#the same points and the same angles over and over again
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little miss perfect + texts and short
tama and rashad


rashad and lina





lina and leya



solana and roman





later that day...
The tips of Lina’s acrylic stiletto nails rake at the perfect angle against Leya’s scalp. Curls down and free, splayed across her sister’s lap, legs pulled up to her chest as Lina sits up against the headboard. Old reruns of Pretty Little Liars playing on the TV on the wall across the spacious bedroom at a low volume. Background noise combatting the music that sounds from Leya’s portable speaker on her dresser. Neither is truly listening or tuned into either. If anything, it’s a poor distraction to keep one twin from being so into her head, a place and space she’s been in for the past almost two weeks.
For the other twin, it allows her some time to try to figure out how to approach what she’s attempted to verbalize since the day she received that text from her sister.
It’s been a constant conversation ever since and will continue to be until it is really addressed.
But, it seems there are a million and one things Leya would rather do or address except for that.
Pushing it off until there is no more room. Until she’s backed against the wall with nothing to say or do except confess what cannot be avoided anymore.
Lina's hope though is that it doesn’t reach that point, because something tells her that won’t bode over well.
At all.
A quiet knock on Leya’s bedroom door followed by the entrance of someone uninvited.
Samaria walks in, curls pulled up into two space buns, face painted with a green skincare mask. Phone in one hand, a bottle of Sparking Ice in the other.
Samaria’s smile transitions into a frown as she looks around the room, “why’s it so depressing in here?” The lights. She’s referring to Leya’s lights that are dimmed down to almost nothing. She then shrugs, uncaring of the fact that she receives no answer, walking towards the bed. “Anyhoo, guess what—”
“Not now, Aria.”
It’s the first thing Leya has really said since Lina joined her sister in her room following her nighttime shower after getting home from practice. But, it sounds just as sad as the texts they’ve exchanged all day.
However, Aria, true to her nature, remains oblivious to the fact that Leya truly is in no mood. Especially not today.
She rolls her eyes, moving to sit on Leya’s seat near her art desk, the backseat blanketed with the pink throw she’s had since they were little. “Come onnn, I know you guys are like in twin mode right now, but—”
“I said not now, Samaria!”
Silence.
Lina’s actions of stroking and massaging her sister’s scalp is ceased in the same way Aria’s expression completely shifts. Her shoulders dropping, frown deepening from a more serious place versus her usual theatrical headspace.
Aria stands up, disappointment and hurt feelings blatant and obvious. “Fine….” A quiet grumble in Samoan as their younger sister turns on her heel and walks out the room without another word.
Lina takes a breath.
This….this isn’t good.
Her twin sister is a lot of things, a saint usually being near the top of the list. Lina isn't sure she’s heard Leya snap like that before.
Ever.
“Sissy—”
“Do—do you remember when Carina Bliss randomly disappeared for a few weeks last year?”
It takes a minute for the memory of a name she hasn’t heard in a while to register, Lina eventually answering, recalling the girl in their grade who’s only ever been known for….not so great reasons.
“Yeah, why?”
A noticeable pause and shift as Leya sits up, Lina frowning seeing her twin’s face. She just looks so sad, and Lina hates it. Hates that she feels like they’re little kids all over again, Leya deep in her struggles with her OCD.
So similar to where they are now.
“I heard….I heard it’s because she was pregnant, and….” Leya’s gaze dips down, her tongue darting out to lick over her bottom lip. “She—she didn’t keep it.”
Lina remains calm and neutral, carefully asking, “is that what you—”
“She didn’t go to Planned Parenthood.” It’s that addition that loses Lina and causes her neutrality to shift into confusion.
“Then how did she—” And, it's in that moment, seeing the nervousness that flashes in her twin’s eyes, that it dawns on her. That she realizes not only the point of this conversation but just where Leya’s headspace has shifted towards. “Sissy, no—”
“I don’t want anyone to know, Lina.” Her voice breaks, adding quietly, "especially mommy and daddy."
“Leya, do you know how dangerous that can be?” A quiet but firm question, Lina’s eyes widening at the shock of it all. “If you want an abortion, then we’ll do that, but we have to do it the right way, Leya. Going to some random quack to do the procedure is the worst thing—”
Leya shakes her head, eyes watering. “If I go to Planned Parenthood, then it could be in my medical records—”
“Because it’s a medical procedure, Leya,” Lina stresses, truly baffled at what she’s hearing. It’s like the roles have been reversed. Usually, it’s Leya trying to talk some sense into her, trying to talk her down from making a probably not-so-great decision. Now, it’s her trying to help her sister understand why this could be the single worst thing she’s ever considered.
“You can’t—”
But, Leya remains committed to this idea it seems, offering more evidence that this is something she’s seriously considering. “Mommy is a nurse. If—if I need something, then—”
“She would need to know what happened in order to help you, Leya, hence still finding out.” Not even that, God forbid Leya has any sort of complications. As smart and capable their mom is, Leya would most likely need to go to the hospital, not the kitchen so their mother could tend to her.
Just more reasons why this cannot happen, under any circumstance.
Something Lina has to make sure her sister understands.
“Cataleya….you know I love. You’re my sister. I’d do anything for you.” Lina swallows, managing her borderline stern tone yet the undertone of compassion just as audible. “But, this….I won’t keep this a secret. I can’t.”
Leya sniffles. “Sissy—”
Lina remains firm, dedicated to prioritizing the wellbeing of her twin. “You try to do this, and I have to tell mommy and daddy.”
Leya’s eyes widen, her fear visible and palpable. “Please, no.”
Confidants. Secret keepers. Womb mates and best friends for life, there’s nothing Lina wouldn’t do for her sister. But, even that dedication to loyalty and commitment has limitations and stipulations.
And that revolves almost entirely around safety.
Catalina could and would never stay silent if she knew Leya was planning to do something that could put her life in danger.
And going to any place not Planned Parenthood or an actual hospital for an abortion is the definition of danger.
Seeing her threat of disclosing the secret to protect her sister from herself evokes emotion from the girl across from her, Lina reaches over and takes Leya’s hands in her own. “So, don’t do this.” She swallows, adding with a hint of desperateness. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But….not like this, Cataleya, okay?”
The emotion her sister has been struggling to manage and contain boils over, resulting in a slow nod from Leya before the tears spill over, prompting Lina to move and pull her sister into her arms.
“I’ve got you, sissy,” she whispers, eyes shutting feeling Leya’s hands grasp at her her, holding her. Desperate and scared. “I’ve got you.”
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So, apparently, we’re doing this again. The moral hysteria over incest in fanfiction, brought to you by anons who believe writing about taboo topics is equivalent to endorsing them. I get so many asks with this same topic, and I delete most of them, but the sheer bad-faith logic around fictional incest is so intellectually dishonest...
I write Celegorm/Curufin fic. Not because I secretly want to bang my sisters, not because I think incest is good, not because I fetishize all sibling pairings... but because this one dynamic, within this fictional framework, for me, is compelling. Sometimes Celegorm wants to shield Curufin. Sometimes he wants to kill Curufin. Sometimes Curufin is sweet, sometimes he is cruel. And they do face consequences for their choices. If someone wants to write incest erotica as a fetish, that’s not my business either. Nobody is being forced to read it.
