#the least they can do is warn us about it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

toxicanonymity · 3 days ago

Text

Mama's Boy, 18+

slasher Joel masterlist | problematic playlist | AO3

PAIRING: Slasher!Joel x f!reader LENGTH: 7.2k words and none wasted tbh SUMMARY: Dinner at his mom's house, mostly. WARNINGS: 18+ dark, unsafe PinV, gunplay, degradation, a bit of angst, a whiff of incest, choking-adjacent, dark!reader, major revelations (!), feelings maybe? (god help us), mommy and daddy issues, slasher Joel needs a hug. NOTES: Today is not only mother's day, but also the 2nd anniversary of his first fic. This is packed. @flawssy-227 ty for your activism. And @thesummerpetrichor, I thought of you 🖤. Joel can carry reader.

It's Sunday. He lets himself in.

“Still in bed? Must’ve been ass up face down pretty late last night, huh? Told ya i'd pick ya up… ”

You squint at him as your eyes adjust. “What are you talking about?” He has something draped over his shoulder.

Too much talking. Not enough fucking.

He scoffs, “Really? Sunday dinner, slut.” He marches over to your nightstand with a snarl, picks up a folded piece of paper, and tosses it at you like a frisbee.

Oh yeah.

You unfold it as if it's the first time you've read it: “pick u up sunday.” There's a sketch of his fat cock and a thinner outline of what's presumably a dong next to it. “p.s. u need a real toy.”

Well, here he is. Picking you up on Sunday, and he's even kinda cleaned himself up. A plaid shirt and jeans tighter than his work uniform. Looks like a normal guy you could pass in the supermarket, none the wiser that he’d shove a huge tool up your cunt.

He stands by your bed holding up one dress in each hand. Neither of them yours.

“Now put on somethin’ decent.”

He throws them onto the bed, then pulls a gun out of the back of his pants. “What do you think? ” He gestures between them with the gun.

One of the dresses is simple, clean lines, not far off from something you might normally wear. But it has a brown stain and a frayed edge. It doesn't feel right.

The other dress is a strawberry plant pattern with short sleeves that puff out. It's faded and outdated, but clean and in decent shape–from what you can tell, at least.

“Got my own clothes,” you tell him.

But he insists, “This ain't the street corner, sugar. You're gonna pick one of these.”

“I'm too tired for this,” you complain, then add, “I dunno what makes you think I wanna go to your mom's house.”

“Come on, baby…” He looks at the gun. “I don't wanna use this… unless I'm stuffin’ your muff with it later ”

After looking at both the dresses, you can't bear to put on the stained one and choose the strawberry print. You feel unexpectedly cute in what could have been plucked from a mid century catalogue for housewives, although it’s probably from modcloth circa 2015.

Turning around in the mirror, it’s actually really flattering, and there’s something kinda sexy about dressing up like this degenerate's pretty little wife…Yep, you're really doing this.

Maybe it’s partly out of morbid curiosity, wanting to know where he came from.

How he…. happened.

He brings you a pair of your own shoes and puts them down for you to step into.

“Yeah, that's my girl,” looking over your right shoulder at the bathroom mirror, he grabs your ass, then sticks his hand between your legs from behind, hooking his hand under you to reach your clit. Your feet spread reflexively, giving him more room. Still holding the gun in his right hand, the hand between your legs tents the dress as he strokes you, and your gut begins to swell with need. He spreads his feet and angles himself slightly toward you, getting close enough to press himself against you, letting you feel the warm log in those tight jeans, gun held against his meaty thigh. Your chest heats up and you adjust your tits in the dress, copping a feel of yourself while you’re at it.

“Good girl ” he mutters. With a glint of affection in his eyes, he says, “You were born to wear this dress, kitten.” Now that he’s got you dripping, his fingers slip into the crotch of your panties and he shoves one, then two, inside. “Mm,” he grinds against you as he stuffs you with his fingers. Then he pulls them out and squats down. He lifts the skirt of the dress and yanks the panties down to your ankles. You lean forward and brace yourself on the sink. He stands up, slides the gun between your legs and the smooth, cool metal of the top of the barrel rubs through your slippery seam. Your hips tilt and he slides it forward one last time, before taking it away.

He pats your ass, and says, “Now c’mon, let's go.”

Not even the decency to fuck you first. Not even with the gun.

You scowl at him in the mirror.

He asks, “Am I gonna have to drag you, kickin’ and screamin’?”

“Yeah, actually,” you reply.

“Alright,” he agrees, all too happy to oblige. He puts the sticky gun in the back of his pants, bends his knees. and lifts you over his shoulder with a grunt.

He steps through your open back door and slams it behind him with one hand, his other arm braced over the bare backs of your knees.

You yoink the gun from the back of his pants and he says, “God damnit, be careful with that,” without putting you down.

“You seem pretty sure I won't shoot you,” you observe.

“Course ya won't. Be like a … like a drug addict shootin’ their dealer… nah, shootin’ the drug cooker. Yeah. And he's the only cooker.”

He's getting slightly out of breath as he walks. Or maybe it’s the effort of all that thinking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You ask.

“Cock hungry whore ain't gonna kill off the biggest cock she's got.”

You press the edge of the barrel against the small of his back and nudge it into his jeans, then demand, “Put me down.”

He groans in exasperation, stops, and sets you down in the side yard.

You almost forget to point the firearm at him. Almost. With the gun raised, you ask, “What’s with the gun anyway? Thought knives were your thing.”

He shrugs. “Special occasion?”

“Why do you want me to come to dinner so bad?”

“Cause I told her we were comin’, okay? Told her ya liked the casserole.”

For the first time, you notice his hair is a little bit combed. You ask, “What'd you tell her about me?”

“Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “She knows we met when I was workin’. Knows I gave ya a ride….knows ya ain't like other girls.”

“What’s that mean?” You ask, adjusting your grip.

“I dunno… ” He shrugs, then gets frustrated. “I ain't brought home a girl home in a long time, okay? And she's gettin’ older, and…”

When you've lowered the gun, he lunges forward, muttering, “Gimme that,” as he disarms you with ease that makes your heart skip a beat. He grabs you by the arm and marches you to the Volvo. He opens the passenger door and manhandles you into the seat.

When he gets in the car, he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you. He smells clean and minty.

As he puts the car in drive, you ask, “What else did you tell her?”

“Uh…. She knows we ain't been on many dates.”

“Not many?” You ask with a laugh. “You mean none?”

He glances at you twice, suppressing a flattered smile at the implication he perceives. He wets his bottom lip. “That mean ya want to?”

He holds the gun against his thigh and steers with one hand.

When you get to his Mom's house, he warns, “Just don't talk about all your whorin’ around, okay? She won't like it.” He checks his hair in the rear view mirror.

You laugh, “What whoring around?”

“All those skinny dicks in your phone,” he mutters, getting out of the car.

“Excuse me?” You ask, still sitting.

“Just tell her about your day job instead,” he says, as if you genuinely don't think or talk about anything other than cock without prompting.

Wait--skinny dicks in your phone? Your train of thought dies when he puts the gun in the back of his pants, and in doing so exposes a few inches of skin, and the tail end of a scar. After he shuts the driver side door, you open yours while he hurries around to help you out.

“Come on,” His big hand wraps around your inner elbow again. “We're gonna be late.” He's slightly in front of you

“Bringing a gun into your mother's house?” you ask as he pulls you along.

He freezes, then mumbles, “You're right. Don't want her to think you're a bad influence. Even if ya are.”

What a gentleman.

He goes and puts it in the glovebox, then jogs to catch up with you again.

When she opens the door, Joel's mother beams at the sight of her son. She steps outside, frail and slow moving. She's pretty, with silky white hair that looks older than her face. The storm door creaks to a stuttering close behind her.

At first, it's like you're invisible. He lets go of you, and they embrace. She reaches for the back of his neck and says, “C'mere, baby,” pulling his face to hers. He kisses her on the cheek, then she kisses him, and then, as they separate, Joel gestures toward you. Her eyes are curious when they meet yours, then her face comes to life as her gaze falls down your body. She puts a hand on her hip as she checks you out, her other hand rising to her mouth for a moment, then resting on her chest, fingers centered in the hollow of her collar bone.

“Joel,” she half-laughs in flirtatious accusation, then narrates, “Well, there she is…”

“Don't she look nice? ” Joel asks with a subtle smile and blush.

His mom admires you with an air of disbelief, then goes in for a hug. Her fragrance isn't entirely new to your nostrils, and the sensory recall brings an unsettling tingle to your loins: The night Joel brought the leftovers.

She holds you close, pressing her body all the way against yours without fully relaxing. Firm and in control, and yet , she feels softer than she looks. Her bosom is like a warm pillow. Like a relic of young motherhood, reaching through time, tickling your inner child awake.

As the hug ends, she gently pinches the puffed sleeves of your dress and says to Joel without looking at him, “Yes, baby. She looks real pretty.” Then, glancing up from your dress, she tells you with a smile, “Can't promise strawberries, but I do have cherry pie. Come on in.”

“Thank you, ma’am” you nod.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckles, “You can just call me Mama.”

It sounds like you should know better. Like ‘Mama’ is the most obvious option. You glance at Joel, and he nods with a little smile of permission, as if that's what you’re looking for, and he's glad to give it.

Might as well rip the bandaid off: “Okay… Mama… well, it's nice of you to have me over.” In the back of your mind, you hope Joel doesn't think this is any special effort on your part. It's more like, your job requires manners, and this is your default setting with older folks.

She holds the door open with her body and you have to graze past her. “Smells delicious,” you observe with genuine hunger, having slept through the first two meals of the day.

She straightens her frilled apron with a smile and suggests, “Joel, why don't you give your girl a tour while I finish up?”

This is a relief - you hadn't been consciously dreading it, but worst case scenario, she would've asked you to help in the kitchen. She seems like that type.

–

It’s a humble brick ranch. Dimly lit. Everything is out of style, but tidy. There are a few bedroom doors, but he doesn’t open any of them, and you don’t pry. The paint in the hall is disrupted over a poorly repaired dent in the wall. You try not to look at the stains on the ceiling.

One of the living room walls has a fireplace, and one wall is lined with pictures. There's a bare corner with nothing but a crochet rug – a rounded rectangle, with raised crosses. The paint is newer over there. Bubbling and wanting to peel as the wall approaches the perpendicular wall, the one with the fireplace.

Before you can get a good look at anything, Joel steers you outside. In the small backyard, a wooden garden bed has overgrown with weeds. The lawn is nice and trim. “You help out with the yard?” You ask.

“Uh, sometimes,” he answers. “ She's got somebody else too .”

He rocks forward on his feet, arms crossed.

“So... you gonna fuck me in your boyhood bedroom?” You ask, and he clears his throat with a forced smile, brows knitted.

“What?” you ask. “Why the hell else would you take my panties?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, allowing himself only a brief glance at you, until he does a double take and admits, “Fuck, you look good.” He seems more distressed by it than anything.

No such luck, you guess, raising your eyebrows at the visible outline against his thigh. Never would've pictured him in jeans.

He runs his hand through his hair, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and adjusts himself with effort before leading you back inside. His boot grazes the side of a metal bowl, sloshing water into dark spots on the cement.

She pours Joel a glass of milk with dinner, and when you politely decline, Joel says, “One glass won't hurt ya, baby .” Mama seems pleased to bring over the old fashioned bottle of milk. She rests her free arm on the back of your chair, with the fine lines of her cleavage near your eyes as she fills your glass.

The meatloaf is delicious, with sauce that reminds you of barbecue. The mashed potatoes are over-buttered, but they hit the spot. She smiles to herself, satisfied to watch you eat.

“So tell me about yourself,” she says. “Do you work?”

You swallow your food, nod, and tell her which clinic you work at.

“Oh,” she recognizes the name. “The one over on Main Street?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“That's nice,” she says. “Joel's going to own his own business one day. Do you ever want to own your own practice?”

“Oh, no, I don't think so,” you answer, then ask Joel, “What kind of business?”

“Joel, I'm surprised you haven't told her,” his Mom says, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial volume to tell you, “He’s too modest.”

“Ya know, I guess a tow and repair one-stop shop,” Joel says. “Not a lot of guys do both, but I can really take care of ya. Same night, even. Late hours, too.”

His mom nods. “I always knew he'd be successful,” she says. “Even in the darker days.”

Joel tenses and begins to tap his heel. “ How about you, Mama? ” he asks, “ What have you been up to? ”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” she says. “Crossword was a doozie today!” she laughs. “What are you two gonna do this week? Anything special?”

You shrug and look at Joel.

He starts, “Uh… ”

His Mom bails him out, “You oughta take her to the drive-in like I said, baby,” then she asks you, "Would you like that, honey? You like the drive-in? We used to go, it was so nice.”

“Sure, I like movies,” you answer.

“See, Joel? She likes movies.”

Joel finishes his meatloaf relatively quickly, and his mother puts another generous slice on his plate.

“I don't need any more, Ma,” he says, but she doesn't listen, and he digs into it anyway. By his third slice, he’s pushed back in his chair, adjusting his belt. He pats his tummy and says, “There's nothin’ she makes that ain't good.”

“Only the best for my boy,” she agrees, then asks you, “Ain’t that right?”

“Of course,” you agree.

“Oh! I saw Randall Junior earlier,” she says. “He came by and did the lawn.”

“Randy,” Joel corrects her.

“Yeah, Randall’s son.”

“Randy,” Joel repeats. “He ain’t even a Junior, Ma. He’s the third.”

“Well, it was nice to see him,” she reminisces, fiddling with the corner of her placemat. She catches herself, smooths it down, then brings her hands together, fiddling with her left ring finger. “I swear, that boy’s an inch taller every time I see him.”

“He’s in his thirties,” Joel tells you, drawing a genuine smile to your lips. One that brings a sparkle to his eyes.

“Well, anyway,” she goes on, “A face like that belongs in the movies,” she chuckles to herself. “Of course, he’s nowhere near as handsome as my Joel,” she looks at you reassuringly as she says it. Lest you pine after Randy the third .

A silence stretches on until you say, “Well, this was delicious. I’d love the recipe…” You dab the corners of your mouth and put down your napkin.

“Oh, it’s not a recipe, honey,” she boasts, “It’s somethin’ ya do from the heart.” After a moment, she adds, “But I can write down the ingredients! Now, how about some cherry pie?”

She stands up, puts her apron back on, and you help her clear the table. “Go on Joel, we’ve got it,” Mama tells him, and he goes to sit in the living room.

“Okay,” Mama whispers to herself as she plates the first slice, a generous one. “This one’s for him.” You take it to Joel and he sits up from the couch to accept it with a thank you, reading your face for signs of how things are going. You flash him a small, unrevealing smile.

“Gonna take a piss,” he mumbles, and his eyes ask if that’s okay. “Sure,” you say with a little curtsy, trying not to smirk as you turn and head back to the kitchen.

Mama’s about to plate the other slices of pie when she lifts a finger in the air and says, “Oh, let me write this down before I forget,” then retrieves a notecard and pencil from a drawer. She puts on a pair of glasses and smiles to herself as she jots down the ingredients. You dwell in the threshold of the living room.

She looks up like she’s trying to remember something, then looks down and keeps writing on the notecard.

You begin to look at the pictures on the wall. Some are of Joel, and he’s straight-faced. Some are of cats. Charmingly, a blurry photo of a black cat has been deemed frame-worthy. It sits within a bigger rectangle, the shadow of where a different frame used to be. There are a few spots like this. There are a few relatively recent photos of Joel and his Mom. None with his father, as far as you can tell. None now, and none then. But when you look closer at the older ones, it’s clear some of them have been trimmed.

“He hates having his picture made,” Mama startles you from less than a foot away.

“You two seem really close,” you offer. “Just the two of you?”

She raises her eyebrows in amusement and lowers her volume. “Oh, Joel made sure of that .”

A chill in her voice hardens your nipples and dries your mouth. You search her face for more, but her eyes have wandered, and her face has fallen. “Been about thirty years, just the two of us—well, just me for a while…” You follow her eyes to the corner with the crochet rug, and she squeezes your arm.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

She eases her grip and manages a little smile. “Yes, dear.” She hands you the notecard.

Her handwriting is beautiful. Captivating.

You stay there, eyes scanning the photo wall, while she finishes plating your pie and hers.

One of the frames catches your eye. It’s the first one you’ve really zeroed in on, looking at the faces and not just the context. The picture is faded and yellowed.

Joel is young and smiling, with a pin-up looking woman hanging all over him.

A rush of begruding jealousy begs the question, who is that?

And then, your stomach turns before the realization sets in.

It’s a much younger Mama, with dark, loose curls befitting of a centerfold. All dolled up and glowing, with her arm around his middle. And god damn, her tits are swelling up out of her neckline. She looks…. Hot. Your lungs go hollow, then your chest expands with a deep breath. Something's stirring in your gut. Arousal? Attraction?

Your eyes pan down to her Mary Jane heels, but the swell of her breasts, those bouncy curls… your eyes are pulled back up her body. The dress is cute, and proper. Innocent, even. But the way she wears it… Sweetheart neckline, puffed sleeves… You squint for a closer look, and your breath hitches. Heat rises to your face, to the tips of your ears. Your heart races. You pull your eyes away, chest burning, and pretend you don't notice anything.

Something soft brushes your calf and you gasp and jump as you look down to see a black cat thread between your legs.

“Oh, it’s Daniel!” Mama says. “He must’ve come in behind you. Not allergic, are you? Here’s your pie, honey.” She sets down your plate on the coffee table.

“You good, baby?” Joel asks.

Taking your place on the sofa next to Joel, you sit like a lady, one foot tucked behind the other ankle, minding your lack of panties. The dress is just long enough to cover your knees.

The three of you finish dessert in silence aside from forks scraping good china and Daniel purring from that rug in the corner. Joel finishes first, and stretches his arm behind you on the sofa. When you finish, you sit back with him, knee brushing his. You will yourself to relax. You will yourself not to ogle his mother in trying to reconcile her fragile frame of today with those curves of yesteryear.

She looks back and forth at the two of you sitting side by side and smiles. She puts down her plate, crosses her legs toward you, and clasps her hands. A smile rises through her pretty cheekbones as she looks directly at you.

“Ya know, Joel was top of his class.”

You raise your eyebrows.

