

"You're right. I'm going to talk to her."

Mickey comes barging back in with a t shirt in hand.

"Phoenix packed you an overnight bag, just in case. She says this is your shirt anyway."

You look at Bob and wink, chuckling when he blushes.

"Anything else, ma'am?"

"That's all. You've been a perfect patient Bob," you say, squeezing his other shoulder. "If you go to the desk, they'll give you some spare dressings for when you need to change it. Besides that, just take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay. Understood. Thank you, for everything. I appreciate it."

The two of them leave in a flurry of thanks, Mickey casting a longing glance back at you. You can hear them bickering on the other side of the curtain.

"Fine!" you hear Mickey say, before he reappears.

"Uh... hi."

"You forget something?" you ask, looking around the bed.

"Yeah. To ask you out."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, corners of your lips twitching.

"And to apologise. For before. Passing out, and all. I, uh-"

He scratches the back of his neck nervously before perching on the edge of the bed. You move to sit next to him, leg pressing into his.

"I practically grew up in a hospital. My Dad wasn't a nice guy, so my Mom was here all the time."

You lace your fingers with his, resting them on your thigh.

"I used to try and clean up her injuries at home the best I could, but sometimes it wasn't enough. He finally left when I was thirteen, and I didn't have to play doctor anymore."

He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Now, as an adult, I have this crazy reaction to blood. Even just a papercut is enough to have me hyperventilating. I guess I saw so much of it when I was a kid, that I can't handle it now?"

He looks at you expectantly, unsure of what you'll say.

"It's way more common than you think, you know. I have people pass out on me all the time. You're not alone, I promise."

He smiles at you softly, and you're convinced you've never met someone more beautiful.

"I have a friend who works on the fourth floor. She's a psychiatrist - which I know people roll their eyes at, especially men - but, she's really great to talk to. About anything. She can help with phobias. I've seen her do it."

He nods almost imperceptibly.

"I mean... it can't hurt to talk to her, right? Just once?"

"Exactly. I can give you her number, you can give her a call whenever suits you."

He nudges your shoulder with his, your hands still linked.

"Thank you. Bob doesn't love hospitals either, but you really set his mind at ease today."

"Just doing my job."

"Trust me, you're doing a hell of a lot more."

You feel the heat rise up your chest, praying he can't hear how fast your heart is beating.

"I know you probably work crazy shifts here, but... would you like to go for dinner sometime? I'd love to get to know you in a less... uh... clinical setting."

You grin at him, squeezing his hand tightly.

"I'd love to. As long as you promise not to pass out," you wink.

"That is a promise I cannot make."

You laugh with him, shaking your head.

"I should get back to work. God knows this place needs me."

"Of course. Do your thing, SuperNurse."

You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, handing him a card with your number on.

"Call me."

"What time do you get off?"

"7."

"I'll call you at 7:01."

"Deal," you laugh, pulling the curtains back.

You watch as he leaves to join Bob and a woman you assume is Phoenix in the waiting area. You wave at Mickey as you go, the other two pilots looking between you with knowing grins on their faces.