If your argument is that writing or reading these dynamics in fanfic is dangerous because it “normalizes” real-world incest, then you might want to unplug your TV and turn off your PC. Because if fiction had that much power to shape human behavior, we'd all be gun-wielding sociopaths right now.
Adults (supposedly) understand the difference between fantasy and reality. If you don’t, that’s not a fandom problem; that’s a media literacy problem.
At this point, I think these asks aren’t really about caring or protecting anyone. It’s about control, about policing taste and “acceptable” imagination. It’s the same logic that leads to book bans and art censorship.
I don’t need to justify my fic with trauma backstory, social critique, or some moral angle to make it okay. Sometimes they suffer. Sometimes they get away with it. Sometimes it’s hot and terrible and complex and none of it has anything to do with what I believe is right or wrong in real life.
This is the first and will be the last time I will justify myself here about Tyelcurvo. Spare me the concern trolling over what two fictional men from a fictional family in a mythic past do in a fan-created narrative space.
They're not your brothers. You're not reading it.
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The Barrel and the Bullet
Word Count: ~6,300
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Rescue, Happy Ending
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!cop reader
Warnings: Kidnapping, trauma, swearing, implied violence, emotional distress, claustrophobia, but ends with safety and love.
Based off the rookie: spoilers ahead kinda if you haven’t watched except I will not say who is involved in the actual show 😭😭
⸻
You missed roll call.
No one noticed at first , not until Morales came back from lunch and found a plain envelope sitting on the front desk. No name. No note. Just a USB drive inside.
When he plugged it in, the room fell silent.
The screen flickered to life.
You.
Stuffed into a dark plastic barrel, zip-tied, gagged, lip split. You weren’t dead, but you were close.
Shaking. Breathing like each breath was fire.
The camera panned slowly, deliberately. No sound. Just the hum of bad lighting. Then your gag was yanked off.
You didn’t scream.
Instead, with your eyes full of terror and defiance…
You began to sing.
“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”
Gasps in the room.
“But I… can’t help… falling in love with you.”
Then the screen cut to black.
Words appeared.
“Let’s see if your friends can find you before the song ends.”
⸻
Morales called the captain. The captain called D.C.
Which is how Bucky Barnes found out you were missing.
He’d been halfway through a mission debrief with Sam when he got the call, a special request from NYPD. Not officially his jurisdiction, but it didn’t matter.
Not when it was you.
You, who’d been the NYPD lead on their shared weapons trafficking case. You, who always matched him barb for barb, step for step. You, who laughed too loud and never let him shut himself off.
You, who Bucky hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since the case started.
Now you were gone.
And someone was using your voice, your song, to taunt them.
⸻
NYPD created a joint task force that night. The captain wanted it hush-hush, no press. Just local detectives, federal support, and Bucky and Sam, who refused to sit this one out.
“This was retaliation,” Morales told them. “She busted one of their caches a week ago. Her name was all over the reports.”
“They’re not asking for money,” Sam noted. “This isn’t ransom.”
“No,” Bucky growled. “This is punishment.”
They reviewed the video again. It killed Bucky to watch it, but he didn’t look away.
“Pause there,” he said, pointing. “See that blinking red light?”
“Motion sensor,” Morales said. “Security brand. Outdated.”
“Pull building permit data,” Bucky snapped. “Anywhere that still uses those sensors. That’s your short list.”
“You sure you wanna be this involved?” Torres asked.
Bucky stared at the screen. “She sang to survive. I’m not going to let her die unheard.”
⸻
Your breath came short.
The inside of the barrel was too small, too dark. The plastic walls creaked every time you shifted. You felt the air thinning.
You couldn’t scream. Couldn’t waste oxygen.
So you sang.
It kept you sane. Kept you you.
When the barrel swayed from movement above, you flinched, expecting fists. But this time, all they did was shine a camera light on your face.
Red. Recording.
And you realized…
They were sending it to your team.
To Torres. Morales. The whole precinct. Maybe even…
No. You couldn’t think about Bucky. That hurt more than the bruises.
But still… you imagined his voice. That sarcastic, low drawl.
“Hey, that all you got?”
So you sang louder.
“Take my hand…”
You weren’t singing for them anymore.
You were singing for him.
⸻
Back at the precinct, another video arrived.
Same barrel. Different angle. Your voice weaker this time.
“Like a river flows…”
Torres slammed his fists against the wall and stormed out.
Bucky didn’t move.
Sam finally stepped forward. “You okay?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “No.”
He stood. Pacing. Like something in him was unspooling.
“I’ve watched her carry half this case alone. I watched her get put on hold every time she asked for backup. And now I’m watching her waste away in a fucking barrel while these bastards broadcast it—”
He broke.
His fists slammed the table.
“I never told her,” he whispered. “She made me feel something real again. And I just stood there pretending not to care.”
Sam’s voice was quiet. “Then don’t just stand now. Let’s go get her.”
⸻
Morales brought in a miracle.
“There’s audio distortion in the second video. Background hum, matches an outdated diesel generator.”
Torres jumped in. “There’s a condemned waste site in Queens. Whitestone Processing. Right near old train lines.”
“Pull the permits,” Bucky said. “Fast.”
The sensor brand? Still registered to the Whitestone property.
Sam nodded. “We’ve got her.”
The captain gave the green light. NYPD moved. ESU rolled. But Bucky didn’t wait.
He was already gone.
⸻
The waste site was rotting and silent.
Bucky burst through the chain fence like a bullet, sprinting toward the storage building with the reinforced padlock.
He barely noticed the fight around him, cops shouting, suspects running. Torres cuffed one of the men screaming about “the barrel.”
Then—
Singing.
Faint. Cracked.
“Darling so it goes… some things are meant to be…”
He ran harder.
A locked storage unit. Bucky ripped the door open with his bare hands.
There, in the middle of the dark room, was the barrel.
He crossed the distance in three steps and dropped to his knees.
“(Y/N)?!”
The lid groaned. Your face, pale and barely conscious, tilted up toward the light.
“Hey,” Bucky said, voice cracking. “I got you.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You’re… real.”
“I’m real,” he promised, ripping the ties from your wrists, lifting you into his arms like you were sacred. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
You tried to smile. “Didn’t stop singing…”
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“I know,” he whispered.
⸻
You woke to white lights and soft beeping.
A warm weight was pressed against your leg.
Bucky.
Sleeping with his head resting on the bedrail, hand still clutching yours.
You blinked.
His eyes opened instantly. “Hey.”
“You stayed.”
“Not going anywhere.”
You swallowed hard. “I thought I’d never get out. That I’d die with that song stuck in my throat.”
“But you didn’t,” he said. “You kept yourself alive.”
Tears welled. “Did you watch?”
“Every second.”
“I was scared I’d forget who I was. I hoped that you guys would figure it out. I knew… I knew you would make it.”
He moved closer. “You didn’t forget. You reminded us. I thought I lost you.” His breath hitched.