Joel takes his hand off the back of the sofa and leans forward, forearms on his knees, full belly filling out the plaid against his lap as he wrings his hands. “Mama.” Joel’s tone is cautionary, but his face is more pleading. He shakes his head ever so slightly.

Ignoring him, she smiles proudly at you.

You try not to sound as skeptical as you are when you ask, “Really?”

She nods.

“Mama,” he whispers.

“Mm-hmm,” she smiles.

He sits up straight, wipes his hand down his whole face and sits back in defeat. His arm doesn't return behind you.

She continues, “There were a couple other boys, went in ‘round the same time – took’em three tries to get their GED. Three tries, at least. Not my Joel. He got his on the first try,” she beams. “The warden shook his hand.”

“Okay,” Joel mutters.

The Warden. Your heart skips a beat and your face goes cold, but you pray it doesn't show.

You turn and congratulate him, “That’s great, Joel.”

He doesn't meet your eyes. He’s looking at the carpet with a defeated scowl, jaw flexing, chest heaving, arms crossed limply over his stomach. He tries to manage a smile of acknowledgement. You can see the effort, but humiliation prevails.

You feel for him and add, “Really, babe.”

His face softens, but his posture doesn't change. After a moment, without looking up, he mumbles, “Long time ago.”

“Yeah,” his mother nods. “He's always been a smart boy.” She starts talking about his favorite subjects, and how he could have gotten his bachelor's too, three times over, if the program was worth a damn, and state funding, and blah blah blah, riots, and understaffing, and shanks hidden in law library books, and a few bad apples spoil it for everyone…

Your eyes are on him, tuning her out, best you can, despite your curiosity. You rest your hand on his knee, and he relaxes a little. And then, once your face turns toward his mom again, Joel looks at your face, assessing the damage.

You want to hear it all– how long he was locked up, how he ended up in juvie. You're afraid you already know that part.

Daniel purrs loudly from the crochet rug, and you will yourself not to look in that direction.

Joel's Mom looks at Daniel and gets quiet as her eyes wander up that wall that must've been painted over, God how many times in the past thirty years? She idly caresses her ring finger.

You squeeze Joel's knee, slide your hand up his jeans a couple inches, and squeeze again. You tap your thumb, and his hand joins yours.

“We oughta get goin’, Ma,” he announces.

“Oh,” she frowns, slumping in defeat.

“I'm workin’ tonight, and she's gotta work early.”

“Okay,” she whispers to herself, stands up, and smooths her dress.

—---

“It's nice to know there's a good woman looking after my son,” she says as she bids you goodbye with another hug.

Your heart swells at the praise, you can't help it. Her apparent sincerity weakens your eyes, makes you shake away your own memories and steel yourself as she says goodbye to Joel.

“Chin up, baby.” She holds Joel's face, makes him look at her. “Give your mama some sugar.” She gives him a smack on the lips. He doesn't kiss back, but he does accept her hug.

He pulls up his jeans on the way to the car. Almost forgets to open the door for you.

He doesn't look at you, even when he buckles you in, which you would have done yourself if you hadn’t froze.

He swallows more thickly. His posture is less proud.

For the first few minutes of the drive, you ride in silence. Then you ask, “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” He grumbles.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, tummy tickling with a pang of sympathy for the man.

“No,” he answers flatly with no hesitation.

“You don't have to,” you reassure him.

“I know I don't have to,” He snaps. “God, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about.”

You watch him scowl at the road, clenching his strong jaw. His gaze is so dark. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. As if noticing this himself, he stretches one hand out, spreading his fingers before assuming a more relaxed grip.

You wonder… was he born a killer?

He's got this tough, violent shell about him, and now you know there's something else under there. Is he sorry he brought you to dinner, you wonder? You don't want him to be.

“Well, it was nice meeting your mom,” you remark. “Meatloaf was fantastic…. The pie, too.” You cradle the Tupperware stacked in your lap. “You wanna hang out for awhile?” you ask.

“Gotta work,” he answers flatly and swallows with his eyes still on the road.

“Well, that's too bad.” It really is. 'Cause you're not any less horny than he got you in your bathroom two hours ago. Wetter, if anything, you realize, and warmth blooms in your cheeks. Now the sun is going down. You reach back and put the Tupperware on the back seat, then shamelessly turn toward him. You lean your temple against the headrest and watch him drive.

He’s hard-working. Complicated. Private. And his mom’s right, he is successful, all things considered.

You wonder where his dad is buried. Whether he was handsome, like Joel. Maybe . But with or without him, Joel got those looks from Mama.

Joel glances over and shoots you a dark look. A warning.

“You don't gotta play nice,” he says.

“I'm not playing anything,” you protest.

He lets out a dismissive chuckle.

“Pull over,” you tell him.

“For what?” He asks.

His meaty thighs are spread, swelling in those tight jeans. He follows your eyes and squints at you, then slides his hand under his belly and adjusts his belt, annoyed.

“Just pull over Joel,” you repeat.

“Ain't in the mood for your games, sweetheart,” he says.

You open the glove box, then close it with the gun in your hand. You point it at him. “Pull over, god damn it,” you tell him.

He squints and looks at you up and down before dismissing you with a silent, condescending laugh.

Keeping the gun trained on him, your free hand unbuckles your seatbelt, then slides between your legs. You pull the skirt of the dress all the way up to expose your cunt.

“You serious?” He asks.

“Serious as a heart attack,” you confirm.

And that's not what killed his dad, you think.

It must've been messy.

He must've deserved it, by the looks of Joel's back. The way the moonlight skidded over his scars, that night in your bedroom.

Joel shakes his head, keeps driving, and you lift the gun to his temple. “Pull over right now,” you repeat, quieter.

“Jesus, FUCK,” he relents, neck vein bulging as he veers toward the shoulder.

It's close to dusk now, on a suburban road, and you're half way out of the seat before the car's in park.

Stretching your leg over the center console, you help yourself into his lap, straddling him, still holding the gun. With your free hand, you begin to unbutton his shirt.

For a moment, all he does is stare at you and breathe heavier. “You're fuckin’ with me,” he tells himself out loud, not wanting to fall for a joke. He has his elbows back and out of the way, one arm on the door, one on the center console, but he’s itching to have you. You can see it in the way his biceps twitch. His stomach rises and falls with heavier breaths under his white tee.

“I’m not,” you assure him.

He lets you pick up his hand, and you guide it between your legs so he can feel how wet you are.

His face darkens, and his hand reflexively grabs your cunt.

“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he asks.

“That’d make two of us,” you answer.

You glance at the gun to make sure the safety's still on, then point the barrel at his chest and reach down to grab the massive bulge in his jeans. The largest you could imagine, for a cock that’s not quite hard. And he chubs up quick under the lustful pressure of your palm.

“You're into this shit,” he says. “ Like some kinda kink.”

Ya think?, you manage not to say out loud.

But you get the subtext: He’s a real person... With a real big cock that swells harder in your palm as you massage him slow with your breasts heaving. He cups your bare ass cheeks. You slide your hand up the front of his jeans, and his hips lift under you, chasing your palm. The heel of your palm presses into his gut as you unbuckle his belt. You rest your wrist on the seat, gun pointed toward the back of the car as your hand continues its work between your bodies.

With his belt buckle out of the way, you grope at his cock through the denim again, then unzip his jeans and rest your hand on the curve of his belly, splaying your fingers out before sliding your hand down into his jeans. As your hand engulfs the mushroom shape of his cockhead, then his swollen shaft, you moan at the girth. “Yeah,” you breathe, “You gonna fuck me in your mother’s dress?” You end the question with a firm grab of his package, and he grunts, nearly breathless, then sighs as you palm his cock hungrily through the cotton of his boxer briefs.

“Looks really fuckin’ good on you,” he answers with a nod.

Blood’s still rushing to his cock, responding to its need to stiffen up and plug whatever gaping hole appears in front of it.

“Looks good on her too,” you note.

“Fuck,” he breathes under your slow but aggressive massage. His eyes pour over your chest and he says, “Looks better on you.” If he’s not lying–and it feels like he’s not–-it’s quite a fucking compliment. His shaft plumps with as much as blood as it can hold, stiff as a rod, fat and juicy, hard as hell, spilling precum in his boxers.

“Ohh, fuck,” he moans. His hips lift and his abs tense and his belly swells against your forearm.

You slide your hand up again, and under his waistband. You brace your wrist on his shoulder, pointing the gun toward his neck as your hand slides into his warm boxer briefs to feel the smooth skin of his aching manhood.

“You wanna put that down?” he asks.

“No,” You reply, unable to connect your thumb fingers around his girth.

“Man, when ya need it ya need it, huh?,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy. “Need this cock real bad, don’t ya? ”

“Yeah,” you answer.

“Need to pack that droolin’ gash,” he says. “ Pack it full. ”

“Yeah,” you nod and raise yourself a few inches. You get his tip at your entrance, then slide it through your dripping pussy.

"Oh, fuck,” he moans, “God damn sex kitten.. . FUCK, youre hot”

He breathes audibly, watching you with forced patience as you notch his broad tip at your hole. You start to sink down on him with some difficulty, face scrunching, biting your lip in frustration, eyes watering with need.

“What's the matter, sweetheart? Forget how to take a cock all the sudden?”

You lift yourself up and sink down a little more, swallowing the tip.

“Oh fuck,” he moans. He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you down with an upward thrust, spearing you on his monster girth.

“Yeah…oh, fuck,” he breathes, not quite bottomed out. “Ugghh,” he groans, pulling you down more with an upward thrust to the hilt, fully seated in you at last.

“God, you're filthy.” He wets his bottom lip, admiring what a mess you’ve become in his lap. “Hot little slut like you…. Oh, you're trouble,” he says.

You begin to lift yourself, letting most of his meat out of you, tip dragging thick and tight through your walls, your slick beading under the crown and sliding down his shaft. Then you sink back down, splitting yourself open on his girth with a sigh.

The sky has erupted into shades of pink and purple as it begins to sink past the horizon.

Electricity runs through your blood. Your skin hums. His neck glistens with goosebumps and the hues of his shirt look brighter in the almost-dark.

He grabs your hips as you ride him, then moves his big hands to your waist. Each time you slide up his cock, it’s easier to sink back down. Your body’s hungry for more each time. You can feel it pulsing wider around him, welcoming his girth, hungry for more.

“Yeah,” he encourages you as you find a rhythm. “Like that.”

You seize one of his wrists to move his hand to your neck.

“You're a real freak, baby,” he taunts you, brushing his thumb against the delicate skin of your neck before carefully positioning it and raising his eyebrows at you. He closes his eyes as you sink down on him again and his girth slides easily through your soft walls. When he opens his eyes, his massive hand gives your neck a little squeeze, and you moan in appreciation.

“Guess it takes a freak to fuck a guy like you,” you spit back.

He scowls, and his nose twitches.

You go on, “Mighta picked the only freak in town who’d fuck you by choice,” you tell him. “Lucky call,” you say. “Lucky you have such a fat fucking cock,” you taunt him and study his face, hopeful for a sign that he could snap. “What else do you have?” You ask, and it feels almost too cruel. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lot to have… fuck,” you breathe. “Mmm,” fully stuffed by his girth.

“Quit runnin’ your damn mouth,” he snaps and grabs the gun by both ends at once, smoothly disarming you with an effortless twist of his hands. He places the barrel against the hollow of your neck and asks, Is “That what ya want, ya dumb slut? Tryna get yourself killed?”

You freeze, half-way on his cock, getting lost in his eyes.

“Well God damn, if you're gonna ride it, ride it. I'm gonna lose my goddamn patience” he warns.

When you don’t sink down fast enough, he gets rougher, putting you in a bruising grip, one arm wrapped around you, tightening like an anaconda.

He fucks up into you from the bottom, both arms behind you, with the gun held vaguely to your neck.

“Yeah,” you moan.

He growls, pushes his back against the seat, and his stomach pushes against your front, pushes and rubs as he fucks you harder, rocking the car.

The windows fog up.

He unzips the back of the dress and tears it down to reveal your breasts.

He watches them move as you’re bounced on his thick manhood. He snarls and grunts like an animal possessing his prey.

“I see you,” you whisper, intoxicated by the rhythmic stroke of him up in your guts.

“Fuck you,” he rasps.

“Fuck me ,” you retort, “Fuck me,” you repeat, “Fuck me, killer,” your cunt spasms with the word.

“Knew what I was, don’t act fuckin’ surprised.”

"Fuck," you moan, swallowing up his cock. “I'm -mmm- m’not,” you say. “I'm turned on.”

“You’re sick,” he says, burying his cock in you fully, once again.

Your nipples harden, you moan, and he looks at you skeptically, even as he feels your walls twitch around his absurd girth.

“Know that pussy's hungry for something bigger,” he says.

“Like what?” you ask and feel the gun leave your neck.

“Get up.” He checks the safety.

When you rise up, he holds the gun near his dick, making the barrel of it look like a twig.

“Best I got here,” he says with your gummy walls clinging to his shaft as you let out all but the tip.

“Think she can take it?” he asks. “Shit, we know she can.”

You lift all the way up onto your knees, letting his cock fall out. It bounces, bringing a string of slick with it, and stands stiff at attention.

He works three fingers into you with ease.

“Gimme your hand,” you ask.

“Hand's fuckin’ busy,” he says, referring to the one holding the gun.

“No, gimme your whole hand,” you demand greedily, and grab his wrist with his fingers still buried in your cunt.

“Attagirl,” he says, then works a fourth finger into you. “Best I can do here, sweetheart,” he winces as he fucks you with four clustered fingers.

“Fuck this,” he decides, unable to stand his throbbing cock growing ever colder outside your cunt.

He positions you over his dick and the gun, uses his fingers to spread your pussy around both, then pulls you down.

“Uh–ughh,” your mouth is agape as you sink down the shaft and barrel, taking them both.

You’re a quivering mess.

He holds the handle steady and says, “Good girl.”

You don't go all the way down. The cool barrel slides against one side of your walls.

“God damn, this hungry pussy,” he pants, cock stiff against the gun. “God damn, i know she can take more,” he says, frustrated without much more to give you.

“How do you know?” you ask

“Cause I've seen ya gapin’ wide open, sweetheart.”

You moan at his words, pussy quivering around his cock and gun.

“Wide fuckin’ open,” he repeats. “Ya take my fist… take two dicks…fuck ,” he twitches inside you. “ Took my goddamn wrench…. greedy fuckin’ cunt,” he goes on.

Then you're seized by a swell in your lower belly…. The pressure that’s been simmering quickly boils over, and you whimper as you come on his cock and the gun.

“Yeah,” he pants as your walls flutter and your thighs quiver.

He lifts you up with one arm, and takes out the gun, putting it aside. Then he slams you all the way down on his cock. “Oh god, yeah,” he pants, “Freak nasty whore ”

You moan and let it ride, clenching around his cock, your walls hugging it tighter each time, with the girth of the gun no longer holding you open.

Your climax wanes and your legs are weak. “Oh fuck,” he pants, “Gonna fill this dirty snatch,” He sweats and grunts. “Gonna stuff her with my load,” he warns, “Bout to fill this gash right up .”

“Fuck,” he breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust up into you, then slams you down, and with an upward jolt of his hips begins to drain his massive balls. “Fuck,” he sighs as he comes inside. “Fuck, you're crazy,” he says with another rope, warm and sticky, hitting your womb.

“Tryna get knocked up by some psycho killer ya picked up on the side of the road,” he says. “ Fuck, you goddamn freak .”

Still milking his cock, something possesses you to cradle his face as he slows down. Another burst of warmth in your core, as your face approaches his. He starts to turn his cheek, but your hands become forceful. “C’mere, asshole,” you demand, grinding into him with his cock pulsing deep inside again. His neck begins to relax, and he sighs with his eyes closed. You hold his face steady and bring your face to his. When your lips meet his are limp and open.

Another warm spurt into your womb, and when you moan against his mouth, he moans back. His lips soften, then cradle yours. Your tongue slips into your mouth, and his pushes into yours. He grabs the back of your head, pulling you into his face as he kisses you, releasing a final burst of hot seed. “Mm,” he grunts into your mouth, hands holding each other’s faces. Glued together, consuming each other in the dark. The passion simmers to something gentler as your loins twitch with aftershocks, becoming over-sensitive.

You break away to breathe, gasping for humid air in the fogged-up car.

He pants, looks up at the ceiling. His neck vein pulses. His skin is clammy looking, dewy with cold sweat,

“Fuck,” sighs, his chest heaving, “Still got your goddamn tits out.” He admires them, then feeds himself one. He tongues your nipple, and when your cunt squeezes him, he winces, letting it out of his mouth.

A tractor trailer whizzes by, shaking the whole car.

“Alright,” he says, and nudges you off his lap. “Now pull yourself together.”

He takes the gun, wet with your juices, puts it on the dashboard near him. He looks over at you skeptically when you've climbed back over the center console into your seat.

“You better stuff that dress between your legs,” he warns. “Don’t want ya leakin’ all over the goddamn place.”

THANK YOU FOR READING.

Believe it or not, I cut two scenes from this lol so I might put them in a little bonus visit between Joel and his mom soon.

Look, this took me a year and I feel like I've finally done my mental vision justice lol. So, please interact 🧎‍♀️🥺🖤

anon is fine if you're shy!

#dark!joel miller #slasher!joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #toxicanonymity ☠️#slasher!joel miller #cw dubcon

391 notes · View notes

tacoguacamole · 1 day ago

Text

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark’s sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the tress start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

253 notes · View notes

snooperzz · 20 hours ago

Text

Back on You

Robert "Bob" Reynolds x female!Reader/OC Word count: 5.9k Warnings: angst, reader/oc has self esteem issues Note: this is written in third person & reader/oc is unnamed! you can also read this story on ao3 :) Summary/Excerpt: She liked Bob. She liked hearing about his favorite characters in the book he was working his way through, or the crazy stories from his time working at a bail bonds company as a sign-spinning chicken. She liked spending time with him and seeing his dorky smile, and she didn’t want to ruin that by telling him how much she liked it. How much she liked him. (i.e., A former member of the Guardians of the Galaxy, now a member of the New Avengers, has a crush on Bob.)

They had cornered her.

“They” being Yelena and Ava. She had just gotten out of training with Bucky, and all she wanted to do was take a shower and disappear into her room for the rest of the day. But, of course, Yelena and Ava spotted her raiding the pantry and had now made it their top priority to make her talk about the one subject she avoided at all costs.