You reached for him, pulled him down.
“Say it.”
He exhaled, shaky and sure.
“I love you.”
⸻
You never watched the videos.
But Bucky kept a copy.
He only played it once. Just to remember the moment you held yourself together with nothing but memory and music.
A few months later, he found you on your rooftop, warm night air, Elvis playing from your phone, your hair caught in the breeze.
“Still your favorite?” he asked.
You turned, smiling softly.
“It brought you to me.”
And without missing a beat, you sang:
“For I… can’t help… falling in love with you.”
⸻
#bucky barnes x reader#avengers imagine#bucky barnes#bucky barnes imagine#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan#marvel x reader#marvel masterlist#sam wilson#nypd#the rookie#the rookie x marvel#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky fluff#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes x you#thunderbolts#new avengers
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I am re-reading the Silmarillion, and something strikes me. The women of Tolkien's world have been talked about TO DEATH especially with all the recurring debates surrounding the Rings of Power series.
As we all know, Tolkien was not a "feminist" in the modern sense of the word. He had a very male-centric point of view and appreciation of the world, he had male-driven and male-centered stories, and actual women characters were sparse and rare. There are only five really big female characters in "The Lord of the Rings" - the quintet of Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. [No, don't talk to me about Arwen, she only really was a character in the movies, in the book she's just there in the appendix and she was literaly an afterthought of Tolkien to act as Eowyn's romantic double...]
Consider this. Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. This tells you everything you need to know about Tolkien's women, in good and bad.
The Silmarillion has the same motif of having a lot of female characters, only for most of them to be just footnotes, secondary characters with no lines, under-developped one-liners... with in a contrast a handful of super-cool, super-badass, complex and developed heroines at the center of the plot.
Aka, on the bad side, when listing the Valar, while Tolkien gives an interesting personality, great domains and cool attributes to all the male ones, half of the female ones are just... there. And do one stuff. And never appear again. I mean come on... Vana and Nessa? Estë and Vairë were done dirty... That's the actual type of "non-feminism" Tolkien has. It isn't about him hating women or trying to be offensive in his depictions - it is about him just, not putting as much thought, effort and care into his female characters as his male ones, a bit the same way he creates the vast expanses of the East and South of Middle-Earth and then never bothers actually developing more of it or seeking to tell tales of it - but that's for another discussion about Tolkien's "racism". Here we talk about women.
But here's the thing, aka the good side... When Tolkien does find the time and care to develop and flesh out a female character, by Iluvatar he goes all out! Again, we are back on what I said earlier: the women of Lord of the Rings can be counted on one hand... but these fingers are Galadriel, Eowyn and Shelob, so you can't claim he isnt writing powerful, important or uninterestng female characters. Which leads me to my original remark - as usual I get driven away in digressions of all sorts and kinds.
Have you ever noticed that Melkor's greatest enemies, the ones he fears the most, and his most effective foes... are women? Tolkien might not like to put them front and center of his tales, and he might have been a man of the early 20th century England in culture and mind, but boy does he has something to say about how women are actually the first enemies of the literal embodiment of evil and destruction! I mean think about it. Varda of the Stars, and Yavanna of the trees. Nienna has her ambiguous relationship to him - her tears work against him, and yet without her plea for him he likely would not have been released from the dungeons of Mandos. You have Melian with her Girdle, and Luthien with her Hound. And of course most of all Arien, guardian of the Sun, not only one of the rare fire spirits that Melkor couldn't corrupt (despite him basically ruling over all fire), but that frightens him so much he keeps hiding away and doesn't even dare to attack her... [I also reblogged some times ago a post praising the brilliance of Tolkien keeping the old European sun-moon motifs but switching the genders. The weaker, inconsistant, lustful, whimsical, disorderly, untrustworthy Moon is now a male principle, while the steady, dangerous, strong, powerful and beautiful Sun is a woman.]
It is actually REALLY easy to do a feminist retelling of Tolkien's work. Melkor doesn't fear Manwë as much as Varda. Aulë's works and servants get corrupted by Melkor, while Yavanna's do not. Melian and Luthien actively works against him. He friggin' pisses himself when the Woman of the Sun shows up. Sure, there are some evil female characters that serve him down the line and are relegated to the "obscure footnotes and undescribed secondary characters" zone - Thuringwethil the vampire or queen Beruthiel. I coul also dropped deleted characters from early drafts, like the ogress Fluithuin. But among them stands Ungoliant... THE only true female big bad on the dark side of Arda. THE badass, nightmarish, creepy eldritch abomination. And who ends up double-crossing Melkor, almost KILLING him, and again making him basically shit in his pants - as Varda and Arien do.
The first enemies of Morgoth are not the Valar, or the Maiar, or the Elves... It's women.
#Huh... there was this woman. She had a name. Was hot. She weaved. And that's it moving on she is not actually relevant.#she's just here to ornate the text.#tolkien's legendarium#lord of the rings#silmarillion#the women of tolkien#feminism in fantasy#melkor#morgoth#seriously when you start looking at the world Tolkien created you actually can have SO MUCH FUN#i am a bit sad everybody keeps using the same analysis#the same points and the same angles over and over again#when it is clearly more open and under different lenses can become sometimes something much cooler than what people make it sound to be#i am sorry but the silmarillion sometimes sounds like a “feminist fantasy” as we can understand it today#it literaly sometimes is a glorious hymn of how the things evil fears the most and the only people who put a stop to the scheme of the devi#were women#who were queens and heroines and enchantresses and goddesses and princesses and warriors and the sun and eldritch horrors forever hungry#j.r.r. tolkien#tolkien talk#lotr#but let's be honest A LOT of other times it is just
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Severance has really got me thinking about the ethics of sentient holograms in Star Trek. it's not quite the same thing as splitting someone's memories and treating one version of them as "not real" but it's still essentially creating aperson and expecting their entire existence to revolve around work and serving others. like The Measure of a Man was entirely about establishing that if a being is sentient then they have the right to consent and make choices about their own life and the Federation seemed to eventually agree that androids fell under that category. but then they turned around and immediately invented a new category of non-person to force to work without granting them free will and no one seems to acknowledge that this could maybe be a little ethically dubious.