Bob .

Not that it was really his fault. He was just possibly the sweetest person that she had never met, and he unfortunately was not hard to look at. It was embarrassing, really, how often she was caught sneaking glimpses at him from across the room. It seemed like everyone was onto her. Well, everyone except for Bob, thankfully. He was oblivious, from what she could tell, and she did not plan to do anything to mess that up.

They were good friends. Ever since the New Avengers were announced, and she found herself moving from her closet-sized apartment into the Watchtower, she and Bob had been spending more and more time together. But that was just out of convenience. It wasn’t her fault his room was right across the hall from her own, and they just so happened to leave their rooms at the same time every morning. And it definitely wasn’t her fault they developed a habit of concocting smoothies together each morning, testing out new, sometimes questionable, combinations (this morning’s was strawberries, bananas, and jalapenos).

She liked Bob. She liked hearing about his favorite characters in the book he was working his way through, or the crazy stories from his time working at a bail bonds company as a sign-spinning chicken. She liked spending time with him and seeing his dorky smile, and she didn’t want to ruin that by telling him how much she liked it. How much she liked him .

So, she avoided the topic altogether. At least, she tried to. Just like she was doing right now, shoving whatever snacks she laid her eyes on into her arms in an attempt to get out of the impending conversation with Yelena and Ava as fast as possible.

“Save some for the rest of us,” Yelena teased, causing her to turn around. She could already feel her face turning hot.

“You’re ravaging this place like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Ava commented. “Which I know isn’t true because I was forced to try the disgusting smoothie you and Bob made this morning.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” she muttered, placing a family-sized box of cheez its back onto the shelf.

“Speaking of Bob,” Yelena began, giving her a knowing look. “How is he?”

She shrugged, jostling the remaining snacks in her arms. “I don’t know. You should ask him.”

They both looked at her suspiciously. Then at each other. Then back at her.

“We just noticed you guys have been spending a lot of time together,” Ava hinted, raising her eyebrows. “So we thought you might know.”

“I haven’t seen him since this morning. I’ve been training with Bucky all day, so I’m starved,” she laughed awkwardly.

They groaned at her excuse.

“Come on,” Yelena sighed. “We all see you guys looking all goo-goo eyed at each other. It’s disgusting.”

“What?! I don’t—”

Ava interrupted her, stating her name sharply.

“You do,” Yelena continued. “You definitely do, even Alexei is getting annoyed.”

“Why don’t you say something?” Ava questioned her.

Her face was burning under their pointed gazes, and she shifted from side to side, unsure how to respond.

Ava said her name again, waiting for the girl to look up at her before continuing. “You’re a badass, and he likes you. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

“I don’t know—”

“Oh my God,” Yelena groaned, walking up to her and grabbing the snacks out of her arms and putting them back in the pantry shelf. “Why don’t you invite him out for food instead of stuffing your face with cheese crackers.”

She grabbed the girl’s shoulders and gently pushed her out of the kitchen.

“And take a shower! You stink!” Ava called out after her as she rushed back to her room.

The two women watched her scurry away before looking at each other, unable to hide the coy smiles growing on their faces.

When she got back to her room, she had hoped she would feel some type of relief. She wasn’t under the prying eyes of Yelena and Ava anymore, but her mind was still racing. Did they really believe that Bob had feelings towards her too? She had sometimes thought maybe he did, like when he stayed up with her until the next morning on movie nights. Long after everyone else went to bed, they would make home on the couch, a bucket of popcorn in between them, having their own movie marathons.

Last week, Bob had introduced her to Back to the Future . Well, she had heard of it before but had never had the time to actually watch it.

She hadn’t grown up on Earth. She was raised by Ravagers and grew up surrounded by dingy ship walls and bitter outcasts. Her parents had abandoned her as a child, and she was on her own for a while. Until one day, a little boy not that much older than her with fiery red hair picked her up and refused to let her go. Peter Quill became like an older brother to her. A piece of family she never thought she would have. He taught her how to shoot a gun and break out of a jail cell. He showed her which vents in the Ravagers’ ship led to the kitchen and where Yondu kept his spare arrows. She missed him. More than she thought she would when she decided to stay on Earth while the rest of the Guardians travelled back into space with Thor.

She remembered saying goodbye. Peter almost refused to leave, but she had always been more stubborn. After each Guardian insisted on having their turn to hug her, Peter approached her again, handing her a small box.

“What is this?” she had asked, eyeing him with a quirked brow before taking the box from his hands. When she opened it, she found his walkman along with some other device.

“I can’t take this,” she said immediately, automatically ripping it out the box and pushing it onto his chest.

“Nah, you have to take it,” he chuckled. His eyes were glassy, and his smile was teasing, almost mournful. “You gotta have something to remember me by. Remember how you abandoned me with these losers.” He put the walkman back in her box.

“Then what’s this for?” She picked up the second device.

“That’s a pager. I put my number in there in case you ever want to reach out.”

She smiled, holding the box of gifts close to her chest. She tried to ignore the burning in her eyes. “Does it work even if we’re on different planets?”

“You’ll have to test it out,” his eyes were watering too, and he pulled her in for a final hug.

She hadn’t seen him since that day, and she hadn’t reached out either. Sometimes she would find herself just sitting with the pager, her mind dancing with the decision of sending Peter a message. But she could never do it. She usually ended up slipping on his old headphones and listening to one of his mixes on the walkman. It reminded her of home. Her old home on the Milano. This happened more often, though, before she met Yelena, Ava, and the rest of the Thunderbolts.

She felt happier now. She liked being on Earth. It was something she never got growing up. She also liked her new friends. Her new friends that became more and more like family everyday, no matter how much they tried to deny it. And, as much as she tried not to think about it, she really liked hanging out with Bob.

Sighing, she shook her head.

Fuck it.

She would say something. Tell him how she felt. But only because Yelena and Ava seemed so sure he reciprocated her feelings.

She spent her entire shower trying to find the right words to ask him to dinner, but nothing sounded right. She felt stupid. She had fought side by side Iron Man and Captain America to defeat Thanos. She could fly a spaceship. Was she really going to let the idea of talking to a boy scare her?

No.

Ava was right. She was a badass. She reminded herself of this as she walked towards her bedroom door. All she had to do was open it up, walk across the hallway, and ask Bob if he wanted to get burgers or something. She took a deep breath and swung the door open, only to find a figure already standing there, arm raised as if he were about to knock on her door.

It was Bob. Bob in his navy blue sweater and corduroy pants. Bob with his curly hair framing his face, with that dorky smile that always made her face turn red. He swallowed nervously, letting out an awkward laugh as he slowly brought his arm down.

“Hi,” he said, his voice almost a whisper as he looked at her intensely.

“Hey,” she squeaked back, her confidence from five seconds ago quickly depleting.

He cleared his throat, his hands clasped tightly together in front of him. Despite his efforts to make himself seem smaller, his broad shoulders felt like they took up her entire door frame. She tried not to think about how good he looked.

“I was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab dinner with me?” His words came out quick, like if he didn’t say them now, he probably never would. “I heard the burger place down the block also has good milkshakes.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Really, she was shocked. He asked her before she had even gotten the chance to approach him. When she didn’t say anything for a moment, he began to look worried.

“We don’t have to, though, if that’s too wei–”

“No!” she interrupted him quickly. “I would really like that.”

“Really?” A soft smile began to grow on his face.

“Of course.” She smiled right back.

So, they went to dinner. They both ordered a burger, fries, and a milkshake, hers chocolate and his vanilla, of course. They talked about anything and everything. Bob caught her up on the current book he was reading (Bucky had recommended The Hobbit ), and they made plans to binge all of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings movies once he finished all of the books. She told him about her adventures with the Guardians and all of the stupid arguments her old teammates always had. He was still fascinated by the fact that she had not only been to space, but she had also grown up there too. That, and the fact she also knew a talking racoon.

They spent hours at the diner, talking and sipping on their milkshakes, until finally, a waiter came over and told them the restaurant was closing soon. Bob picked up the check, refusing to let her pay no matter how much she insisted, and they walked back to the Watchtower.

She thought about holding his hand, but she didn’t want to push it.

When they got back to the team’s penthouse, it was quiet. Not quite ready to go to bed, they sat down on the couch. She tried not to think about how close they were to each other. How their legs were brushing against one another’s. They sat like that for a while, quietly. It was a comfortable silence for the most part, but her mind was racing, the butterflies in her stomach picking up.

She wanted to kiss him. She really did. But she had never kissed anyone before. Before she was on Earth, she never really had the time. Or the want. She saw how many women Peter tried sneaking into his room, and she never really understood why. She had never been interested in anyone like that.

Not until she met Bob.

But now that she knew she wanted to kiss him, she also knew that she had no idea how to kiss anyone. It was embarrassing, really. Most people her age had been in relationships already, and she had never even had her first kiss.

Bob whispered her name so quietly she could barely hear it, but she still jumped in surprise as his voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Thanks for getting dinner with me,” he smiled shyly at her, and she returned his look.

“Thanks for asking.”

“Maybe we could go again tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I'd like that a lot.”

They were quiet again for a moment, but before she could spiral into her thoughts for the second time, Bob spoke.

He said her name softly as he shifted his body on the couch to face her head on. His eyes were serious, and they shifted between looking at her own eyes and her lips. He leaned in closer, placing a hand softly onto her thigh and the other on her waist.

She froze. This was it. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted him to kiss her. But she also had no idea how to kiss him back.

He leaned in even closer (somehow that was possible) and stopped for a moment, looking at her, waiting for a sign that she was good, that he could keep going. She took in a shaky breath and gave him a small nod.

When his lips finally touched hers, they felt surprisingly warm, assured. The complete opposite of how she was feeling. She felt like a bumbling mess. She had no idea what to do with her hands. She had always heard not to think about how to kiss someone and just to let it happen. But that felt impossible at the moment. She tried to let him guide the kiss and simply follow his lead, and that worked for a moment until suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. And neither was the silence they had found comfort in.

In its place was the thunderous sound of thousands of heroes and aliens charging towards each other, attacking each other all around her.

Then she saw it. Herself. Fighting the Chitauri, shooting down every alien that she could, but she was running out of time. They were starting to corner her. She remembered when this happened. It was years ago, in the Avengers’ final fight against Thanos.

Then she saw him. Peter. After five years of not knowing if he was alive. After hearing from Nebula he had been turned to dust. He was there, in front of her and alive. She remembered how happy she was, how thankful she was to see him.

She watched as he helped take down the remaining Chitauri that had her trapped. She watched her past self as she ran toward him, jumping into his embrace. They gripped each other tightly, and her past self laughed almost hysterically as she fought against tears.

Then there was a shift. He paused. He had seen something else. Someone else . His grip loosened, slowly releasing her, and her past and present self turned to look at what he saw.

It was her. Gamora.

Peter had left her side now, walking slowly towards Gamora, his eyes wide in awe and admiration. He left her alone to watch as he ran back to Gamora. Again.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of Gamora. She just felt intimidated anytime she was around. And a little bit sad. Forgotten, maybe. She had grown up with Peter, watching him bulldoze through thousands of hookups and one-night stands. Sure, it was annoying, but at the end of the day, she knew she still had him. He would always look out for her, always have her back. Not to say that after he met Gamora he didn’t look out for her anymore, but things were definitely different. He started going to Gamora for second opinions instead of her, and started only looking for Gamora’s approval of his ideas.

So, it hurt when he ran straight to Gamora after not seeing him for years. And watching it all over again, those feelings came right back.

She shook her head violently, wanting to be anywhere but in that memory. She closed her eyes tightly, pushing against her tears and her own brain. She wanted out, out, out .

Then, it was quiet again. A panicked voice was calling her name, and a hand nudged her shoulder softly. She opened her eyes to see Bob again, a worried look on his face. She looked all around her, taking in the environment. She wasn’t in the past anymore. She was here, in the penthouse, with Bob.

“A-are you okay?” Bob asked, his voice laced with concern.

She nodded quickly. She was pretty sure she was fine. Her face felt wet, though, and she wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. Had she been crying?

“You went somewhere else, didn’t you?”

She looked at him dumbly. She felt like an idiot. She had spent the past few months thinking about kissing Bob, and when she had finally gotten the chance, she blew it. Maybe if she hadn’t been in her own head so much, she wouldn’t have ruined it.

“I’m sorry,” Bob muttered, his eyes down cast. He scooted away from her, not wanting to touch her. Not wanting to accidentally send her into another bad memory.

She shook her head, watching as he moved away. Even though she didn’t really want him to. “It’s not your fault,” she tried to reassure him, but she could tell he didn’t believe her.

“I’m gonna, uh,” she continued. She stood up, hugging herself. “I’m gonna go to bed. I’ll, uh–I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She rushed out of the living area and back to her room, wishing she could disappear.

The next few days felt never ending. She sunk herself into her training, using it as a distraction from the fact she hadn’t spoken to Bob in days. He was clearly avoiding her. Every morning when she made her way into the kitchen, he was already there, eating a bowl of cereal and refusing to even glance in her direction.

It hurt, but she understood. She had run away after he kissed her, with no explanation. And, in all honesty, she had been avoiding him since that night too. She just missed him. Missed getting to spend time with him every day.

Instead, she spent time in the gym. And when she wasn’t attacking punching bags or trying not to die on the treadmill, she was in her room. Alone with her thoughts and Peter’s walkman. She tried to use the music to drown out the old memories flooding her brain. Ever since seeing her past self that night, she kept remembering her life before being on Earth. Before the Blip. Before the Guardians, even.

Back when Yondu would send her on smuggling missions once Peter was too big to actually fit in the vents anymore. Back when Yondu deemed missions “too dangerous” for her to join him and Peter, and he would leave her behind. Stuck with the rest of the Ravagers. The Ravagers that would leave her on less-than-safe planets for “fun,” forcing her to find her way back on her own. When she did eventually find her way back, they would still taunt her relentlessly, telling her she would never be a real Ravager. Not that she even wanted to be anyway.

She wanted to be just like Peter. Peter, who was charismatic and good at taking down whatever enemies got in Yondu’s way. Peter was always Yondu’s favorite, and she was always the second choice. The one Yondu would take along only when Peter was too busy with another mission.

She had finally left the confines of her room, choosing to go sit outside instead. She was sitting on the edge of the landing pad, her feet dangling over the streets of New York. She held her pager, staring at the number Peter left for her.

Maybe she should finally reach out. It had been a few years since the Guardians left on their search for Gamora. Maybe they had found her. Her fingers hovered over the device. A small part of her told her to just do it. To not think about it and send him a message. It didn’t have to be anything crazy or deep, maybe just a simple “Hey, how are you?” But, a bigger part of her was scared. Scared to reach out to him only to never hear back.

That was where Bucky found her, sitting at the rails of the helicopter pad. The rest of the New Avengers knew something was up. They had noticed she and Bob were never together anymore, annoying the rest of them with their constant, yet somehow oblivious, flirting with each other. They noticed that she had also spent less and less time with them as a group, choosing instead to hide away in the gym or her room.

He had been looking for her that evening. They had just finished eating dinner, and she opted not to join them once again. So, he took it upon himself to make her a plate and bring it to her room. When he knocked on her door, though, she didn’t answer. She wasn't there, and he also didn’t find her in the gym either. He asked around, to see if anyone else knew where she was, but all he was met with were shrugs.

That was until he ran into Bob. Bob, who quietly informed him he saw her make her way outside to the landing pad. And, sure enough, that’s where he found her.

He called her name softly, and she turned to look at him, watching as he sat down beside her and placed a bowl of mac and cheese in between them.

“I brought you some food.” He looked at her carefully, as if he was trying to figure out what was going on inside her head. “We missed you at dinner.”

She scoffed. “Thank you.” She looked back down at the pager in her hands.

“What’s that?” Bucky asked, nodding towards the device.

“Pager,” she responded. Her brows furrowed. “Shouldn’t you know that? Aren’t you like a hundred years old?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Over one hundred, and that’s actually past my time.”

She smiled, “Right.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“It’s from Peter,” she spoke again. “He was one of my friends before being here. Before the Blip.”

Bucky nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He just waited for her to continue.

She took a deep breath. “He gave it to me in case I ever wanted to reach out. Put his number on it.”

“Have you?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess…I guess I’m just afraid he won’t answer.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t give you his number if he wasn’t going to answer.”

She shrugged. “He’s probably too busy to respond, anyway.”

“How would you know that if you haven’t reached out?”

“What are you doing?” she huffed. “Did you come out here just to lecture me?” She looked at him, her furrowed eyebrows turning into a scowl.

His head dropped. “No. No, I came out to make sure you’re okay. We’re worried about you.”

She turned to stare at the streets below them. “I’m fine. Just…tired I guess.”

“Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t been around. You missed movie night yesterday. I don’t know, I just feel like something’s up.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and he said her name again. “You can talk to me.”

She thought about his offer, chewing on her lip. She knew she could trust him. Bucky was there for her after the final battle with Thanos. He took her under his wing, offering her a place to stay. But she knew he had his own demons, his own battles. She didn’t want to be a burden on him, so when she finally got a job, she moved into her own place. Then, they found each other again. Through Valentina, of all people.

“Me and Bob…kissed,” she said finally, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.

“Really?” Bucky mused. “How’d that go?”

She grimaced. “Not great. I ran out on him. Left him alone on the couch.”

“Ouch.”

“Wait, no! It wasn’t his fault. It was me,” she stammered. “I mean, he was great.”

Bucky tried and failed to hide his smile. “I’m sure he was.”

She felt her face burning. What was she doing?

“Geez,” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands, the pager dropping to the floor beside her. She lifted her head to look at it again, the memories of Peter and the Guardians rushing back into her mind.

“When we kissed,” she continued. “It took me back to a memory. From when we fought Thanos for the last time.”

Bucky nodded, letting her continue.

“I saw myself. And Peter. I hadn’t seen him in five years at the time. I thought I would never see him again. When we saw each other, we hugged each other so tight. I didn’t want to let go.”

She could feel the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“But then he let go. Because he saw her. ”

Bucky looked at her carefully. “Who?”

She laughed dryly. She sounded ridiculous. “Gamora. His girlfriend . He ran straight to her. It didn’t surprise me, really, but it still hurt. You know?”

Bucky nodded.

She went on, “I didn’t know it at the time, but he thought she was dead. Well, technically she was . But he didn’t think he would ever see her again, and then he did. And I understood that, I thought the same thing about him. But I just…”

She paused for a moment, gathering her words. “Ever since Gamora came into our lives, and we became the Guardians of the Galaxy, it felt like I lost a piece of him. Like I used to be his number one. His best friend. And then that became…her.

“And it was fine. I mean, I made new friends too, but…my new best friend was a talking racoon. And his best friend was a tree.” She laughed pathetically. She felt stupid, sitting there crying in front of the Winter Soldier about having no friends. He must have had better things to worry about.

He shifted closer to her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gently. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he said softly.

She sniffled. “I’m just tired of always being everyone’s second choice. My parents abandoned me. Then my fake-dad liked my fake-brother better than me. And then my fake-brother decided to get a girlfriend that was ten times better than I was.” Her words came out in hiccups.

Bucky let out a quiet, “Come here,” before pulling her into a tight embrace. She hid her face into her hands, tucking herself into his side.

“You’re not everyone’s second choice,” he told her, adamant. “We all care about you. We all want you here. You’re an asset to our team, and you’re a great friend.” He squeezed her to his chest, letting her release all of the emotions she had been holding back for years.

He didn’t let her go until she pulled back on her own.

“For what it’s worth, I can definitely think of one person who considers you their first choice.” Bucky paused, pretending to think. “Hmm, yeah. You are definitely their favorite out of our little group, although,” he grimaced. “Your competition isn’t that great, so I don’t know how flattered you should be.”

He nudged her shoulder playfully, and she laughed, her sniffles fading away. “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

He looked at her as if it was obvious. “Oh I don’t know, the one person that knew exactly where to find you when I asked.”

She nodded her head and looked down, attempting to hide the smile sneaking onto her face. “Bob,” she whispered.

“Bob,” Bucky confirmed. Another beat of silence. “You should talk to him.”

She took a deep breath in. “I don’t think he wants me to do that. He avoids me like the plague, he can’t even look at me.”

“Okay, now that,” he pointed at her. “That is a lie. He cannot take his eyes off of you. He’s just good at hiding it.”

She shook her head, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t kn–”

“I’m serious,” he butted in, giving her a sharp look. “Just at least try. Please. Okay? If not for your sake then for the rest of ours.”

She nodded. “Okay, I will.”

“And eat this,” he continued, picking up the bowl of mac and cheese and plopping it down on her lap. “Before it gets cold. Yelena worked too hard on it for it to go to waste.”

That night, she found herself pacing back and forth in her room, trying to muster up the courage to go knock on Bob’s door. It reminded her of just a few days ago, when she was convincing herself to ask him on a date. Except when she opened the door this time, he was not already there, waiting for her. So, she took a deep breath and made the short trek to his side of the hallway. Before she could even think about turning around and running back to her room, she lifted her hand and landed three soft knocks on his door.

She waited for a moment, nothing happened. She couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door. Maybe he was out. Just as she was turning to walk back to her room, the door swung open, and Bob’s voice called out her name.

She turned to face him. He was in his pajamas, a hoodie pulled over his head. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, I, uh,” she ran her hand through her hair, trying to release some of her nerves. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He swallowed, nodding quickly. “Sure. Do you wanna…” he trailed off, opening his door a little bit wider. He motioned inside.

She nodded back, stepping into his room. It wasn’t her first time in there. There was one night where she had woken up from a nightmare, unable to fall back asleep. When she went to the kitchen to grab herself some water, she found Bob already there, raiding the fridge for a midnight snack. Since they both knew sleep was not in the cards for them that night, they grabbed a Monopoly board from the living area and took it back to Bob’s room. They played Monopoly until six in the morning, and both ended up falling asleep on the bedroom floor.

They stood there for a moment. Bob waited for her to speak, but she was wrapped up in her own thoughts, remembering that night. Finally, she broke the quiet tension between them.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Bob. For leaving you the other night. And for ignoring you the past few days. I was just…scared I guess.”

He watched her for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Her eyes grew. That wasn’t what she meant at all .

“No!” she said suddenly, startling him. “ You didn’t scare me, Bob. I just…when we kissed, you disappeared, and I saw myself. Myself from years ago. It was a memory I forgot about, one pushed down, but it came back that night. and I’ve kind of just been��wallowing since then.”

“That was my fault,” he argued. “That still happens sometimes when I touch someone. They see things they don’t want to. They have to relive memories they hate. I knew that it could’ve happened to you, but I kissed you anyway.”

“I knew that, though.”

He stared at her, eyebrows creased in confusion. “Wh-what?”

“I knew that there was a chance it would happen, but I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t. Because I like you, Bob. And I wanted to kiss you,” she was rambling now, the words flowing out of her like a waterfall. “And I’ve missed you the past few days. A lot.”

“I like you too,” he confessed. She could see his cheeks turning red, and she could feel her face heating up.

She went to grab his hand, but he backed away from her touch. He apologized. “I don’t want to send you back there again.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you did. I think I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was so nervous that night. So in my own head. I had never kissed anyone before, and I was so worried about messing it up. About not being good enough. I think all those negative thoughts are what brought that memory back.”

He nodded, taking in her words. Trying to understand. “You could never not be good enough,” he promised.

His words caused her face to heat up even more, and she looked away, trying to hide it. He said her name, and she turned to look at him again.

He stepped closer to her, grabbing the arm of her sweatshirt. “Would you maybe want to try again?”

She didn’t even have to think about her answer. She nodded softly, her breath hitching as his hand moved from her sweatshirt to her neck, cupping her jaw, his other hand placed on the small of her back. She was still nervous, yes, the butterflies dancing around her stomach made that obvious. But it was a different kind of nervous than before. It was more of an anticipation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him in closer until, finally, their lips touched. She didn’t even have to think about it this time. It was natural. Right.

The kiss started off tender, sweet. But soon, it turned into something more hungry, like they had been waiting months to explore each other in this way. And honestly, they had.

After what felt like hours, they finally broke apart, but they didn’t let go, still holding each other close.

“You still here with me?” Bob breathed, his hands traveling down her sides to rest on her waist.

She laughed breathlessly and nodded, their noses bumping together with her movement. “I’m here,” she whispered.

He leaned in again, and she could feel the smile in his kiss.

“For someone so worried about messing up, you’re pretty good at this,” he teased, squeezing her sides.

His words sent heat through her body, and she shoved him back playfully. “Shut up,” she rolled her eyes.

He laughed along with her, and they both settled into a comfortable silence.

“Maybe now everyone can get off our backs about this,” he said, pointing between the two of them.

“God, yes,” she groaned, shaking her head. “Yelena and Ava would not leave me alone.”

“It was John for me,” he chuckled.

“You’re kidding.”

“I really wish I was. That guy’s an asshole.”

“...Sooo, how are we feeling about getting some milkshakes right now?”

“I was about to say the same thing.”

#bob reynolds x reader #robert bob reynolds x reader #bucky barnes & reader #bob reynolds x oc #robert bob reynolds x oc #bucky barnes & oc

162 notes · View notes

fatalitysficbakery · 1 day ago

Text

༒☙༒ A Glimpse Of Her —

Elias “Stack” Moore x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: angst???/fluff/SMUT.

warnings: SMUT. MY GOSH WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?

synopsis: you’re back in town, he ain’t missin his chance this time.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu ༒.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery Sinners menu ༒.

༒

❝So, you rob trains and banks but you can’t come steal this pussy for a night?❞⁣

༒

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

"I lied to you. Yes, I lied to you...I love the blues."

You stepped onto the front lawn of the old sawmill, your eyes held a storm in them, the kind ya wish you could ignore. It couldn't have been seven years since you returned to the delta. It felt like you was just a little girl, running behind them twins like a lovesick puppy. See, Stack had sold you a dream. A dream he wasn't man enough to deliver on.

When you stepped in front of that door, you held your breath and prayed to the Gods you still knew Elias well enough to know his bluffs; Cornbread sho looked at you like ya did. Not a shred of recognition on the man's face, but earlier that day Elias had promised you wouldn't be getting that door; that you should've walked right on back where ya came from, far as he was concerned.

'Look real pretty tonight, miss. Gon make these fellas weak in the knees."

Uh-huh. Jackpot. You couldn't help but giggle at Cornbread's attempt at a gentlemanly greeting; he still looked the same as when you'd left. couldn't quite say the same about yourself. "Oh, drop allat, Cornbread. We ain't never talked to each other like that."

His eyes go all wide, and he takes his hat off, a half smile printed on his lips, hat on his chest as it all came to him. "Know that ain't Genevieve's gal, nie? Girl, I sho ain't recognize ya. Come on in!" He opens his arms, allowing you in for a hug and squeezing tight fore patting ya back and chuckling, "Ain't seen ya since ya last sang for us. Hope them pipes get used tonight."

"We'll see now, Corn. Ima go get me a drink now if that's okay with you." Still looking at you in pure surprise and wonder, he nods quickly and lets you pass, still smiling all big and proud.

"Gon on, girl, it's good to see ya."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

You knew it wouldn't take long, his eyes had tracked ya since ya entered the room, his hands twitching around the glass of whiskey in his hand. He lets you settle for a moment at least before he makes his way over to you in short, swift strides.

Your finger taps against the side of your glass, looking at him from your peripheral vision. He looked sharper than a knife, good as the night, and clean as hell. You breathe in the scent of musk, smoke, and whiskey when he's next to ya, but you ain't falling for it; he looks irritated as all hell too.

"Y'know, songbird; ya always had a habit of showing up places ya ain't belong. Finish your drink up. Follow me." His body language is tense; you can see the veins in his neck straining, his hand on the glass clenching, and his body stays tense, but he don't look at you; nah, he avoids your gaze like the 14th century plague. Like he can't bear it. Looking your way.

"Following you would lead me to hell, boy. Sides, I gots me a meeting."

Your body steps one inch away from his before he's gripping your wrist firmly, pulling you right up against him, teeth gritted and grills gleaming, his chuckle is as bitter as the beer the patrons are drinking and it sends an absolute shiver through you. "You was going to hell fore ya stepped in this building, woman."

"You left too, Elias. You planned to leave first. Remember that, and get your damn hands off me, dog."

His hold grows tighter, and he has the nerve to shake his head; he stares you down with the heat of a thousand furnaces, his eyes burning through you, and if you didn't know better, you would've thought looks could kill. "Your dog. Seven damn years, seven damn years I ain't seen no sign of you."

"Like. wise." You get out stiffly, but there's that storm again, and this time you ain't got the guts to ignore it.

"You need to dance. Don't ya?" He says after a while and grabs your hand within his, raising it to his lips, and taking a deep breath of your scent. Shit, still smell like jasmine. He ain't never smelt nothing sweeter. "May I?"

You don't know if ya wanna scoff or take him up on that offer, maybe both. You contemplate your options for a moment before remembering what'd ya come here for. Kissing your teeth, your hand settles in his. "I know you'd better still know how to move your feet, Elias Moore."

When your hold releases from his, your figure saunters away to the dancefloor, and he fixes his tie, admiring the view as he follows right on behind ya. Whispering to himself, his eyes roam over you with a heated glaze; the sway in your hips something to stop traffic, "Sho do love to watch you walk away."

"I heard that."

He licks his lips with a smirk on em, "Shyat, I hope ya did."

[༒]

It wasn't long, not long at all, till you pressed against Elias just right whilst you danced; he's only a man, a weaker one when it came to you. He stilled you in your place, grunting, "I'm weak, darlin'. Ain't never been nothing but weak around ya."

"I know. Cornbread sho let me in easy enough when I walked up to that door. Thought you was keeping me out?"

"Cornbread ain't got half the brain to listen to me." He lies, knowing darn well he ain't tell the man not to let you in, hell, he barely even mentioned you coming back to the Delta to his own brother. He wanted this all for him. At least for the night, letting out a hiss of air, he drags you away from the floor and into an unused storage room.

He's smooth when he moves, hoisting you up and onto the counter before grabbing your face into his hands, looking you dead in the eyes like he needed you to know every word was real, and they were. He could lie to most, but not to you.

"Ya got that leash pulled too damn tight for me to breathe, darlin. Ain't no way I could've denied you. No matter how long we've been apart."

"Well, I'm still angry with you. I'm furious." His hand is inching up your dress, the roughness of his palm against the soft skin of your thighs, he's smooth as butter; a charming killer. He knows how to use that grin, especially with you.

"But?" He tilts his chin up, adams apple bobbing and that damn smirk still on his face, smug as he'd always been. The Moore way: confident and cunning. Ya ain't never hated and loved anything more.

When your eyes avert from his, it's like he's hit the jackpot. He knows he's got you now. Can feel it in the way ya can't meet his gaze. Always been a cute lil habit of yours he absolutely adored. — His thumb and index finger come up to tilt your chin, get those big brown eyes looking back at him; Lord, he couldn't get enough. "Aht, aht...Ain't nunnadet now, woman. Tell me what you was gon say."

You could punch him, hell, you oughta for all the promises he broke, the nights he had ya wondering if he ever even loved ya in the first place. A hiss of air is let out between your gritted teeth, and y'know he ain't letting you dodge this. "Making me say it?"

"Goddamned right." His hand doesn't remove itself from your chin, head tilted and brow raised; he's waiting patiently, and if he couldn't be patient with anything else, he could when it came to you. You knew he was prepared to do this all night. His eyes light up like a kids on Christmas when you let that resigned sigh out.

And Bingo was his name-o.

"But...Loving somebody else was never an option for me, Elias." Your whisper is like a butterfly kiss, the words a wisp upon his ears when you say them and press your head against his. His hand stops at the edge of your underwear, and the breath that escapes him almost sounds like a plea to God. A plea to keep the man grounded, because you damn sho wasn't. Not when you sounded so sweet admitting you still loved him.

"Them some pretty words ya speaking, sweetheart." His voice comes out rough, and strained with the restraint he was holding onto so damn tightly. His hands grip your hips, and suddenly you're being taken off the counter, the man sighing like he just realized he'd been starving all night. Famished.

"Turn round for me, girl. Finna see what I been missing out on being boneheaded."

"Ask nicely." You tease.

A hiss of air can be heard when you're turned around and bent over the table. Stack's fingers grip the edge like his life depended on it, trying to restrain himself from busting just at the sight of your soft, welcoming thighs. He slots himself between them before he loses the little mind he has left, unzipping his own slacks. His hands spread you open, yanking your panties down a little less gently than he'd intended.

"I been waitin too damn long to ask anything kindly, darlin'. You're lucky I ain't take ya right at that damn train station. Hold onto me."

His hand envelops yours, allowing you to brace yourself in his grasp, the other moving to line himself with your entrance, the feeling so familiar and yet so distantly felt until he's finally sank himself into ya, your walls soft and warm and so damn tight around that it pulls the most desperate grunt from his lips, and a whispered gasp from you.

Lord, he doesn't know just who to thank yet for bringing you on home. His hand slides around the back of your neck, his head finding its way next to your ear, nipping the tip of it; the gold of his grills like heat against your skin, your hand reaches up to bring his face even closer: your breaths mingle, and that first thrust feels like pure freedom.

"Feel just like home in here, girl. Gon get me hooked like a bad habit again, ain'tcha?" Pace slow yet deliberate, he guides your head down, getting you in a position where your head rests on the table, and he could get even deeper inside you. As deep as he possibly could. "Betcha still taste like honey, too. Ain't nowhere near done with rediscovering every part of you."

His words bit at her in the most embarrassing way, lips dripping with slightly whispered moans, keeping mind the party just outside the door; It ain't quite right how smooth he could be, a shuddered whine escaping her like summin she ain't never heard from herself before. It shows in the way her bite becomes reactive. "You sho talk a lot, don't ya?"

"Want me to shut up, huh?" He chuckles, angling his hips just so and rocking into you with a particular roughness that was so simply Elias, it'd almost be funny if it weren't for the way your mouth had fallen open into a moan too loud for your liking, given the location they were in. "Maybe you just need to be a lil louder, princess."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

Smoke ain't one bit surprised when he sees the two of you running out of the backroom, you giggling whilst Elias leads you out to his truck, the afterglow clear in the way both your clothes were a little wrinkled and tussled up.

"Aye, where you think you're goin'?" He yells out for his brother, but Elias simply waves him before yelling back.

"Gon go home and show my woman some real lovin'. We a be back."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

A/N: which sinner is next? i cannot let you know, there is evil watching and they will try to sabotage my plans </33.

215 notes · View notes

olenoidedserratuspilled · 2 days ago

Text

So this post ended up garnering a lot more attention than I expected, and it drew a lot of cluelessly optimistic people - which I suppose I should have seen coming. I am glad this many people saw what I had to say and thought it was worth sharing.

But I'm afraid my original point wasn't clear enough:

This isn't new, it's only the logical conclusion of a sentiment that's been allowed to grow and spread for the past 10 years at the very least. The warning signs have been there for a long time, and the few people who did care about them had no power to stop it.

Fast-forward to 2025 and that's still true: the few people who do care about this, about you, have no power to stop it - and the people who do have the power to stop it don't care. Back in the 2010s, the entire community was saying this would never happen, and that they'd never stand by it if it did, but now that it is happening, guess what?

Nobody's doing shit. Nobody who wants to can, nobody who can wants to. So the wound is allowed to keep growing and festering. By the time it gets bad enough that people can no longer ignore it, it'll be too late. It's only discourse now, it's just Twitblr drama, it's only a small minority now.

It won't be tomorrow.

You wanna know what my point is? What I'm saying and showing all of this for? It's simple:

Once the thoughts that "Calling men demons doesn't matter" and "talking about trans men the way you talk about cis men is fine" already coexist, anything and everything becomes excusable. The people willing to acknowledge that that's disgusting already have, and the people who aren't never will.

People - of all genders, races, religions and nationalities - desire an outgroup to rally against, and once they're rallied against an outgroup they'll look for more and more people to lump into that outgroup. Once you've been lumped in, there's no way out. Can't reverse entropy.

The time for discourse has come and gone, there's nothing any of us can say or do that'll change this - all we can do now is brace for impact. Marginalized men like myself and so many of those who reblogged my original post will just have to prepare for the reality of a world that's moving on without us, and neither wants us nor needs us anymore. But others have said this better than me:

Lastly: if this post ever reaches any of the people in my OP's screenshots, or anyone who thinks like them, know that I have no ill will towards you, and wish no harm on you.