#it's definitely a case of the writers not fully thinking through their utopian world and the implications therein#but i do love exploring federation hypocrisy and ethical debates#and as much as i can be annoyed by the emh in later seasons for having the same story over and over again#and disrespecting other people's privacy & autonomy#he did very much have a point in regards to hologram rights#it's also interesting because the technology seems to be new in ds9 & voyager (specifically sentient holograms. not holograms in general)#so no one in universe really knows what to do with them#and we never really revisit the subject in any trek set after that (except for the La Sirena holograms but their existence is never#explored in depth)#i forget if disco ever has any sentient holograms?#(also there's definitely a wider conversation irt holograms & the mechanization of labor in the star trek future but that's too close to#reality and i'm tired so i'll just be thinking about the like. philosophical & ethical angle)#my posts
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He’s my little meow meow, my darling, my bbygirl (Patreon)
#Doodles#Commander Peepers#I'm soooooo normal about him you guys <3 So normal! <3 <3#*Looking back over the other Little Guys I've collected* Hmmmmmmm Evil Xisuma and Spamton and Sableye and Rick Diggins#I think there might be a theme here#Just casually making Venn Diagrams in my head - Evil X has the red/black - Spamton is trans - Sableye has Gremlin energy - Rick is too tired#And those are just the ones I can think of lol - if you look I did the same stretchy pose with EX when I was still drawing him lol#The Stretch Pose is how you can tell if I like a character lol - they stretchin'? I am infatuated <3#I mean I'm normal I'm totally normal lol#Also had to give him a bbygrl pose - I for the life of me cannot find it again but the reference is very strong in my mind's eye!#Not that I couldn't go for another one at some point lol ♪#Ugh the middle one lol - so that Word of God I mentioned in passing about female Watchdogs#I read it in passing as just a basic research of ''Oh here's what The Original Creator has to say alright neat''#Except that it Immediately made me itchy and I was like ''What. What brain this is not that big of a deal what are you doing''#And I was like ''No I'm being silly about this - just because I don't agree doesn't mean it's a big deal lol''#Except then I had stress dreams and woke up Weird the next day and the last time that happened I left a fandom#And the time before that I wrote 4 consecutive pages of 20-something panels in like 18 hours of consciousness - I have normal reactions lol#But I opted instead to vent to smol about it and she agreed with me so basically I'm just saying I'm correct lol /s#Personally Peepers doesn't strike me as misogynistic - he's very much an Equal Opportunity villain in my eyes!#And yeah I considered a lot of different angles around it but like - based on the text of WOY I just don't buy it#If it's not in the show it doesn't count! For all we know there might not even be any female Watchdogs! Lol#Would also lead to the equally-to-Spamton interesting question of How Does Trans Work in that kind of situation#I've definitely not already put a lot of thought into it don't look at me lol#Don't ask me to write an essay about both of those things I'll do it and where will that leave us lol#ANYway lol ♪ He's still the absolute funnest to draw in distress and discomfort <3 And kneeling! He makes me want to practice :D#I always feel like I can try again and do better! >:3c
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why is this loser so hyperfixated on trying to ruin the literal one thing that brings me any amount of joy. get a hobby that isnt harassing an unemployed and disabled 27 year old about a fucking comic book
#ive tried to be nice but it's the same person every time trying to say the same shit and i don't know what their angle is#i am out of patience. i like idw silver. die mad about it. the only thing even keeping me from overdosing at this point is this dtupid comic#anyway i blocked them because im tired of it. its the same person and it has been for over a year#once again why cant people just call me slurs#ehy do they have to try to take the singular thing that makes me happy away from me#rabbit.txt
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Eyes on you
(nsfw 18+) Caleb has hidden cameras all over his house, and you've decided to put on a show for him.
2k words. posted also on ao3!
stalking, obsessive behavior, voyeurism, fem!reader.
PART 2 IS HERE!
Cameras. There were hidden cameras all over his house. There wasn't a bookcase or a mirror that didn’t have a little dot on it, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. You only knew they were there by accident: when you took the elevator to Caleb's apartment, you bumped into an excited boy wearing a cap and uniform of a security company.
"Are you Mr. Caleb's girlfriend? What a pleasure, I only saw you in pictures!" The boy waved, taking you by surprise.
"No... I'm just a friend." You said a little confused, and the energetic boy explained himself.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I saw so many photos of Mr. Caleb with you the day I went to install those cameras that I thought you were dating. He also said he was installing the cameras to protect someone he liked." Cameras? What cameras? You thought, but before you could say anything, the elevator door opened and the boy jumped out. "Let me know if any of them stop working, I've installed so many I've almost lost count! Bye!" And so he disappeared down the hall.
Now you were in the living room, standing there in the middle, feeling the weight of your body and your movements, self-conscious about yourself and alert to the fact that you were being watched. Was he watching you? Now? Right now? That’s fucked up. Jail worthy. Caleb was obsessed with you and if your recent reunion hadn't already proved it, the dozen or hundreds of hidden cameras scattered around that room were proof that Caleb was sick.
But we know the saying: When you point one finger, there are three fingers pointing back to you. More sickening than knowing that you were being watched, from every angle and probably in every room, was the fact that you were aroused. The spot between your legs throbbed, excited by the situation, by the fact that Caleb had probably seen you naked, had seen you sleeping, had seen you showering... It was so fucking wrong that, despite being against everything he had done in Skyhaven right after the reunion, you still delighted in remembering the possessiveness and obsession that melted at the words of your friend, oh, dear friend.
In addition to the burning sensation between your legs, there was this tingle in your stomach at the thought of a man - not just any man, we're talking about Caleb - being so concerned, so devoted to you that he would kill and die for your happiness. In fact, a man who returned from the ashes and survived for you and you alone. He was no longer your sweet childhood friend... But that wasn't a bad thing. Now he became a man who had eyes (many, it seems, all over the house), only and exclusively for you. Caleb was crazy about you, and, oh shit, you loved it, which made you as crazy as he was.
So you had two options: the first was to confront Caleb about why the fuck he had installed so many cameras in the apartment if the only person who spent time there apart from him was you; the second was to pretend you didn't know anything and carry on with your life as if everything was normal.
You always chose the second option when it came to Caleb, ever since you were a teenager and in college. Whether it was sneaking around his room and finding your panties secretly hidden in the back of his closet, or listening to him masturbate while calling your name when he thought he was alone, you always pretended everything was normal. But ever since, and even more so now that you've found each other again, there was nothing normal about it, and no reason to carry on in the same way. After all, if he had changed, there was no reason for you to remain the same or pretend you didn't know anything.
Then there was a third and new option: pretending not to know anything, but taking advantage of the situation to play with Caleb. Basically, make him taste his own medicine. If he wanted to see you, well, he would.
Pretending to be normal, you sat down on the sofa and took off your coat, throwing it on the coffee table. You took out your cell phone and called his number.
"Is my favorite guest home yet?" Caleb answered in his usual animated voice.
"Yeah. I'm bored. Still working? Is it break time?" You remembered that around this time he was most active on social media, so it should be the best time to put into action what you had in mind.
"Ah…You've always been very clever. Yes, I'm on break. I'll be home in two hours and we can do whatever you want. Don't get bored, you can turn on the TV or play a game on the console I have." Caleb was always like that, attentive to you, always wanting to please you. He wasn't much of a gamer, but because you liked games, he had bought a console with the excuse that he was getting interested in games. But now you weren't going to play with the console. You were going to play with something else.
"Oh, no..." You put the phone on speaker and placed it on the arm of the sofa. You lifted your shirt and brought your fingers up to your bra, massaging your nipples. "I want to relax, not play." You said, holding your right breast while spreading your legs, slipping anxious fingers into your pants, brushing the fingertips against the wet panties.
The call went silent. Bingo. He was indeed watching you, like the pervert he was.
"Caleb?" You asked innocently, keeping your voice steady as you started moving your hand in circles, making it obvious what you were doing inside those tight pants.