But if you do manage to get everything you're fighting for, you will at some point be asked why we were left behind, and you will have to either lie or admit that you allowed it to happen.

So pray that you never grow a conscience.

I don't think very many people will see this post, but I needed to get this out there anyway:

The prevailing sentiment within transmasc communities right now is that the people above are only a loud, terminally online minority that holds no meaningful sway over IRL spaces. I won't deny that.

But you have to understand that rhetoric of this kind spreads easily - and that there's nothing you can meaningfully do to stop it from spreading. There's no amount of discourse that will prevent people from falling for the rhetoric you see above, nor any amount that can convince them to leave it.

This mentality is going to spread, it already is. I'm not here to offer a solution, but a warning: transmascs as a whole, and very likely many other groups besides them, will at some point have to cope materially, psychologically and emotionally with the reality of an LGBTQ+ community that does not include them.

I don't say this out of malice, and I do wish it weren't the case, but at this point I've also accepted that it'll happen. I urge that you prepare for it in any way you can.

#doomerisms #long post #vent post #transandrophobia #transandromisia #transmisandry #anti transmasculinity

700 notes · View notes

apple-crunch · 11 hours ago

Text

Imagine Colonel Caleb using his bionic arm and gravity evol on you during sex...

warnings: iron grip during sex,

Caleb is holding you in place using his bionic arm while he fucks you rough, hard, almost merciless. "Do you know how many nights I've thought about this exact scenario? I've waited for you for so long, I'm never gonna let you go."

He loves seeing you like this, holding you close to him. It gives him the feeling of security that nobody can ever take you away from him ever again. Having your legs spread while in missionary gives him the perfect view of his dick going in and out of your pussy. Hearing how you squelch around him.

As if his iron grip wasn't enough, he's also using his evol on you to keep you moving away from him on the bed while he deeply pounds into you. You can feel every inch and vein on his dick while he basically carves himself into you. His dogtag necklace dangles from his neck onto your face.

Fwop fwop fwop

The bedroom echoes with a mixture of your moans, groans, and the sound of your hips slapping against each other. Caleb chuckles seeing your mouth open and drooling, barely making eye contact with him as he uses your pretty hole for his and your pleasure.

He carefully lowers his neck down enough until his necklace is right on the tongue of your mouth. "Take it." He mutters eyeing you intently. You whimper before taking the dogtag between your lips, tongue slobbering all over it. Caleb groans, his hips going at an even faster rate with his tip brushing over your g spot at each thrust.

"Fu- ck! Keep taking baby, take it... like the good girl you are. Not- not gonna stop- ngh, until you're covered of me." There's just something about seeing something of his inside of you that turns him on. Something... like a baby, perhaps.

Staring at your fucked out beautiful face, down to your marked neck and chest area, he notices a pretty evident buldge forming on your stomach. Shit.

Caleb gives you one deep thrust and decides to stay pressed inside as he admires your tummy while loving your pussy spasms around his dick. "Taking me so well that I'm forming a bulge on your tummy, ya feel that princess? Feels good hm."

He doesn't know how many times the either of you have cum. Nor does he care, honestly. All he has on his mind right now is how beautiful you'd look as a mother to his children. Doesn't give a damn about the gender, long as he has at least three.

#﹙🍎﹚cc for lads CALEB.ᐟ #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #colonel caleb #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #lads #sylus smut #rafayel smut #xavier smut #zayne smut

312 notes · View notes

moon-fics · 2 days ago

Text

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

A/n: I haven't done any creative writing in months. I'm finally doing it again so PLEASE! PLEASE don't be made if I fuck this up.

Request: reader comforting bob (any bob, could be Reynolds or Floyd) after a nightmare abt a mission gone wrong 🙏🙏 may it be filled with all the comfort our dear robert could ever ask for 😌😌😌

Warnings: Swears, mentions of violence

Your first warning was the lights flickering. It was sudden and lasted way longer than a faulty wire would. Your second warning was the vibrations coming from your mirror. The third warning won't be as kind if you ignore it.

You know these warning signs, and you often look out for them. So, you rush out of your room. The dark hallways of the tower are barely lit, but you know your way to his room. You've run to them so often it's almost ingrained in your mind.

You don't even knock before opening his door and closing it behind you. You're met with a familiar sight of Bob curled up on his bed, trembling and gasping. He isn't awake and won't wake up unless someone helps him.

You stumble over to his bed and nearly trip on a Rubik's cube. You grab his shoulders once you reach him, shaking him lightly. This is a strategic mission because Bob is not a gracious person when he wakes up. With his powers, it's a 50/50 chance you get thrown across the room. Thankfully, the only time he's attacked in his sleep, you were able to dodge. Can't say the same for Alexei.

"Bob, wake up," you say while still shaking him. His oversized sweater is covered in sweat that sticks to your hands. "Come on, Bob. Come back to me." You say softly. You've found that yelling has never had a good outcome. So, using a softer tone is the only solution.

After a few seconds, you can see him stirring. His eyes move behind his lids, and his lips press together. You've memorized most of his face and reactions at this point. You've spent so much time with him it was only natural.

With one last shake, he's startled awake. A yell escapes his throat before dying out quickly. He frantically looks around his room before his eyes find you. Oh, do they find you.

It's like a puppy finding its owner after thinking it was lost. His eyes soften, and his breathing becomes controlled. It's rapid, but he's trying to slow it down.

"Did I-?" He can barely ask before you nod. "Was it bad? Did someone get hurt?" His usual questions.

"No, no one was hurt. You didn't do anything bad," You assure him while climbing onto the edge of his bed. You don't give yourself the entitlement of holding him or getting under the covers without her permission. "Was it a bad nightmare?" You ask.

He swallows whatever saliva is in his mouth and nods. "Yeah, it wasn't the best," He chuckles weakly. He pats the space next to him, allowing you into his space. You gladly take it and scoot closer to him.

"I, uh, I couldn't save anyone," He clears his throat awkwardly. You've both gotten into a groove of skipping the 'wanna talk about it' and the 'no, I'm ok'. It always leads to him talking about it and her comforting him back to sleep. "We were on a mission, and you wouldn't leave my side. I don't know what happened, but you were all hanging off a building, and suddenly I wasn't strong enough," He continues.

Having nightmares about bad missions or impossible situations isn't new to anyone in the tower. However, it is to Bob. He wasn't trained as an assassin or for combat. He was just some guy who got dealt bad cards and one wild card.

"Yeah, well, if we go down, at least we do it together," You nudge him. It's clear that doesn't help as his frown grows. "Hey, nothing is going to happen. I'm right here, and Bucky is right across the hall snoring." You say.

You gently rest a hand on his and squeeze for proof. He isn't alone anymore. He has a whole team of people who care and want the best for him. You're both silent as time passes. He can feel your pulse in your hand and how warm you are. Definitely not dead.

"Can you stay tonight?" He asks softly. His softness used to break your heart at how sad he seemed. Now, it's comforting. He doesn't sound as sad but more meek-like.

"Only if you don't kick me in your sleep again," You agree. A half smile spreads on his lips as an answer. You know he's going to kick you, and it's going to be annoying. However, you at least get to have a pretty view the entire night.

He turns over on his side and shifts under the covers. You carefully get under them as well and adjust yourself. Your chest presses against his back, and you wrap an arm around him.

You find it comical that a man this muscular likes being the little spoon, but you have no complaints. If it gets him a good night's sleep, you'll hold him all night.

"I'm right here," You repeat while shutting your eyes.

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x y/n #sentry x reader #sentry x you #sentry x y/n #void x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #the thunderbolts #the thunderbolts*#lewis pullman

181 notes · View notes

tobesolnelyx · 2 days ago

Note

fratboy!lottie with a VERY insightful + empathic girl fem!reader who literally sees right through Lottie. her inner pain, the reasons for her behavior, what she hides, everything. fem!reader doesn't know the exact answers, but she always guesses (and somehow always right), and she just really wants to help Lottie feel better, her main goal is to make Lottie feel accepted and loved, but Lottie herself has a hard time with someone digging around in her head. She is simply very scared that someone sees her so deeply, but at the same time, it seems, continues to love her. NSFW or SFW it doesn't matter!!

I really hope that this request will be heard because I have never seen anything like this. thank you for everything you do!

— every breath you take || fratboy!lottie matthews x fem!reader 🪐

a/n: yes, im very aware about what this song is. STILL, it reminded me about this cute little tik tok trend. it's not as cute lol, wrote this while listening all too well 10 minutes version

summary: your girlfriend has problems, but you can't really help when someone is scared of that, can you? hurt/comfrot.

warnings: toxic parents, family issues.

word count: around 1.6k

“Are you alright?” you asked, even though it was more than certain Lottie wouldn’t answer. At least not directly, not with any honesty. That wasn’t what frustrated you most—it wasn’t that she was unreadable. In truth, she wasn’t that hard to decipher. Not because she was transparent, but because when she shut herself off from everyone and pretended she didn’t need anyone, you could still see right through her.

She wanted to be your support, but she didn’t necessarily want it to work the other way around.

You never quite understood why you got her so well. Honestly, Lottie found it more irritating than anything else. You always seemed to know what to do, what to say, how to act. And she had no idea what to do with any of that. She didn’t like how deep you could dig, didn’t like the part of her that knew she would eventually have to open up if this thing between you was going to work. After all, no one had ever taught her how to build something healthy… how to go through all this.

Even the way she held herself—tense, frozen, like an animal alert to danger—told you that things were far from okay. She was staring at some invisible point in the distance, sitting on the porch, lazily smoking a cigarette in her left hand. Her blouse was unbuttoned and wrinkled, the aftermath of whatever that family gathering had been.

Eventually, Lottie looked at you and sighed, then wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. She smelled like cigarette smoke and some absurdly expensive perfume. You didn’t even know the brand, but it stung your nose—it always did. She used too much of it.

“Sure” she murmured. Even though her voice sounded like she’d just spent an hour breaking rocks in a quarry, her tone was firm enough to shut down the topic. “Just tired.”

The problem was, you tended to push. Not because you wanted to burden her further or expose all her wounds at once and betray her entirely. It was more that you just wanted to help. You just didn’t know how—other than always being right.

The porch light flickered. Moths and mosquitoes had begun to gather around it. The Matthews’ backyard was wrapped in stillness, broken only by the rustling trees and the gentle trickle of water in the pond. Evening was cooling, and Lottie was lazily rubbing your arm, trying to warm you up. You’d have to go back inside soon anyway—someone would eventually notice and come looking. Lottie definitely didn’t want to be found. She preferred to return on her own, even if it meant facing more passive-aggressive comments, masked in charm and soaked in overpriced wine.

She never told you outright, but you saw it. It wasn’t hard to miss. From the first dinner with her parents, you noticed how stiff she became in their presence. At first, you didn’t understand. Lottie had everything she could ever want. She practically embodied the stereotype of a rich brat who thought the world owed her.

But by the next family gathering—the one you had the (dis)pleasure of attending—you saw what you’d missed the first time. When her dad cracked his jokes at dinner, and her mom offered you dessert with a too-sweet smile, you finally noticed the barbs. The offhand comments, prettily wrapped like gifts, pretending to be something they weren’t. It wasn’t just comparisons to other kids from that outrageously wealthy neighborhood. It was the nitpicking, the little jabs placed precisely where the seams were weakest, slipping through soft fabric to pierce the core.

You wondered if they said things about you, too, behind your back. Maybe Lottie never meant to tell you, but by the way people looked at you across the table—and the way Lottie’s hand grew clammy as she held yours beneath it—you were fairly certain you weren’t the dream candidate.

“Girls,” came the sugary voice of one of Lottie’s aunts, the kind that made her visibly shudder. “It’s getting cold. Come in.”

It wasn’t a request. Not even a question. Just an order, as if the woman—dressed in hopelessly mismatched clothes—might perish from scandal if you didn’t obey. Sometimes you wondered if it had always been this way. If Lottie had always lived under this looming pressure, with family breathing down her neck, whispering that she had to be someone. That she had to do something worthwhile—anything that wouldn’t bring shame to them all.

Fights happened.

Maybe even more often than either of you wanted to admit. They weren’t an everyday occurrence, but they were a constant presence—repeating themselves in familiar rhythms. Something would stir inside Lottie, something she wasn’t willing to talk about, and all it took was a glance from you to know something was off. Most times, it had to do with her family, so guessing the source of the tension wasn’t exactly difficult.

“Lot,” you murmured, climbing into bed beside her as she sat, hollow-eyed, nursing yet another cigarette like it might ease the pressure bearing down on her chest—as if it might offer some kind of solace.

Lottie felt disappointed. Disappointed that her parents had never given her what she truly needed. And until she met you, she’d believed love simply wasn’t for her. The whole idea of it seemed distant, like something meant for other people, never for her.

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” she muttered, waving you off like a fly buzzing at her ear, trying to quiet the world.

It ended differently each time.

Sometimes in sex—when you slipped behind her and offered something to anchor her, if only for a moment. In those tangled limbs and synchronised breaths, she could almost believe she was someone worth holding on to. Someone you needed.

Sometimes she simply left—fleeing the conversation, disappearing for hours to wrestle whatever storm raged in her mind. You knew what haunted her. That knowledge alone unnerved her. She had been ignored for so long, bought off with money and silence. And then you came along and gave her too much attention. Too much care.

And sometimes—worst of all—you both ended up screaming.

You tried to understand her, always. But you were only human, with a storm of your own. The frustration would rise until it boiled over. Lottie never needed to explain herself—because you already knew. But that didn’t mean she wanted to talk about any of it. Partly because she feared you’d one day treat her like her parents did. And partly because saying it aloud—naming that fear of never being enough—might make it real. Like a curse fulfilled the moment it passed her lips.

“You don’t get it!” she’d explode when you pushed too hard. But she knew you did. Probably better than anyone ever had, and that scared the hell out of her.

“For God’s sake, just let it go! Can you even do that?”

“I’m asking for one conversation, Lottie!” Your arms fell to your sides, your eyes wide with disbelief. Like you hadn’t had this same, senseless argument a dozen times. But maybe that’s what it took. Maybe this was some part of the process. You clung to the hope that one day, Lottie would understand you the way you tried so hard to understand her.

“It’s not that much, is it? I see something’s wrong!”

“Because you’re a nosy bitch, that’s why!” She didn’t mean it. But she wasn’t thinking about what she said. “Just stop hovering, okay? Maybe we’re together, but I don’t need you playing my fucking mother all the time!” She gestured wildly. “I’m sick of your bullshit. You don’t know shit about how I feel!”

Lottie was terrified by how deeply you saw her. So she did what she knew: she pushed. Hard.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, drew in a long breath, and readied yourself to say something—maybe to soothe her, to try again, to start from the beginning like you always did.

But the door had already slammed behind her, Lottie gone in a fury.

Only to return hours later with flowers in hand, kissing your face like a woman drowning, apologising through half-sobs. Telling you she didn’t mean any of it. That she’d just been upset. That she loved you more than anything, and she couldn’t lose you—not over something so stupid.

You both knew it wasn’t just something stupid. But you let it slide. Even though you knew better.

You gave her space to be safe, even when she squirmed inside it, unable to sit still in her own skin. You forgave her—because no matter how often she pushed you away, she always pulled you back again. Like she didn’t know what to do with this strange new feeling—being seen, heard, held—for the first time in her life.

Later, Lottie would learn what a healthy family could look like.

She’d learn it when you brought her home for the holidays, to your parents’ house. She might’ve cried—just a little—when your mother baked her favourite cake just because she wanted. Curled beside you in bed late that night, she let the tears fall quietly, not saying a word. You might’ve planted that idea yourself. Just maybe.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x you #my writing #lottie matthews x fem!reader #lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews

160 notes · View notes

im-sleepdeprived · 2 days ago

Note

can you do one where peter gets hurt a little bit and gets all whiny and crap and the reader is trying so hard to stay focused. LOVE YOUR STORIES BRO!!!!!

I LOVE THIS IDEA !!! it’s definitely such a peter thing to do. here’s a short, cutesy little thing, i hope you like it and im sorry it took me so long to get back to you💞✨ !! warnings are just peter being a big whiny baby whose desperate for affection, small mentions of injuries, 1,3k wc <333

“Ow!”

“Peter, be quiet! Stop whining, I’m almost done.”

“I’m in pain, baby,” he whined.

It hadn’t been a surprise to be disturbed by a knock on your window, Peter usually stopped by after patrol which was why you’d started leaving it open for him. But when he hadn’t slid the window open after those few soft taps, you’d gotten a little worried.

So you’d gotten out of bed to open for him, only to find your boyfriend perched before you, mask off, pouting heavily at you.

Of course, you’d helped him in and gotten him laying across your bed so you could start to clean him up. You’d started keeping a first-aid-kit at hand since you’d found out he was Spider-Man. It had been of great use.

But it hadn’t taken you long to realize that his wounds, as far as his usual patrol wounds went, weren’t bad. Not at all. In fact, you were positive that he could’ve gone home, slept the rest of the night, and woken up good as new as if nothing had happened in the first place. Maybe your boyfriend had forgotten that he had super-healing abilities.

Or maybe he just liked the way you babied him.

“Oh, are you now?” You asked, glancing up at him with a raised brow. There was really nothing for you to do other than wipe the few cuts and scratches with antiseptic and place small bandaids over them. He just enjoyed pestering you.

“Yes,” he said so seriously, you almost laughed. This Peter was a stark contrast to actually-injured-Peter, who would do everything he could to assure you he was fine when he was literally bleeding out before your eyes. You didn’t like that. At least this was funny.

“Petey, baby,” you laughed softly, adjusting a small bandaid on the high of his cheekbone where he’d had a small scrape. “You’re actually pretty put together tonight. Must’ve been a pretty quiet night, hm?”

“No,” he sighed dramatically, grabbing the wrist by his face gently, keeping you close to him. “No, it was horrible sweetheart, I’m gonna need extra care tonight. You know, to help the trauma.”

Shaking with laughter, you leaned in and pecked his cheek, right beside the cut you’d just bandaged. “The ‘trauma’, Petey? Really?”

A large, dopey grin broke over his face as you pecked his cheek and he squeezed you wrist a little. “There. That’s perfect, such a big help sweetheart, you have no idea what you do for me. You make the pain bearable, pretty girl.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “There, all better?” You asked him as you pulled away where you were met with a scowl.

“Y/N, honey, I’m suffering! I’m knocking on death’s door, angel! Give me something!”

You absolutely lost it at that, falling back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. “I can’t help you when all you do is whine!” When you opened your eyes, Peter was hovering over you, trying to keep his little facade of being upset and in pain, which was fruitless with the large smile blooming on his lips.

“You’re so mean, you know that?”

“Oh really? I’m the mean one?”

“Yes! You just found out your boyfriend, the love of your life, your future husband, the father of your future children—”

“What?!”

“—is dying, and what do you do? You laugh!!”

Another laugh escaped you, this time the sound infecting Peter as well. “I-if you’re dying, doesn’t that mean you won’t be my husband or the ‘father of my future children?” You manage out between laughs.

Peter gasped offendedly. “I…I…” he tried to defend himself to no avail. You’d caught him.

You laughed even harder. “It’s okay, Petey. I’ll tell my future children all about you.”

He didn’t seem to like that very much. In one swift motion, his hands were on your hips, picking you up as he laid back on the bed again, his back pressed against the headboard before he plopped you down onto his lap.

“Oh hi,” you grinned at him, loosely looping your arms over his shoulders, his own hands coming to rest on your waist.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, his eyes soft and loving as he looked up at you.

Leaning down, you pressed your forehead against his. Peter’s hands tightened on your waist, tugging you closer till your chest was pressed against his.

“I have another wound you haven’t patched up for me yet.” He spoke softly.

“Yeah?” You asked, fully expecting him to be playing a bit, the smile already starting to tug at the corners of your lips. “Where, sweetie?”

He smiled right back at you, sticking his hand between where your chests were pressed together and pressing on the spider emblem on the center of his suit, making the fabric deflate with a soft breath and flood around him.

Pushing the suit away for him, you noticed a scratch on his chest you hadn’t realized was there before, making you frown. It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bleeding, but it was long and a harsh shade of red, the skin around it tinged pink with irritation, and it definitely could’ve used a cleaning.

“Petey, baby, why didn’t you show me this before?” You asked softly, shifting in his lap as you leaned over to grab the kit again.

Peter sighed, biting back a smile. This was exactly what he’d needed, that soft, gentle voice of yours you used on him whenever he stopped by bruised and banged up. “Why, you think it’s bad sweetheart?”

“No, no, thank god…” you muttered as you got to work on the scratch. “But I bet it burns. Does it hurt, honey?”

“Yeah,” he answered, letting out a soft groan for show as he leaned further back against your headboard. One of his hands left your waist and found it’s way to your hair, playing with the strands and giving one a gentle tug every now and them.

“Peter,” you grumble, refusing to look up at him.

“Your hair is so soft.” He murmured in awe, as if he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Genetics.” You deadpanned. “Now stop distracting me, I’m trying to help you!”

“You are helping me, pretty girl. Just watching that gorgeous face while you bandage me up is doing half the healing already.” Another tug to your hair.

You swatted his hand away before poking his side with a soft smile. “No bandages for this one, sorry Pete. I’m just gonna have to heal you with kisses.”

“That sounds great,” he beamed widely. “Your kisses make me heal way faster than bandages, trust me, I speak from experience.”

Ignoring him, you leaned down and peppered a few soft kisses along his chest, staying beside the cut but never kissing the wound itself. You could feel his breathing stutter, the rhythmic movements of his chest turning irregular beneath your lips.

Peter hands on your waist tightened, his grip pushing you down on his lap. “Baby…” his voice was a soft, desperate thing, a deepness in his tone that made your stomach flip. Well that wasn’t right.

You sat back up, picking up a leg to swing over and slide off his lap but his hands on your waist slid down to your thighs quickly, stopping you.

“What’re you doing, pretty girl?” The utter betrayal on his face almost had you second-guessing what you’d done for something way worse. “Why’d you stop?”

“You’re hurt, Petey,” you answered simply, “we’re not doing anything tonight.”

“W-what? I’m not hurt, no, I’m fine! I’m perfect!”

“Really? I thought you were at death’s door.”

“Oh that…Yeah, no, he sent me away. Said it wasn’t my time.”

“Right, of course,” you murmured, nodding your head with all seriousness.

“Your kisses were working,” he stated sincerely, “you have to keep going!”

“Whatever you say, handsome.” You smiled, leaning in to press your lips to his.

170 notes · View notes

melodyofmbaku · 1 day ago

Text

Pour me Another Lie [Part 2] (Smoke Moore x Annie x Stack Moore)

Preview: “Look how good you are… how perfect you are. How pretty you sing for me.”

Word Count: 4.1k

Warning ⚠️: They're a trio. Smut (18+ Material)

A/N I made this chapter thicc for ya'll. I really appreciate your comments/reblogs, it's what keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! 😘 Pour Me Another Lie Part 1

_____

The smell of wet grass permeated their senses and the moisture in the air dampened their skin. It was early, the sun hadn’t risen yet. The crickets had begun their song and filled the silence that sat between the pair.

Stack just finished up rolling their cigarette before popping it into the side of his mouth and lighting it. A long drag.

“So?” he started, passing the smoke over to his brother.

“So what?” Smoke responded before taking a hit.

“What we bouta do?”

“We really gonna let that nigga Hank be talking bout’ how he employed Annie? Had her working behind his bar?” Stack continued.

Smoke didn’t answer for a bit, letting the question hang between them.

“It don’t matter what she was doing, it matters why she was doin’ it.” Smoke looked up into the distance and took a drag of the cigarette once more.

“What you mean?”

“Annie doesn’t lie to us. So for her to feel the need to do that? We fuckin’ up somewhere.”

He passed the cigarette over, and Stack took it without a word. The tobacco sizzled as he inhaled, the smoke curling around his jaw as he tilted his head, slowly nodding. “So again… what we bouta do?”

“We get her to tell us what’s going on,” Smoke said simply, flicking ash off the side of the porch. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

It was decided.

From inside, they heard her voice—soft, questioning, worried.

“Elias? Elijah?”

Stack’s shoulders stiffened. They hadn’t meant for her to wake up alone.

“C’mon.” Stack stamped the cigarette out before opening the screen door with a creak, and the brothers stepped inside.

The lamp in the corner of the bedroom cast a honey-colored glow, bathing Annie in warm light. She was perched on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of of the boys shirts that swallowed her whole.

“Hey, mama,” Stack said, stepping closer.

“How you feeling?”

She gave them a weak nod. “Sore,” she admitted, but her eyes flicked toward Smoke with something close to warmth. “But good.”

“We wanted to talk about yesterday.” Stack started. Annie cast her gaze down to the floor. Dreading the fact that they’d have to talk about the situation.

Smoke rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. It was stressing him bad. “You ain’t in no trouble, Annie. We just tryna understand what’s goin’ on in your head.”

“C’mon baby,” Stack said, squatting down beside her. “You can tell us.”

She began twisting her fingers in her lap. “Y’all are gonna think I’m being stupid…”

“We ever said that to you before?” Stack asked, gently tilting her chin up.

Annie let out a breath, shaky and honest. “I miss you.”

Smoke moved closer. “Whatchu mean? We right here.”

She shook her head slowly. “Y’all are asleep all day. Most of the day at least. I barely see y’all anymore.” Her voice cracked. “Yeah, we’re fucking, but… a lot of the time after that… it’s like we’re ships passing in the night.”

She picked at the hem of the shirt she wore absently, grounding herself.

“I… sometimes I feel alone.”

Stack reached out to hold her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it.

Smoke’s jaw tensed. “You got two whole husbands. That’s more than most.”

She shot him a look. Stack tipped her chin to look back at him. His brothers attitude was not helping the situation at all.

“This why you was working at Hank’s?” He asked softly. Still rubbing his thumb over her hand.

She shook her head affirming.

“I just wanted to be a part of something. Fill my day up. See other people. Not just wait around for y’all to wake again. Especially ‘cause… well, I ain’t like y’all. I’m not a vampire. I’m up when the sun’s up. I sleep when the moon’s high.”

Smoke glanced at Stack, who avoided his gaze.

There was always that sliver of distance between them — blood and time and unspoken choices. She’d refused when they offered her the promise of eternity together. She chose humanity even when it made everything harder.

Stack finally spoke, softer this time. “We’ll figure somethin’ out. We don’t want you feeling like that. Not in this house.”

“You ain’t never alone. Never.”

Smoke sighed before he made his way over and placed a kiss on her head, his hands went to her shoulders to comfort her.

“Thank you for telling us. For trusting us.” he said.

Annie’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. She nodded. “Y’all not mad?” Her voice was small. It wasn’t like her.

Smoke’s chest tightened up. God they had really fucked up.

“Never upset with you.” Stack murmured from below. More kisses placed on her hands.

“We’ll figure something out.” Smoke confirmed. And she nodded, leaning into him and taking his affections.

They didn’t say much else that night. Just held her — Stack curled around her back, Smoke’s fingers threaded through hers as she drifted off to sleep.

She hadn’t asked for much. Just to feel a little less alone.

And they heard her.

____

The Next Day - 4:45am

“I can’t believe we doing this shit.” Smoke muttered, cradling a small box gently in both hands.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stack replied, nudging the door open with his foot. “Just don’t drop it.”

The front door creaked open softly. The boys stepped into the darkened house, dew still clinging to their boots, air thick with pre-dawn chill.

“We could’ve done anything else.”

“Nigga. Shut up. You rather have her serving drinks all day?”

Smoke pursed his lips and kept his mouth shut.

“Plus… if it makes her happy that’s all that matters.” Stack concluded.

That — the two could agree on.

The boys had left the house at midnight as always but this time they didn’t go to the juke.

They had other plans. Something that would take them alot further out.

When Annie said she was lonely, it damn near broke Stack’s heart.

He wouldn’t have known what loneliness felt like if you'd asked him a year ago. He and Smoke had been side by side their whole lives — womb to world. That kind of closeness made it hard to imagine being alone.

But if he had to name the moment he first felt it? It was the day he woke up a vampire and Smoke wasn’t right beside him. He reached out and his brother wasn’t there.

If that’s what Annie meant — that empty, aching kind of quiet — then no. She wasn’t gonna feel that. Not when she had them.

Stack pushed their bedroom door open and the two entered. Annie was curled up in the bed fast asleep.

“Annie?” He tried softly.

Nothing.

“Baby girl?” Smoke tried this time.

Annie stirred at the sound, emerging from underneath the blanket. She looked around a little confused. “What’re y’all doin’ back so early?”

She began to rub sleep from her eyes.

Instead of answering, Smoke gently set the box down.

A tiny Rottweiler puppy stumbled out, big eyes blinking up at her, tail wagging like it had no idea what sleep was.

The pup yipped and ran over to the side of the bed. Trying and failing to jump up.

“Oh —“

She looked at them with shock covering her features.

“Oh my god, is this for me?” Her eyes were wide and tears had already begun to well up.

“Just for you baby.” Stack confirmed standing proudly.

She watched as the dog struggled to get up the bed.

Annie knelt over the bed, and scooped the pup into her arms. It licked at her chin and she laughed — truly laughed — for the first time in what felt like weeks.

She placed a kiss on the dogs little head before correcting her and saying “We are not that kind of household. But imma give you a pass today.”

“Yall… I’m — I don’t even know what to say. “ she juggled the pup as she nipped at her dress.

She was beaming.

“It ain’t us but, she’ll give you something to do during the day. Someone to hang out with till we wake up. So you won’t feel so alone.” Stacks smile stretched wide across his face.

Smoke piped in. Back slightly turned and not meeting her gaze. He was a complex man and guilt was eating him up. How did he not see it? Her unhappiness? The misstep would plague him for a while.

“Yeah, you can take her for walks and shit. And when she gets older she could even protect you. Y’all can add some extra feminine energy to the space.” Smoke added gesturing to the area around him lazily.

She suppressed her laugh — this solution definitely wasn’t initiated by Smoke.

“How’d you get him to agree to this?” she asked, jerking her chin over shoulder at Smoke but talking to Stack.

“You try to do something nice for someone…” Smoke said dryly.

“I know this wasn’t your idea,” she teased while bringing the puppy up to her nose and breathing in her scent.

Stack smirked. Smoke scoffed — but he didn’t deny it.

Stack grinned wide, one arm slung around her. “But he ain’t stop it neither.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “Y’all bein’ real funny tonight.”

She crooked her finger beckoning for the younger twin to get down on her level.

“Thank you baby.” She spoke softly into his lips before placing a kiss on them.

“I wanna do something nice for you, say thank you”

“Yeah?” The man breathed out as his hands went out to grip her thighs.

“Mhm. Not with my words though. You like that idea?” She asked while her hand traveled down his chest to run over his covered member.

His eyes fluttered shut. He liked the idea, a lot.

Getting hard from a few kisses and some touching was insane.

The puppy whined and wriggled in her arms.

“Put her in the crate for a bit,” she said, biting her lip and looking up at him from the edge of the bed.

He didn’t have to be told twice. He handled the dog and crossed the room to put her away.

She got up to stretch and glanced over to Smoke. He held her gaze and said nothing as he leaned against the window sill.

She could tell he was still a little stiff. A bit uncomfortable with everything that had gone down in the past few days.

She mouthed an “I love you.” to him and the grumpy man couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“You’re trouble.”

Now Stack sat on the edge of the bed, watching her — still glowing from the surprise, the love in her chest blooming like a rose.

She walked over and dropped to her knees between his thighs, unhurried.

She turned her head and glanced to Smoke.

“You not coming over?” The man was now staring outside.

He glanced at them before huffing “Ya’ll don’t need me over there.”

Annie let out a giggle before focusing on the man in front of her.

Petty. Petty. Either way the show would have to go on.

She looked up at him and reached up to unleash the dragon. She unzipped his pants and pulled him out.

“Hi baby.” She said, big brown eyes staring up at him.

“Hi.” He responded, voice light.

She had pulled his dick out and stroked him a few times before she moved his tip along her lips. Slightly sticking her tongue out to taste.

Her eyes fluttered closed. She kept the head between her lips before nippling and kissing it. She was getting in the zone. She loved the build up. Once she took him fully into her mouth, Stack hissed. Then she went to work.

Smoke leaned against the window, arms crossed, watching the way she rocked on her knees.

One thing about Annie? She got off on sucking dick. Nothing could get her going faster. So yes, the blow job was for Stack but it was also for her. He was looking right at the proof. Smoke focused intently on the essence that slowly oozed onto the floor from her pussy as she sucked the life out of his brother.

He adjusted himself in his pants, eyes on the woman’s swaying form and the evidence she left behind. She was so sensual. Everything she did made him wanna bow. He wanted to worship at the altar of Annie.

Right now, he really didn’t deserve it — her. They had fucked up bad. But could he resist her, like this? Right now? She was a picture if he ever saw one.

He told himself he’d just watch. Let her have this moment with Stack. But when he saw the way her back arched — the soft sounds slipping out her lips — his resolve cracked in half.

“Fuck it.” He’d deal with the guilt after.

Before she knew it he was crossing the room over to them and ended up right behind her.

He flexed his knees a bit and she heard him undo his belt buckle, unzip and pull himself out of his pants. Those were some of her favourite sounds.

She was gonna get it tonight and she was so excited.

He placed a hand on her hips and slightly angled her body upward.

“Lemme see that arch baby.” And arch she did.

Smoke didn’t have it in him to play for long. He was hard as a rock and watching Annie drip onto the floor earlier did his resolve no favours.

He rubbed his dick along her folds, collecting her essence and watching it glisten on his dick. Fucking glorious.

He timed his entrance with when she had Stack out of her mouth so he could hear her delicious moan. Fuel for them all.

Slowly but deliberately he thrust into her. There they set their rhythm, moving in sync. Back and forth — Annie at the center of their world.

They’d danced this dance time and time again. It never got old. They were a unit. They knew each other's bodies and triggers. It was beautiful for each one of them. Being known so deeply. Being loved so intimately.

Annie’s eyes had become heavy and lidded from the additional sensation and she set her eyes on Stack. Those eyes coupled with his dick being in her mouth was a problem.

The man managed to get out a tight “Stop lookin’ at me like that.” Before throwing his head back and letting out a drawn out “Fuck.”

Smoke looked up at his tortured brother and smirked.

He bent down to whisper comically in his wife’s ear. “Keep going baby. Don’t let him tell you what to do.”

The man could feel the effects of her enthusiasm on him. Every time she came back her pussy would swallow his dick. It was beautiful the way she was creaming on him. It was like an ocean in there and he didn’t wanna stop swimming.

“If you can make Stack cum, I’ll make you cum. Deal?” Smoke asked.

She bobbed her head enthusiastically and he took that as a yes.

Annie always felt so sexy when she could have them both at the same time. It was all encompassing and she loved it.

She grinned to herself and continued to top Stack from the bottom. Licking up and down his thick shaft with her hands twisting at the base periodically.

She felt the sensation of his dick sliding in and this time she let it slip right down her throat and she held it there.

“Shit.” Stack exclaimed.

The man gained the strength to look back down at her and still she looked up at him. Love, adoration and something dangerous in her eyes.

He made the mistake of glancing even further down and there they were. Annie’s tits were bouncing and jiggling on account of her getting railed by his older brother.

Oh, the life they lived.

Stack loved every part of Annie but he went feral for her titties. He was always pinching em, holding em, looking at em, he couldn’t get enough.

His resolve was being tested. He didn’t want this to be over. He wanted to savour this — getting head was a gift. He employed every shred of willpower to hold on.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling trying to get the graphic image out of his head. He counted 11 planks of wood before glancing down once more. A mistake.

The man wanted to last, he really fucking did but then Annie took her mouth off him and spat right on his dick. There was a trail of spit still attached to her lip and she held his gaze while rubbing her thumb over his tip.

She was a wicked wicked woman.

He watched as her lips enveloped him and she increased her pace and sucked him down her throat once again.

This time though, she didn’t pull back. She held him tight and he could feel her tongue lapping against the shaft, tickling his skin. Her dark brown eyes stared into his soul.

She was so heartbreakingly pretty. His hand reached out to cup her face but he didn’t get a chance to.

She hummed and that's what sealed his fate. The vibrations created an unreal amount of pleasure. He had no chance against Annie’s prowess.

His self-control snapped like an elastic band. He was gonna finish. Right fuckin’ now.

At this point he pulled himself out of her mouth and grabbed the base of his dick.