"A-ah, yes. Relax..." His breathing was heavy on the other end of the line, and suddenly you heard the sound of a zipper being opened. You had to stop yourself from moaning just then. He was starting to touch himself while watching you. "Why don't you, uh, take a shower in my bathroom?" His voice was a little choked. He was probably pumping himself slowly, staring at your live image through the screen in his office. Your pussy throbbed and suddenly your pants were too tight and too hot. You stopped stroking your own breasts and took both hands to the waistband of your trousers, sliding them down your legs. Then you took off your shirt, leaving only your panties and bra on. You positioned yourself again, this time with your legs spread wider and your heels resting on the table in front of the sofa. Your fingers returned to the soaked fabric of your panties, touching the sensitive clit through the wet cloth.
"Yeah, I'll have a shower, I'm just finishing something up." With your middle finger, you moved your panties to one side to touch yourself directly. You bit your lip, holding back a moan, and squeezed your breast with your other hand.
"Fuck..." he swore.
"All right?" You replied innocently, holding back your unsteady voice as you carried on stimulating your clit at a steady pace. You wanted him to think you didn't know about the cameras, so you had to stay as normal as possible on the phone.
"Yup... I- I just hit my finger," he lied, slurring his words.
"Caleb-" You said, catching your breath. "I miss you,"
"I miss you too." He sounded almost breathless. "I can come over now."
"No, you can't. There's work. Or is there something urgent you need to do here?" You quickly pulled down your panties, leaving them between your thighs. Then, out of the blue, you heard the unmistakable sound of a camera zooming in. He must have been eating you with his eyes, and now he wanted a closer look. You opened your folds, circling your fingers around the soaked entrance, like a pervert. You slowly moved the fingers up to your clit, stimulating yourself obscenely again. The other end of the line was completely silent, only a few low sounds and grunts were audible. "Caleb, is there something urgent you need to do here?"
"Uh-" He stammered, and you raised your hips a little, grinding against your hand. "Fuck, fuck," he said. He didn't bother with sentences anymore.
"What’s up with you? I'm feeling lonely and bored here. Can't you entertain me?" You teased innocently, but your legs were already shaking.
"I can entertain you. Ah-" For a second, you heard the wet, rhythmic sound of his thrusts against his own hand. Oh my. Caleb had his pants down, sat somewhere in the FAA, and was touching himself like a teenager while he watched you. And you fucking loved it. "I can entertain you... I can be so, so good for you, if you let me." His voice was raspy and breathless. If you weren't so close to your orgasm, you might've asked him if everything was alright and put him in a tough spot again, but you couldn't even think about that. You were too caught up in your own pleasure. One hand was on your nipple under your bra, the other was all over your clit, and you arched your back on the sofa.
"I- I know you know how to entertain me. You're so good to me, always." You gasped, no longer caring that he was probably listening to the sound of your quick fingers against the wet flesh of your vagina.
Suddenly, you heard a muffled cry on the other end of the line and several "Fuck, fuck, fuck" being whispered like a mantra at a low volume, as if he had his hand against his own mouth. He was coming. And that was all it took for the tingling at the base of your belly to explode and flow out of your pussy in an obscene and intense orgasm.
You had just squirted all over the living room table and carpet, and had probably wet the sofa as well. The two of you were silent, only the audible gasp of your breaths as you caught your breath.
"Caleb? Are you still there? It seems the connection was cut." You lied, still pretending you didn't know anything. He coughed and the sound of things being adjusted or stirred could be heard in the background.
"Yeah, yeah… Probably disconnected or something."
You got up and stood next to the sofa, looking at the mess you had left there.
"Caleb I think I spilled...something on your sofa and carpet. Is there any cleaning cloth so I can clean it up?" You looked around.
"NO!" Caleb almost shouted from the other side. "I mean, it's no problem, pipsqueak. You don't have to clean up. You must be tired from all this, right?" He cleared his throat. "From the trip, and everything. Just rest more, like I said, you can use my bathroom and take a shower if you want."
"Hm, where's that cleaning freak from before? Who are you and what have you done with my Caleb?" You heard a laugh on the other end of the line.
"That's why. I'll take care of it. Please" The last word sounded as if he was begging. "I'll be home soon, and I'll be able to...entertain you, as you wish. We can, huh, relax together, too."
You laughed and picked up your cell phone, walking to the bathroom while dropping your bra in the hallway, knowing that he was watching here too. You picked up your wet panties and placed them on the bathroom door handle. In an instant, you could see a small dot hidden next to a painting, pointing directly at where you were standing. You stared directly at it, smiled and winked.
"I'm waiting for you then, Caleb."
Part 2 is here
#caleb x reader#love and deepspace#caleb x mc#caleb x you#love and deepspace caleb#lads caleb#caleb smut#lads smut#kutepik
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Hi girly!! Can I please request for a rafe fic with the “my current boyfriend” trend on tiktok. Like i can imagine him being so pressed about it lol
Thank you 🤩
“My Current Boyfriend”
pov: You try to do the “current boyfriend” prank during a fit check and forget Rafe has zero chill.
⸻
Your phone’s angled up on the windowsill, and the little red recording light flashes just as Rafe wanders into frame, finishing off the rest of his Gatorade.
You smile sweetly at the camera. “Okay, hi guys! I’m here with my current boyfriend and we’re gonna do a little fit check—”
Rafe chokes.
“Current boyfriend??” he blurts out, eyebrows shooting up like you just announced a funeral and a baby shower in one sentence.
You keep going like nothing happened. “So I’m wearing this cute little set from—”
“Hold on,” Rafe interrupts, stepping fully in front of you to stare into the camera. “Did you just say current boyfriend like there’s gonna be a next one?”
You bite your lip, playing innocent. “I mean… I’m just saying current like…present-tense.”
Rafe stares you down. “Nah. Say only boyfriend. Say forever boyfriend. Say will-haunt-you-if-you-leave-me boyfriend.”
“Rafe—”
He turns to the camera again, pointing at himself. “This isn’t a subscription. This isn’t a trial period. There’s no 7-day free access to Rafe Cameron dot com. I’m a lifetime warranty.”
You snort.
Rafe starts pacing in frame, waving his arms. “Current. That’s wild. That’s actually insane. Do you know how many sandwiches I’ve made for you? You think this is a seasonal man??”
“Okay but the outfit—”
“No. Tell them where my hoodie’s from. Tell them it’s the same one you stole six months ago. Tell them it smells like me and now you can’t sleep without it.”
You break into laughter, camera wobbling as Rafe marches over and grabs your face between his palms, all dramatic and pouty.
“Say you love me.”
“Rafe—”
“Say it or I’ll post that picture of you crying over the finale of Bake Off.”
You’re breathless from laughing. “Okay! Okay. I’m here with my forever boyfriend.”
Rafe nods like a smug menace. “That’s what I thought.”