“Where you want it baby?” He asked his wife, gripping himself tightly.

She took her hands, pushed her titties together and breathlessly begged “Right here.”

Her tits then. He let his orgasm rise within him. He was good.

That was before she dropped her mouth open and stuck her tongue out.

The man short circuited.

Annie would save the moan that left Stacks mouth in a box in her mind for later use.

His internal dialog was overwhelmed. In mere milliseconds he had to make a choice. Her mouth? Her tits? He couldn’t decide in time and shot his thick load somewhere in the middle.

Most of it landed on the tip of her tongue. She sported a smile as his seed dripped from her mouth right onto her titties.

It was straight up pornographic.

The man struggled to catch his breath. He watched the scene mesmerized and as he attempted to recover.

The little minx that she was, the woman pressed her breasts together spreading his seed across her chest.

He looked down at her in a flustered accusatory manner. She knew what she did. She fluttered her pleasure laden lashes at him before letting out a breathless “Thank you.”

She continued to smile up at him as if she hadn’t just given him the most insane blow job of his life.

He had married a wicked woman indeed.

He cursed under his breath while closing his eyes. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy.”

Stack was almost in a daze, and he became preoccupied with watching her tits bounce but this time with his cum spread across them. He imagined this was what heaven would be like.

Behind her Smoke observed their interactions. His measured thrusts were about to become a lot sloppier.

She turned her head over to look at her husband, her eyes low and lidded and simply said “It’s my turn.”

“I got you baby. You did so good, I’m gonna give you —“ his voice trailed off as she began to fuck back with enthusiasm.

“Shit Annie.” Smoke placed a hand on her lower back, that arch was doing something to him.

She was throwing her hips back and letting out soft pants that hit Smoke’s ears in all the best ways.

Everything was sloppy. And wet. And Annie loved it all. Mentally she was transcending. She felt so special and loved — they paid her so much attention. There was cum on her lips and on her tits. She wanted it inside of her too. Cover all her bases.

Stack began pulling at her cum covered nipples, she liked that.

Smoke reached a hand around her waist to find her clit.

Slowly he began to tease the sensitive nub. Matching his movements with his thrusts. Back and forth he swiped at her pleasure center.

“Yes. Yes. That feels so good.” She panted out.

Her husband was hitting her in all the right places at just the right pace. She met his thrusts with enthusiasm and the stimulation she received on her nipples added to the experience. She was home.

“I want more.” she let out.

“More. More. More.” She chanted out breathlessly.

She was getting demanding. This raised an alarm for Smoke.

How much more could he give?

When she got like this. Hungry for it? He couldn’t control himself.

“Are you gonna give it to me daddy?” She threw her head over her shoulder, dark low eyes and kiss bruised lips looking back at her partner.

“Annie — chill out.” He warned, hand placed firmly on the small of her back.

Annie did not chill. In fact she clenched her walls greedily for a fuller feeling. The very opposite of chilling.

He gasped.

“You promised.” She whined.

Annie wanted — so Smoke provided.

He worked quickly to swipe his fingers across her clit. Leaning over he began to murmur in her ear hard thrusts not letting up.

“Look how good you are… how perfect you are. How pretty you sing for me.”

She nodded. A sob building up in her chest. She loved it when they talked her through it.

“We’re sorry baby.” He continued and she needed to hear it too.

And he just kept giving — every thrust, every touch, every whispered word. Telling her in the only way he knew how:

You ain’t never alone.

Not while we’re alive.

Not even when we’re dead.

That one final statement did it for her. Her voice cracked as she panted out her pleasure — tears streaming down her face.

“Yes, yes I’m gonna—” Urgency coated her voice as she reached for Stack’s hand like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

Stack laced his fingers with hers, grounding her with a steady squeeze. She didn’t have to say anything — he felt what she needed.

Annie always needed a little encouragement to let go. She lived in her head too much — always watching herself from the outside, afraid of losing control. And with the boys? Truth be told, her orgasms scared her. How big they were. How undone they made her.

“Go ‘head, baby,” Stack whispered, voice thick with heat. “It’s okay. You just let go — we right here with you.”

And let go she did.

Smoke watched her — how she shoved her hips back, how tight she clenched around him, how wild and beautiful she looked when she finally let it hit.

She came like a storm breaking open — happy, wild, free.

Stack felt her tremble, felt her trust him — and it stirred something deep in him. If that was loneliness, what she’d felt, then this was the cure. He’d give it to her again and again.

Smoke felt it too. The freedom. Free from last night’s weight. Free from the pressure of always holding it together.

That was all he needed.

He grunted, sank into her one last time, and came with a shout that left him breathless.

____

“Annie?”

“Mhm?” she murmured, distracted as she tickled the puppy’s belly and giggled at its squirming paws.

They were tangled up in bed — a mess of warm skin and lazy limbs. Stack was already out cold, chest rising slow and deep, mouth parted like he’d been knocked out.

Annie rested on his outstretched arm, her fingers drifting up Smoke’s chest, playing with the gold chain that hung between his pecs.

“Next time something’s bothering you…”

“Enough,” she said, cutting him off gently but firm.

He nodded.

“It’s done, baby. We’re good. It’s water under the bridge.”

They were fine. That’s all he needed to know. They didn’t need a hundred words — not when the truth was already pulsing between them.

Stack let out a small snore, body slack.

Annie didn’t know it, but that moment had wrung something out of him too. He’d meant every word — about being there, about her not feeling alone. And when she let go, so did he.

Silence stretched, soft and full.

“You sucked the soul outta him,” he joked.

“He deserved it.” she replied.

Smoke smiled, watching her settle deeper against his chest.

Yeah. They all did. ____ Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. a/n Thank you for every single comment and reblog of Part 1. I was cracking up 🤣 I'm really glad you're enjoying this AU, though a little unconventional. Your thoughts and encouragement keep me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading! ___ Taglist @chaneajoyyy @pyraomen @browngirldominion @sarcastic-sunshines @goddessofthundathighs @rolemodelshit @bbymuthaaa @boonoonoonus @joysofmyworld @twistedsistas-stuff @blackctrl

@heytemporary

#smoke x annie #annie x smoke #smoke x annie x stack #stack moore #smoke and stack #my fic #black reader #black writer #melodicfic #sinners fan fic #sinners writer #micheal b jordan #sinners fanfiction #sinners movie

149 notes · View notes

berrryparfait · 2 days ago

Text

‎honey sugar you ! ♡‧₊˚

‪‪♥︎‬ featuring: head chef! sylus x pâtissier! fem!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: a record of the highs and lows of your time as a fresh-faced pâtissier under the renowned chef sylus—two unforgettable years marked by burnt sugar, stolen glances, and the kind of lessons that shape both your craft and your heart.

❝ i can name three things that are sweet: honey, sugar, and you! ❞

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: restaurant au, fluff and mild angst, sylus is kind of a prick at first, kitchen is a battlefield, enemies-to-lovers, airport trope

— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: 1.4k

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: 好きな人がいること – jy

✧ a/n: inspired by my all-time favorite j-drama, a girl and three sweethearts (suki na hito ga iru koto), which ignited my love for bossy, sulky, tsundere men <3

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS did not welcome you warmly. He scowled at your “incompetence” despite not having tried your signature dessert—a lemon meringue tart with a cinnamon-powdered twist—and deemed you unworthy of his mentorship right off the bat. He’s the most powerful person in the kitchen and is set on making sure everyone remembers it, rarely pausing to say “please” and “thank you” and glaring daggers at anyone who makes so much as a minor mistake. It’s stressful, working under a man like him—as if a bomb defusal is in progress and one wrong snip could be life-threatening.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS is a bossy, domineering man. His arrogance truly knows no bounds. All the best ingredients, all the best plate arrangements—everything is “his territory”. He’s got the most experience, after all. Why question him? Besides, he’s physically intimidating, too, towering over you at 6’ 2” and watching your every move with those piercing, ruby eyes. He makes you sweat, that’s for sure. “Coffee bavarois,” he stated plainly when asked about this week’s dessert, no room for debate. You tried to tell him it clashes with the main dish, but he refused to give you the time of day. “You’re new here,” he warned, a sinister edge to his deep voice. “So you do as I say.”

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS is always the last person to leave the restaurant. He stays behind to experiment with new flavors and figure out creative ways to improve the menu, sketching and making notes like his life depends on it. One night, just as you’re about to call it a day, you catch him standing by the counter, a quizzical expression on his face. You hide around the corner and watch him in silence as he frowns at the serving of coffee bavarois before him, doubt—for the very first time since you’ve known him—passing like a shadow over his sharp features. He pulls out a slice of your lemon meringue tart from the fridge (your coworkers ask you to bake one every week), and, gingerly, takes a small bite. His face lights up in sweet surprise, but he quickly schools his expression, as if wary of watchful eyes. “God damn it…” he curses under his breath before scribbling something in his book.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS isn’t used to admitting he was in the wrong. He struggles to hold your gaze as he “suggests” a change in the dessert menu, his perfervid desire for culinary perfection winning out over his pride. You, on the other hand, are trying your hardest to suppress a smug grin of utter satisfaction, the glorious tides of victory flooding your veins. “Yes, chef,” you reply, beaming. Your coworkers watch on nervously as he squints at your tone, the spark of a challenge passing unspoken between the two of you. Just when you think he’s about to lash out, he simply says, brusque as always, “Preheat the oven. Doors are almost open.”

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS has finally begun to acknowledge your level of skill, begrudgingly taking your lead at times and heeding your advice. He rarely questions your decisions anymore; at least when it comes to the dessert menu. Once in a while, though exceedingly rare, you even catch the occasional muttered compliment falling from his lips, and it makes you happier than it should. Part of you wonders if he’s begun to seek your approval just as much as you seek his. Petty competition aside, work has felt a lot lighter, lately. For what might be the first time in an eternity, working in the kitchen feels like working as a team. “That was…not a bad idea,” he says lowly, masking his words with nonchalance. “What was that? I couldn’t hear you— ” you tease, incredibly pleased with yourself.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS gets surprisingly twitchy when met with skin-to-skin contact. He’d been watching you prepare a tray of macarons the other day when you asked if he wanted to try piping the vanilla buttercream filling. Unexpectedly, he turned out to be a novice—fumbling with the bag and making a small mess on the baking tray. You sighed at his meagre attempts and reached out to guide him, your soft palm gentle yet firm on his knuckles as you filled the remaining macarons together. It worked well at first—both of you focused and in sync—but his grip eventually faltered. After a pause, he quietly shook your hand loose and returned to his own preparations, seemingly a little…flustered?

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS celebrates in silence. You’ve just won your first ever major haute cuisine competition as a chef-pâtissier duo, and rather than celebrating with the rest of the restaurant staff, he grabs a beer from the fridge and retreats to the balcony. You join him after a while, believing he deserves to feel proud too. The cool night air hits your face as you walk up to him—he’s hunched over the railing with a pensive, far-off look on his face. “Not having fun?” he asks sardonically. You rally the question back to him, to which he simply says he prefers celebrating in private. Yet…he doesn’t reject your company. In fact, he seems to find a sort of delicate solace in it. He opens up to you for the first time that night, telling you about the pressure he’s dealt with his entire life to live up to his legendary father's legacy. You tell him he’s enough and place your hand on his. Bright color warms his cheeks.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS is patient with you; supportive of you. He’s still as broody and reserved as always, yet you find the other chefs smiling more. They laugh freely during work hours and, as a result, customers seem more satisfied, too. You’ve found a home here, and you’re happy. Imagine everyone’s surprise when you’re notified of a French celebrity chef’s interest in your dessert-making—his offer highly generous. He isn’t exactly more renowned than Sylus, but it would still be an excellent opportunity for you to progress in the culinary scene. It’s not something you can simply…pass up.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS has been distant lately. His mood is easily soured, and he’s regained some of that signature bite when speaking to you. You know he’s just scared. Scared you’ll leave him, scared you’ll forget all about him when you move to Paris, your time together in the kitchen miles away. But he hasn’t discouraged you from going. “Award-winning pâtissiers would kill for an opportunity like this. Take it and go.” he says bluntly, and you’d be lying if you disagreed. So why does the thought of leaving this place behind hurt you so? And why is he acting like this if you’re already on borrowed time?

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS doesn’t bother seeing you off at the airport. You take in a shaky breath as you pull your luggage towards the immigration kiosks, devastated and confused. Did the past two years really mean nothing to him? Just as you step in line, heavy footsteps echo through the departure hall. You turn to see a very breathless, very desperate Sylus—still in his once-pristine chef’s uniform—staring right at you. He ran all the way here to stop you. To get something off his chest… “I’m not here to keep you from leaving,” he breathes, nothing but sincerity in those intense, crimson eyes. “That’d be selfish of me. I’m here to say goodbye. And…” Your heart squeezes as he cups the side of your face and leans in, planting a tender kiss on your lips. Hot tears threaten to spill down your cheeks as you tell him you love him, that you’ll never forget him, and that you’ll be back after chasing your dreams.

HEAD CHEF! SYLUS visits you every month, his warm embrace and playful kisses a welcome remedy for the cold, Parisian weather. You’ve barely been in France a year, and you already wish you could go back. Maybe next year, once you’ve finished perfecting this year’s dessert menu. You’ve always believed in expanding your horizons and chasing your dreams, but though they’re always evolving, always growing, in many ways…you already have. Because sometimes, a dream isn’t some far-off future—it’s the life you’re living. And for you, Sylus waits at the end of every chapter.

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

#yes that is genshin food you are looking at #super cliche bc i was feeling sentimental...again #‧˚˖✩ bp works #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus lads #sylus lnds

170 notes · View notes

mintedwitcher · 2 days ago

Text

another snip of my 'buck leaves the 118' fic (title TBD) angst incoming:

==========

After the shift ends, Buck goes home. Tommy’s truck is still in the driveway, but unfortunately, Eddie’s rental car is parked next to it, in Buck’s usual spot. With a groan, Buck parks on the street. He grabs his bag and goes inside, expecting the worst.

“Tommy? I’m home,” he calls as he steps through the door. Tommy steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“Hey, how was work?” Tommy asks, smiling. There’s something a little tense about it, and he’s just about to ask, when Eddie walks into the room, stone-faced, a bag slung over his shoulder. He drops it at Buck’s feet.

“I called the leasing office,” Eddie says without preamble. “I cancelled your sublet.”

“What?” Buck asks, stunned. It feels like the floor is giving way beneath him. “Eddie, you can’t—I signed a lease!”

“Yeah, you signed under me,” Eddie says. “It’s still my house. I just closed the sale on the one in El Paso, so I need you out. Chris needs somewhere to live.”

“Seriously, Diaz?” Tommy interjects. Eddie glances at him, disdain written clear across his face.

“You couldn’t even give me some warning?” Buck asks, looking down at the bag by his feet. It’s full to the brim with his clothes.

“What, like you gave us any warning about you transferring out?” Eddie scoffs.

“Okay, that’s not comparable at all,” Tommy says.

“Stay out of it, Kinard,” Eddie snaps.

“Don’t think I will, actually,” Tommy says.

“Please, don’t pretend like you’re not thrilled about this,” Eddie sneers. “You get ‘Evan’ all to yourself again, hurray.”

“At least he knows I actually want him around,” Tommy rebuts.

“Can you both just stop!” Buck shouts. They both turn to look at him. Buck takes a breath. He looks at his best friend. The guy he thought was his best friend. “How could you do this to me?”

“Oh, here we go,” Eddie huffs, throwing up his hands.

“No, seriously!” Buck talks over him. Interrupts him. Eddie looks at him with so much rage, Buck wonders if he actually hates him. He points a shaking finger at Eddie. “I did you a huge favour taking over your lease so you could go and be with your son. And yeah, okay, I didn’t go about it the right way, I know that, and I’ve already apologised for it. And now y-you’re just kicking me out? Without warning, without anything? I don’t even get a thanks?”

“How many times do I need to say it? Not everything is about you,” Eddie snarls. Buck recoils, just a little.

“I never said it was,” Buck replies quietly. He can feel his shoulders curling, his body trying to make himself smaller, make himself disappear in the face of Eddie’s anger. He knows Tommy can see it too, judging by the concern on his face. “I just know I wouldn’t do this to you. Not ever. You know I wouldn’t.”

“What do you expect me to do, then?” Eddie asks, coldly. “Put my disabled son on your shitty couch? Raise him in a motel room or a fucking Airbnb until we find another place to live?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Buck says. His voice shakes. Eddie seems to loom in Buck’s vision, growing bigger as Buck feels smaller.

“No, you just want everything to go according to your schedule,” Eddie says. “Grieve on your terms, get better on your terms, take a fucking grief assessment quiz on your terms. Not this time. This is my house, Chris is my son, and you are not going to make this harder on him than it needs to be!”

“Jesus Christ, man,” Tommy says. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Buck can’t breathe. He turns on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t even close the door behind him, he just runs. He doesn’t get into his truck – he knows better than to try and drive right now – and he doesn’t stop running, not until his shoe snags on a tree root and he stumbles to a halt, finding himself at a park, ten blocks away from his – Eddie’s – house.

He probably looks crazy, he thinks, standing here like a statue, tears and snot running down his face, hyperventilating because there’s just not enough air. He sinks to his knees, burying his hands in the grass. It’s been mowed recently, he can smell it. There’s a word for it, he thinks, for the smell of freshly cut grass. Or… no – he shakes his head – no, there’s a word for the smell of rain. Petrichor. He remembers that one. There isn’t a singular word for freshly cut grass like that. It’s a phrase. Green leaf volatiles. That’s it. A distress signal in the plant to communicate that it’s been damaged.

He wonders if humans give off a distress scent too. If so, surely someone would’ve realised that Buck isn’t okay.