And then—because he’s Rafe—he slaps your ass, winks at the camera, and says, “Fit check: mine.”
a/n: i hadn’t seen this tiktok prank until today when leah and miguel (s6 love island peeps) video popped up on my fyp, this was a fun one to write and rafe would definitely crash out a bit lmao. thank you for the req nonnie!! 🫶🏻
♥️ lani
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EX HUSBAND SYLUS
— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ ��� ex! husband sylus headcanons
— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — fem! reader, oral (fem! receiving), possessive ex husband trope, stalking, voyeurism, pervert sylus, he misses you, hitting it raw, masturbation, fantasizing about you


ex husband sylus who never took his ring off— what he will do instead was pretend he did. to save face in public? for sure. in reality it's tucked away in a drawer— your drawer, the one you used to keep your lip balms and perfumes in as his wedding band lays beside your jewelry. sometimes, when sylus was feeling especially sad, he takes it out and sleeps with it in his palm, mostly when he's feeling lost or conflicted.
ex husband sylus who still uses your name as his passwords and changes them every cycle, frankly, they always consist of things related to you, for example your birthday or favorite pet, most beloved color or nickname he used to call you— one in particular consisted of the coordinates of the place you honeymooned in.
ex husband sylus calls it "muscle memory" when his fingers twitch in that same obsessive rhythm when he dreams about you and the way they used to press against your hips too, fuck, his dream was slowly turning into a particular kind again, eagerly fantasizing on how he used to grip your thighs when he cummed inside you.
ex husband sylus who still watches you, wether it was through mephisto, luke and kieran or when he's got some time to spare himself. he still watches from a distance, not stalkerish in his own eyes— protective if he had to explain it— and well, of course he tracks your location silly, of course he still has access to your security cameras so he always knows when you could be in possible danger. (or when you could be bringing someone else home)
ex husband sylus watches you in agony each night, especially when you're alone— most dearly when you're touching yourself and sylus filthily mouths along with the whimpers you tend to make while bullying your fingers past your hole— fuck, he can practically taste you on his tongue, his teeth sinking into his fist just to stop himself from calling you, just to hold himself back from watching you in such intimate way.
ex husband sylus who wasn't dating, instead, he's trying to feel you again through proxies, through ghosts, yet it's never enough, nothing ever was. and every time he fucked someone else— and well despite it being rare, he's always thinking of you within it, pretending it's your soft cunt he's feeling, fingering someone and saying your name, or getting head while his brain replays the exact angle of your throat and how you adored taking him when lastly, finishing into someone's mouth, then plastering it back onto their face because it just wasn't you.
ex husband sylus who runs into you in public— by chance or "chance" when he immediately plays it cool with his signature crooked smirk and head being slightly tilt, that's how you knew him, casual as ever. regardless, what you do not see was that his hands were shaking and afterwards, he goes home hard, ever so frustrated and fists his cock until he's feeling dizzy, saying your name over and over like a prayer and a curse at the same time. this is when sylus realizes that he will never get over you and you could so much as brush past him, his dick will twitch like it remembers, and obviously it does, it always does.
ex husband sylus who dreams about the filthiest version of you, no matter how many times it's always the same— he fantasizes about you apologizing and sobbing, begging him to touch you again after the divorce was settled and in his dream, sylus doesn't speak, he just pins you down with that glacial calmness inside of him and fucks you deep and rough, until you scream his name the same way you did the night he proposed to you.
following this, when he wakes up at last, there's cum all over his hand and funnily enough, he hasn't even touched himself, in fact, his body doesn't need to anymore, at this point you're carved into his nervous system.
ex husband sylus who sends you encrypted messages, believing that you do not know that it's him. okay, at first you really thought you had gained a new stalker besides your ex husband, considering they came through systems you no longer used— apps you've forgotten, channels buried in layers of old code.
honestly, you think you're dreaming when you hear your old ringtone late at night— but he's there, typing while watching you, bleeding through the digital static like a ghost in the machine.
"you wore the red silk dress last night." "you touched yourself at 2:17 a.m. i almost came just hearing you." "i will never stop being yours."
yes, it's a bit creepy, so you delete them, but they always come back.
ex husband sylus who believes that, well, perhaps you two weren't a good fit on paper, but in bed? fuck, he's never felt peace like that again. on the outside, you were sweet, yes, but filthy, so fucking sexy that you used to ride him with both hands flat on his chest, whispering the nastiest shit into his ears— telling him how thick he felt in your tight cunt or how impossibly big he was, how much you needed his cum or how your cunt ached when he didn't fuck you hard enough, not to mention how full you liked to be of his warm, sticky cum over and over.
sometimes you'd even edge him just to watch him break apart right underneath you, letting him whimper and beg you to be able to spill himself inside your soft pussy. and what happened when you finally let him have it you ask? obviously you'd kiss him slow and open mouthed, your tongue tenderly dancing around his own, "i love you sylus," you whine as he cums untouched from that alone.
after all this time, he's never forgotten that night.
ex husband sylus who still uses your shampoo as your scent lives in his hair whenever he showers. sylus still uses your old bottle— down to the last dribble as his entire bathroom looks like a shrine of things you love— one of your old towels still folded on the rack like you're coming back, like it belongs there, because to him, it does.
ex husband sylus who, when he jerks off— daily, violently, he uses your lotion, the one that smells like your favorite scent, the one his nostrils would pick up on when he was deep into your guts. now, when he fists his cock and heaves out your name, nose buried in the sleeve of your old dress you forgot at his place, he's moaning like he's losing his mind, his cum dribbling all over his knuckles and making a mess only you, in his mind, were capable to clean up with your tongue.
ex husband sylus who's furious that you're letting anyone else fuck you— and listen now, even if you didn't, even if it was just a rumor, sylus seethes just imagining you spreading your legs for someone else's hands, not to mention someone else's mouth. when he comes across the rumor of you finding another partner, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat either— yet when you see him again by chance, there's something unhinged in his gaze, not angry of course, but hollow, like the version of him that once smiled has been overwritten with cold calculation.
but all it took was your voice, one tremble, one "sylus…" and he cracks again, immediately grabbing your face and saying, "don't ever make me think you've moved on again," as he suffocates the space between your lips to finally kiss you after all this time, with tears beading his lashes at being one with you again.
this wasn't supposed to happen, originally you just wanted to nod politely and pass him like strangers in a city that once belonged to the both of you, pick up the things you've left in his house and be gone for good this time. yet he said your name— your name, not the ghost of it, not the public version people used, but the one he whispered against your bare skin and suddenly you were trembling like a violin string plucked too hard.
fuck, he kissed you like nothing had changed, like it hadn't been months, like you hadn't signed papers with hands that wouldn't stop shaking now, like your lawyer hadn't had to slide the pen back into your grip, the same grip that was now entangled in his hair. after all, you could still remember when sylus stood across the room and refused to look at you, his jaw clenched so tight you could hear the bones grind.
his mouth still felt the same— dangerously soft and wickedly sure, feeling like memory, yet tasting like sin, as if his regret was set on fire. yet your body responded before your mind could even catch up and process on what was happening— your hands messily in his hair, your nails digging and dragging him into you, your lips parting because he needed to be let in.
you hated him, no, you loved him, fuck, you hated that you still loved him.
he drops to his knees and eats your pussy like he's starving— no prep, no teasing, just tongue fucking you with brutal, obsessive precision. you're gasping his name, thighs shaking around his head and cunt clenching on nothing, yet he doesn't stop even when your knees buckle and your hands fist through his silver hair.