=============

tag list: (as always if you want to be tagged, let me know, and I'll add you to the list for the next post! other snippets can be found under the tag 'buck leaves the 118 fic' on my blog)

@littlepaws9 @tyrusshipper12 @loulou-land @kinardstits @samjohnssonvt

@magdalyna @sweaters-and-silly @dashing-disaster @safelycapricious @onceuptonatmi

@hubcaphalo @letsdosciencetoit @ladyeyrewrites @cm1031sr @sunsetandevningstar

@marsflower @buckitweride @joyfullyhauntedmiracle @sahtinekryze

#911 abc #911 spoilers #bucktommy #bucktommy fic #buck leaves the 118 fic #<-fic tag #evan buckley #tommy kinard #wip #my fics #not eddie friendly #tag list #fic excerpt

146 notes · View notes

milomelts · 2 days ago

Text

Rooftop High

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader (she/her/fab)

Word Count: 2k just a quickie

Warnings: 18+, weed, car accident detailed (but nothing like gore-y cuz ew), age gap 🤭

Note: just a little something fun while i finish other requests and stuff lol

————————————

Today was shit. There was no other way to describe it. No “look at the bright side” or “finding joy in the little things”, just an absolute disaster. There had been a massive crash and pile up of cars on the interstate, a semi-truck had flipped over just on the other side of a hill, in turn causing dozens of cars to crash into him as they couldn’t see him till it was too late -and then more cars crashed into the crashed cars.

You weren’t even sure how many people you had seen come through, but it was the waves in which they came that was particularly brutal. First wave was almost all causalities, or people with less than an hour left, those who had slammed into the semi right when it flipped. Then there was people who crashed into the immediate cars, not as badly hurt intially, but then the semi had caught fire meaning several of them then came with burn wounds. Then finally the third wave, people who had narrowly missed crashing or were able to slightly break before crashing, consisting of mostly surface wounds. Shattered glass in hands, whiplash, pretty much standard accident injures.

By that time however, it was three hours past when your shift was supposed to end, and you were far too tired to even try to shake off the horrors you had seen. There were other ways to forget though. After listening to Robby’s “at least we did it” speech, you finished handing off your tablet to one of the nightshift residents and your feet were hitting the stairwell before you crashed from fatigue.

The last time you had come up here had been a similar day, a rather rough night shift that had you seeing ghosts, sometimes you just needed to chill on the roof to be able to leave work at work -and by chill on the roof, you really mean smoke enough weed that by the time you’re leaving all you can think about is snacks and a drink instead of death. Maybe you needed a better coping mechanism. Maybe.

You scanned in and threw open the door to the roof, letting your eyes close as you finally took a breath, listening to the peaceful quiet as the door clicked closed behind you. Your eyes flutter open and you go to take a step but your eyes catch on a certain someone. A certain someone who was in your spot, and looking right at you.

“Hey,” Abbot’s voice fits right in with the peaceful night air. He had come in the help, despite having the night off, and you couldn’t deny that his help made things run hell of a lot smoother.

“Shit, sorry!” You stutter out as he continues to just stare right through you. It wasn’t like it was the first time you both had been on the roof at the same time, but you had always caught the door and ran away before it had time to close before. “I can go!”

“No!” His voice goes high for just a second, clearing his throat and patting the ground next to him while giving you a soft smile. “Plenty of space and I could use the company.”

You fight against the pit in your stomach telling your legs to run and instead move to sit next to him on the ledge. Part of you always thought it was rather humorous that there were rails up here because they were so easy to go around, you weren’t sure anyone ever really stayed behind them. You settle into the space beside him, careful to not sit too close, but your knees brush his as you cross your legs and tuck your bag beside you. As much as you enjoyed the night air, you would enjoy it a hell of a lot more with your before mentioned plans.

“Uhm, do you mind if I smoke?” you voice is meek, meeting Abbot’s eyes and he scoffs at the ask.

“Cigarettes are bad for your health you know?” He teases, eyes filling with a playful glimmer.

“Oh nobody said anything bout cigarettes,” you retort. Scrambling through your bag you quickly find your pre-rolled blunt, digging around the various wrappers till your fingers finally landed on your hot pink lighter.

Abbot lets out a low whistle when his eyes catch the contents of your bag, almost like a disapproving parent, but the giddy smile that still lingers on his face tells you he doesn’t actually mind -and more importantly has no intention of snitching on you.

You light the end of the blunt, letting it burn for a second as you breath in your hit. It burns at the back of your throat and deep in your lungs, probably shouldve brought a water up with you, but it was much too late for that.

You try to make some casual conversation, avoiding talking about the crash, but still asking him about how his day was before work. Conversation always seemed to flow so easy with him, like he completely understood and knew all the things you were feeling, probably because he was much older and had experienced everything you were feeling. “An experienced man to take care of you”, Dana would always tease when you brought up your crush on him.

You tried to ignore the way Abbot’s eyes lingered on you, tracing up and down your body, following the blunt as you brought it up to your lips again, and then catching your eyes as you breathed out.

“Do you wanna hit?” you offer, resting your head on your knees as you look over at him. You can tell he’s considering it by the way he keeps flittering back and forth between your eyes and the blunt, but you dont wanna push anything.

“I’ve never really, uhm, really done something like that,” He rushes out, rambling on about how he’s smoked before, but maybe he was too old-fashioned for the things kids are into now days.

“Alright old man,” you tease, sticking your tongue out at him when he gently pushes your shoulder laughing with you. You could feel the effects already flooding your system and relaxing you before you could even stop yourself your voice is speaking for you, “We could shotgun?”

You dont know where the bold statement had come from, but when Abbot leans in closer you cant help the blush that rises to your cheeks.

“What do I need to do,” he murmurs, face inches from yours as he scoots closer and you turn to face him. He’s sitting with his legs spread flat against the ground, and he tugs you closer pulling your legs overtop his thighs and around his waist till you’re practically seated in his lap and eagerly waits for your next instruction.

“All you gotta do is breathe okay?” He nods in response, waiting for you to bring the blunt up to your lips again.

You bring the lighter up, hands shaking as you try to re-spark the flame. It feels like the world was practically tilting at this point, how did you get here? Abbot gently cups his hands around yours and your eyes snap up to him. He nods to you, taking the lighter and lighting the blunt for you as you take another deep hit, letting the smoke collect in your mouth and lungs before moving close to him again.

He parts his lips, eyes catching yours as you breathe the smoke into his. His hands travel up your arms causing you to shudder as they trace back and forth along your shoulders.

“Can I try?” His voice is hoarse as his fingers prod at the blunt in your hand, gingerly taking it between his two fingers and you let him, watching him bring it up to his lips. He takes a deep breath, hazel eyes never breaking from yours as he drops the last of the blunt to the ground and pulls you in with both his hands cradling your face. You gasp as he tugs you to fully sit on his lap, quickly blowing the smoke out into your mouth as you greedily inhale it.

Before you get the chance to pull back his hands pull you in closer, lips locking with yours as you both moan into the kiss, your hands coming up to tangle with his greying curls. It’s all so dizzying, the weed, the frantic kisses, the way Abbot holds onto you like if he lets go he’ll lose you. He’s got his hands on your hips, rolling you over his hard on again and again as his tongue slips into your mouth, eager to tie itself up with yours causing you to let out a high pitched whine.

“Jack,” you whimper out his name and he pulls back for just a moment to make eye contact with you. His pupils are blown wide and he’s panting, your fingers trail down from his hair and land on either side of his face pulling him back into another searing kiss.

“I’ve seen how you look at me,” his accusation causes you to whimper, bucking your hips against his as he trails kisses down your jaw and neck, hushed voice ringing in your ear, “Heard what you’ve said to the others about me.”

“What’s that?” Your voice comes out broken, breath hitching as he sucks and bites into the crook of your neck.

“Oh you know,” He murmurs, hands pulling your hips to roll against him again and again, until he’s locking eyes with you again. “Something about needing an older man to fuck you right.”

The cocky smirk thats plastered against his face should not be as hot as it is, but you can’t help but nod, admitting that you did want this as bad as he thought. He snakes a hand down into your scrub pants, a groan ripping through him when he’s feels how wet you are for him. You roll your hips against his hand, writhing as his fingers work against your clit rubbing in quick figure eights as he grinds his cock up against you.

“Fuck, Jack please,” You beg, trying to somehow get even closer to him. He pulls his fingers out, wrapping his lips around them and moaning at the taste of you causing you to whimper as you hold eye contact with him. He pulls you flush against him, both hot and sticky as he desperately ruts against you and you against him. Your fingers drag underneath his shirt along his back and he tugs at the hair at the base of your skull, holding you tightly as you both grind against one another.

“Cum for me baby,” His voice is strained, almost whining, and from the way his hips stutter you can tell he’s close. “Be a good girl.”

You throw your head back, the thread within you snapping as his spits on his fingers and brings them back down to your clit, dragging fast circles around and around. He’s holding you up at this point, body relaxing against his as you lazily kiss at his neck drooling while your orgasm rakes through you.

You can feel his hard on press against your over-sensitive core once, twice more before his hips are stuttering and Abbot’s cumming in his cargo pants, streaming out whiney praises about how good you were for him and how pretty you were as you came. His breath slowly comes down and he presses his head against yours, soft kisses placed against your temple and you whine as he pulls his fingers away from your quivering pussy.

He lays back on the roof, pulling you down with him as he cards fingers through your hair. You two stay like that for a while, just breathing and looking at the stars, a wave of comfort washing over both of you. He felt like maybe the comfort he had found in the dark was actually from you all along. He could actually just stay here and go to sleep-

“Who did you hear that from?” Your voice breaks him from his peaceful trance and his eyes flitter down to yours, watching the lazy smile crack across your face as you break out into a fit of giggles.

“I cannot give up my informant,” he chuckles as you dramatically sigh, laying back down for just a split second before your back up again. With the amount of energy you had compared to him, he just knew you were gonna be a handful.

“Okay, but was it Dana because I swear to god-“

#jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #the pitt x you #the pitt x reader #this was just something fun not at all serious writing or accurate lmao #sometimes i just need to finish writing something kinda oki so i can write decent stuff #i have so many like half finished things its not even funny tbh #once again sorry for typos i am but a one man show #ill probably fix them later but lemme know if theres any that are so bad you wanna cry ty

98 notes · View notes

moongirlrhea · 2 days ago

Text

an azriel and his best friend drabble - period comfort

this is a drabble in the azriel and his best friend universe, but it can be read as a standalone!!! in the timeline this happens at some point before the events of the series :)

series masterlist

word count: 1.8k

azriel x reader drabble

warnings: descriptions of period pain

a/n: sooo backstory: i had a really bad period last week and it brought me back to when i used to have really bad periods in high school. like passing out and all that so: this fic is the result of that! as always feedback is appreciated, let me know what you think!!!!

She groaned into her pillow as pain pierced through her stomach. She curled tighter into a ball as she fought the tears brimming in her eyes.

She couldn’t take this, she really couldn’t. She hadn’t even known her cycle was coming, with how unregular it was, but this morning she woke to red-stained sheets and a sharp pain shooting through her stomach. And by the time she managed to get the bed, and herself, cleaned up, she was utterly exhausted.

Azriel was at training, so he wasn’t there to help her, which he usually insisted on doing. After first coming to Velaris it was utterly strange for her to have anyone, especially a male help her with her cycle, considering how her entire life she’d been taught it was something to hide, to be …ashamed of. That it was a liability that should be hidden from a lady’s husband, and well she didn’t know why exactly she correlated that with Azriel, but- Anyway. It was standard for her to manage the pain on her own her entire life, although that usually consisted entirely of whining and whimpering in bed alone.

After getting close to Azriel everything changed, and he insisted on taking care of her, which at first was mainly just her trying not to burrow herself into the ground from embarrassment. After a while, however, after first experiencing Azriel’s gentle care and the love he conveyed in it, that quiet compassion and his lack of judgement, she started to let him help her. Although she had to admit, that the mortification she was thought to feel at showing her pain to a male of all people so undeniably, never really went away. Maybe it never would, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind reminding her how there was nothing wrong with being taken care of.

She squirmed again, a big part of her wishing he was here, unable to find a position that would ease the pain even the slightest bit. Sweat beaded at her brow and she whimpered as she lowered herself from her bed, and onto the floor.

It was cool against her skin, making her feel at least a bit less faint. Right? That’s what she thought would happen, but now her breathing shallowed and darkness swam in the edges of her vision.

Gods, the pain- Whimpering, she leaned her head back against the edge of the mattress and suddenly everything around her was blurring and-

Well, that definitely didn’t work in making her feel less faint.

Someone was shaking her shoulders.

“Sweetheart-” a familiar voice urged somewhere above her “Wake up, please, come on”

She groaned as she felt pain stab through her again. She was slowly coming about and slowly the realization that she knew that voice washed over her. Gods, what had happened?

“Az?”

“Thank the Mother,” the male crouched above her exhaled in relief “Can you open your eyes for me, love?” he asked in such a soft voice, that she couldn’t not try to.

She cracked her eyes open and looked at Azriel through squinted lids, vision still swimming. But he was already grabbing her forearms and helping her sit up. His touch was so, so gentle as he fussed over her that it had tears brimming in her eyes all over again. Suddenly her best friend’s eyes widened and snapped to hers.

“You’re bleeding. Did you hit your head? What happened, where are you hurt?” The questions were coming at her one after the other, though it was obvious by the pinch of his expression and the furrow of his brow that Azriel was trying extremely hard not to sound too scared. The unconcealable worry in his eyes gave him away.

Had she passed out from the pain? The answer was obvious in her mind and her stomach sank a bit as a pang of embarrassment consumed her. She tried to keep her eyes glued to Azriel as she stayed quiet for longer than needed. Oh, cauldron.

“It's my cycle, Az” she sighed out finally, eyes glancing around the room. Her vision was suddenly drowned in the golden, intense sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Was it midday already? How long had she been out?

“Why didn’t you call for me?” Azriel coaxed her head in his direction by placing a gentle hand on the side of her face. His thumb was stroking gently along her cheekbone as his shadows, who seemed to have noticed her earlier discomfort, shot out to close the curtains, keeping most of the overwhelming light from the room.

“You were at training, I didn’t want to…-” her voice trailed off.

“You should have called for me, you know one of my shadows is always somewhere close” his voice was almost scolding as he studied her with such deep concern in his golden-brown eyes, it almost took her breath away.

“I’m sorry”

“You know that’s not what this is about,” he told her in a soft voice “You always call for me when you’re in pain, alright?”

She narrowed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder in exhaustion before replying. “And that goes the same for you, right?”

A beat of silence ensued before Azriel chuckled, his hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck, fingers brushing through her hair. “It does”

“Alright, then”

Before any of them could say something more, a wave of pain so intense hit her, that she doubled over, gasping.

“Fuck, sweetheart, where do you have your pain tonics? How long ago have you taken one?”

“I haven’t- Ah-,” she gasped as she tried to get the words out “I haven’t taken any” she managed to rasp out, finally.

“What do you mean you haven’t taken any?” she could practically feel the way he froze in front of her, the shadows that had been twirling around her frame going in tow with their master.

“They don’t help anyway” she mumbled through a whimper.

“They don’t help? Love- You passed out on the floor from the pain, for Mother’s sake you can’t-” Azriel said seriously somewhere above her “You need to take care of yourself, we’ve talked about this” he added a bit sternly.

Was he mad at her? As she whimpered from the pain again, an ugly, albeit well known feeling swam through her body. But he wouldn’t think that of her, right? “I’m- I’m sorry” she tried wetly, a bit helplessly, maybe.

He exhaled shakily somewhere next to her “No- No don’t be sorry,” she sniffled at that “Hey, you’re alright. I’m right here. I didn’t mean to- I’m not mad at you, alright?” he said as he gathered her shaking form into his arms. She was a mess, breathing heavily, almost sobbing from the pain.

“It hurts, Az” she felt a stream of salt rivulet down the side of her face.

“I know, I know” he mumbled as he placed her gently on the bed “I just need to get you a tonic, okay sweetheart?”

“No, don’t leave-”

“I know, but I’ll just be a second,” his voice was strained and unsure about leaving her out of his sight in this state. Even for just a moment, but the sight alone of her state cemented the decision for him. She needed medicine. “I’ll be right back”

She groaned as she curled into a ball, breathing heavily through her sobs. There was a muffled conversation in the hallway somewhere but she couldn’t focus at all. Her door closed and opened and a weight appeared on the bed next to her.

Someone was whispering something to her, stroking her back and head gently. But the world around her wasn’t making sense at that moment and it was only after a while that she realized who it was, based solely on the smell of night-chilled mist and cedar that hit her. But the pain was all consuming and in her state of torment she couldn’t even make out his words. A vague, unspecified amount of time passed as she lay there and at some point Azriel must have been gone again, and she heard voices outside her room. And then he was back, coaxing her to turn on her back and sit up.

She squirmed in his arms, eyes closed and face pinched as he tried to adjust her. “Just one second, sweetheart, here,” he said softly as he coaxed a bitter liquid past her lips “There you go, you’ll be better soon”

“I can’t- I can’t do this” she whimpered.

“It’ll be over soon, angel, I promise” there was urgency in his voice, as though he was trying to convince her on something but she couldn’t focus and then-. She was turning over again, intuitively pressing herself into his side. Then there was something hot being pressed against her stomach, and a pair of arms circling around her. Azriel was whispering something to her, trying to comfort her but the words were incomprehensible in her state. Suddenly everything was blurring.

Azriel pressed a shaky his on his best friend’s forehead as he held her trembling form in his eyes. It was torture to have to see her like this and he was already berating himself for not keeping up when her cycle would come.

Poor girl.

Thankfully, he bumped into Mor right after going to get a tonic for her, and she happened to have an abundance of the stronger dose that she got from Madja sometime earlier. And so, he could already feel his girl’s form slumping against him, succumbing to sleep.

The plan for the next week was laying itself out in his mind as he held her. He had already sent his shadows to get her favorite foods and snacks from the Rainbow, and Mor promised to ask Madja for more tonics today. So that was covered. The House would supply them with hot water bottles, so he checked that from his list. He would have to check if she was in need of more linens.

There was one thing left to worry about, however. The convincing that it will take him to get her to actually stay in bed, because he was already sure she’d be trying to get up and to work the second she woke up. But it was alright for Azriel to ease his best friend’s mind and make sure she was well taken care of.

That’s what he was there for, and it was a job he’d cherish. Until the end of his days.

taglist: @greenmandm @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @dark-night-sky-99 @ly--canthrope @azrielssgirl @topaz125 @azrielsmate3 @i-am-infinite @stressed-reader @blonde-bansheee @k-homosapien @azysmate @brekkershadowsinger to join let me know under this post

#azriel x reader #azriel and his best friend #azriel drabble #azriel comfort fic #azriel comfort #azriel fluff #azriel hurt/comfort #acotar #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #azriel acotar #acotar fandom #azriel fanfic #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfiction #azriel series

129 notes · View notes