you cum on his face that night, multiple times in fact, because he won't stop until he feels you sobbing, "you taste the same," he drawls hoarsely, wiping his mouth on your thigh, "fuck— you taste like you're still mine," as you're soaking him, messing up his chin with your slick when you're riding his face. sylus pins you open like it's a crime to let you close, eating you out like the only thing that could ever satisfy him was the sound of your wrecked little pussy and the way your slick stained his tongue so fucking nicely.
ex husband sylus who hates condoms now, you barely used them when you were married yet tried to be responsible, although now? he rips them from your hand, "we were married, do you think i care about this?" as he pushes his cock through you in one raw, thick, unrelenting stroke. he fucks you like it's the last time— because perhaps afterwards you might remember that you're still divorced and shouldn't be doing this.
everything that crossed sylus's mind right now was that if he doesn't fill you up, he'll lose you again. fuck, he's angry, but he doesn't know why, or maybe he just wanted to be mad at something— wanted to pretend it's not desperation that guided him, no aching grief that was wrapped in jealousy and lust as he could never forgive himself for letting you go.
in this moment in time, he's inside of you again and it feels like heaven— fucking you like the resentment's burning through his spine, and even though he was still mad, it's lost somewhere within the brutal rhythm of each thrust shattering your body. his hips crash into yours with punishing force as his nails bite deep into your soft hips like he's holding onto something that just kept slipping away.
and the sounds you're making, fuck, you must be joking, the slap of his balls against your ass repeatedly echoing the wet squelch of your cunt receiving his blows again and again— it made it impossible to think, let alone say his feeling out loud. and when he cums? he watches it leak out of you with a look of silent lust before greedily shoving it back in with his fingers, "i want it to stay," he whispers, "i want you so full that you have no other choice but to dream about me."
ex husband sylus who knows you were the only thing that ever calmed him down, the only one who could ever talk him off the ledge when his voice cracks with static and fury and guilt, you were the one that got under his skin and stayed there. but with you leaving? it wasn't just heartbreak, it was a full system collapse and now he's running on fumes as he just wanted to grab you forever, drag you back into his bed and his world, his hell, you could say, and ruin you all over again.
and ex husband sylus didn't want to lie to you, really, didn't want to pretend you had left something inside his house because he hated you, no, he wasn't selfish either, it's not your body he wanted, you have to believe him on that one— but because he still loves you with the sickness of a man who has never known how to live outside of your orbit. the way a dying star didn't simply fall into gravity— it clung to it the same way sylus clasped his arms around you this very second.
ex husband sylus's love was just like that, you see? like something terminal, like your absence alone was a wound he himself repeatedly presses into, over and over, just to remember what your warmth used to feel like.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own
#love and deepspace x reader#love and deepspace smut#love and deep space x reader#love and deep space smut#lads x reader#lads smut#sylus x reader#sylus smut#lads x you#sylus x you#love and deepspace sylus#love and deepspace fanfiction#love and deepspace drabbles#lads drabbles
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gumdrop!reader reacting to fratboy!rafe shirtless…
“manwhore the new look, cameron?” you call out, hands cupped around your mouth from across the road. his head whips your way, and you cross your arms over your tight pink tank, tapping the sole of your boots against the pavement.
“huh..i don’t know is mismatched freak the look for today?” rafe retorted, crossing the road over to you and ditching his friends on the other side.
shirtless - rafe cameron was walking around the island shirtless. girls making 180 degree angles to try and catch him as he walks by. and while there were times where you would have never dreamed nor cared about a shirtless rafe, things had changed..sort of. now, you could openly mock him over it. before, you didn’t know him.
“mismatched freak is always the look, rafe,” you shake your head, lifting yourself up onto the wooden railing separating the road and the beach. his hand trails up your dangling leg, nearly making it to the underside of your thigh before you kick it away. he only grabs ahold again.
he was about to open his mouth, probably to quip something in return to your earlier comment..then mumbled, “right well i’m not a manwhore.”
“debatable,” you snorted, eyes trailing down his chest to his stomach.
“what are you doin’?” he grins, catching your gaze slipping down him, tutting before he lightly taps your chin upwards. “no, you can’t do that, see, ‘cause of what you called me, so..” he holds his hands up, then crosses his arms over his chest as if to hide it from you.
“well fine, then,” you huff, hopping down, covering his eyes with your hand when it drops down to your legs. “you can’t look at that either! you said i looked like a freak!” you point out, slightly triumphant with the frown that crosses his face in place of the smug smile. letting out a contemplative hum, you look around, before saying, “i wonder which guy here wouldn’t mind a mismatched freak..”
you let out a chuckle as some wandering eyes glance your way in passing. something rafe must have a sixth sense for because he’s quick to swat your hand away, one arm coming around your shoulders, another roughly hooking around your thighs, pulling you into his bare chest. “never said i minded,” he grunts into your ear, nearly crushing you in his grip as if he’s hiding you from every other man.
and he is, something confirmed when he snarls a, “the fuck are you lookin’ at?” at some boy in the same year as you guys.
“wait who’s looking?” you pipe up, trying to crane your neck out of his grip only for him to smush you back into him, hauling you away with long strides.
“no one,” rafe grumbles, crowding your vision with his arms.
“where’re we going?” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his torso as he continues to drag you away.
“my car, princess. got everyone’s damn attention, now i gotta fuckin’ hide you,” he chuckles whenever you mumble something into his stomach, letting out a small ‘hm?’ when your voice is smothered by his skin.
“i said: are u hiding me? or am i hiding you?” you ask, mouthing the word ‘manwhore’ to him, before returning back to covering his shirtless self with your hands and body.
and rafe knows, he’s been played. and you’ve won.
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in a gentle lullaby
Falling asleep next to a demon has to be a risky gamble, but you're too tired to even question the chance they'll take your soul and feed it Gwi-Ma (or whatever that Demon King is called).
cw fluff, sleepy reader, unedited
The sound of JINU's awkward shuffling and muttering lyrics under his breath lulled you to sleep, along with the buildup of sleep deprivation from pulling all-nighters during the week. He'd been stressing the importance of the next song the boy band had to perform, urging you for choreography that had to be flawless with his lyrics. By the time he noticed you were asleep—when he really turned around to inquire about a part of the song he kept messing up on when dancing—he was too late to even bother waking you up; instead, he just strolled over to the desk you were hunched over.
At first glance, you looked comfortable despite your cheek pressed against a small spiral notebook, leaving indents in your face. But it was easy to notice the small discomfort from the object. There was a slight crease between your eyebrows, almost like you were squinting at something in your dream.
JINU could only sigh, gently lifting your head up to slip the notebook out of the way, laying your head back on the desk. His fingers drummed against the ink-stained paper, peering at your face again. The discomfort doesn't disappear from your face like he hoped.
He opts to move you again when he realizes that your pain was only growing from the position, coaxing your frame to sit up so he can gracefully pick you up. As he transfers you to his bed, you nuzzle your face into his neck.
Warm air fans his skin, leaving a red flame in its wake.
JINU only wished you knew what crazy things you did to him, his arms trembling as he forced himself to lie you down on his bed with a burning face.
If there's one thing to know about ABBY, is that he loves to flex his abs to anyone and everyone in sight. So when he asks (correction: demands) you lie on his back so he can prove that his muscles are all that, you simply just do as he asks. At the same time, you eye his phone that he barely knew how to use up until a week ago, which was already recording.
With the realization that this was most definitely going on his socials, you face your head the other direction from the pointing lens and scroll away on your phone with heavy eyes.
The magenta-haired demon only angles a smirk to the camera and begins his demonstration of aggressive pushups. The cool air produced by how swiftly ABBY does his pushups feels nice against your skin. A yawn slipped past your lips, feeling your eyes fluttered close to soak in the quick breezes of cold air.
The moment you closed your eyes was the when you slipped out of consciousness.
It took ABBY 57 more pushups later to realize you were asleep, soundless snoring catching his sensitive demon ears. He lowered his body to the floor, blinking in mock confusion at what was happening above him.
Looking back at the camera, he smugly smiled and mouthed a few words at his phone, which faltered when he felt you stir and nearly fall off of him. He scrambled to keep you steady so you wouldn't hurt yourself.
Aren't they so cute?
When night hits, the stars are the first thing ROMANCE notices. So whenever Gwi-Ma doesn't call forth him to be at his beckon, he lies on the rooftop of the suite his boy band owns, staring up into the midnight sky.
And when he meets you, he forces you to join him on his nighttime endeavors.
When night falls once more, your nighttime ritual begins, but you're without ROMANCE this time. You wait a good 30 minutes for him to join you before realizing it was one of those nights. A night when he wouldn't be back until a couple of hours.
The stars don't shine as brightly when you watch them alone, you think. When you're with him, he tells you stories he creates based on the patterns he connects with the stars. He forms his own constellations, writing their own stories to tell.
Your favorite to listen to was the one about who liked to sing, with the stars forming a jagged treble clef. But you never seemed to remember what happened next without ROMANCE telling you the story.
So you wait on the roof for him to return from his summoning.
ROMANCE returns 4 hours later after his rehearsal, rushing to the roof to see if his stars were waiting for him.
There, littering the sky, were the glowing balls of gas in the distance, making him smile. He tilts his head down to see you sprawled out on the roof, a small pillow resting beneath your head.
He sits next to you, tucking you into his side, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.
And his favorite star is just in arm's reach.
MYSTERY didn't like going outside; in fact, he dreaded it. So when you forced him onto the sheltered balcony, he couldn't help but hiss at you. It reeked outside, but you pouted and sat outside under the covered balcony as rain poured aggressively.
He watched from a window. You inched your chair closer to the railing, sticking a hand out to feel the cold water against your skin.
A scowl takes over his covered features, the fringe of his hair hiding the glare. Upset that you choose to remain outside over staying dry inside with him. But he refused to argue with you or drag you back inside. You looked peaceful out there that he couldn't help but let the scowl collapse a few minutes after making the face.
Still, he can't help but intently watch you, just in case anything were to happen to you. MYSTERY stays close by always, just in case.
So he notices when you begin to lean against the railing. He watches as your eyes flutter closed contentedly, drawing closer to the sound of the patter of the rain. Most importantly, he watches your chest slows down, breathing becoming lighter and less present.
He can't help but frown at watching you drift off into sleep.
The closer you lean into the railing to slumber, the more the rainwater redirects and dampens your clothes and skin. MYSTERY remembers reading somewhere that humans get sick because of the rain.
And he doesn't want you to get sick.
With much reluctance, he leaves the comfort of his place at the window seal. He moves to the door of the balcony, hit with the moist air and sick smell of rainwater.
He wrinkles his nose from the feeling and smell, like dirt at the bottom of his shoe.
He inches closer to you, pulling you gently but quickly away from the railing and bringing you inside to his spot at the window.
He retrieves new clothes for you and lets you sleep on his chest as he watches the rain from behind the glass protection.
In exchange for letting BABY mess around on your phone, he graciously allows you to lie on his chest while he doomscrolls through every form of social media you have. Although you complained at the beginning, he had his own phone to mess around with, you gave in fairly quickly without much coercion needed.
Together, you both watched as he scrolled through your Instagram first, going through your reels, then over to your followers. You peer at his face carefully, noting every twitch in his face that appears when he scrolls downwards to read the next caption or username. At one point, BABY finds himself watching a guy pretending to be a vampire, going around and biting random people on the streets of America.
His eyes squint at the absurdity of the reel, looking at you as if to ask 'WTF is this??' but says nothing. Not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because he decides to stay quiet for the sake of your sleeping face.
He doesn't even notice that you fell asleep hours ago amidst his doomscrolling journey. Your breathing was so steady and soft that it sounded the same when you were awake and asleep.
The most polite thing he does all day, for you specifically, is lower the volume of the reels. Your face noticeably softens much more, a small smile tugging at your face as you bury yourself deeper into his sweater.
BABY feels his lips tug upwards.
That doesn't stop him from pressing the plus button at the bottom of the screen and snapping a picture of your sleeping form with him smirking at the camera with his other hand threaded in your hair.
By the time you wake up a few hours later, with BABY still awake and still going through every app on your phone, the post reaches 300K likes alone.
Captioned: All yours, all mine.
#kpop demon hunters#kpop demon hunters x reader#saja boys#saja boys x reader#jinu x reader#jinu saja x reader#abby x reader#abby saja x reader#romance x reader#romance saja x reader#mystery x reader#mystery saja x reader#baby x reader#baby saja x reader#seronamindoodles
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COD | ᴋᴏ̈ɴɪɢ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Coming Home.



Short Summary: König doesn’t know how to be gentle. Especially not when he’s just come back home after not seeing you for six whole months—
Warnings: 18+ only! dubious consent. somno, rough sex, breeding kink, size kink, manhandling, belly bulge, creampie, cumplay
A/N: this is me attempting to write for someone other than Tom.
wordcount: 1,9k
König didn’t even bother taking off his heavy boots when he entered your shared home. No—the only thing that had been on his mind ever since he stepped out of your front door six months ago was you. Or better: The supple flesh of your thighs, pressed tightly to either side of his head as he ate you out. The soft curve of your ass, fitting so perfectly into his palm. Your lips with his favourite gloss on them, wrapped around his thick girth—
“Fucking hell.” He cursed under his breath as he almost tripped in his hurry—over a new vase you had bought just a week prior. Something that he, quite obviously, couldn’t have known or seen, as he didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he entered. Each time he returned from deployment, he’d find new decoration scattered around the house. How often had he told you it was enough? Too often. You just wouldn’t listen, and at some point he just gave up and accepted his fate.
That fucking vase was the least of his worries either way, at least for now. Was it broken? It sure sounded like it. But hell, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d just get you a new one the next day.
You. He needed you. König didn’t bother picking it up, instead heading straight to your bedroom—the floor’s wooden planks creaking under his weight as he ascended the stairs. As careful and deliberate as he could—as not to wake you.
The bedroom door stood just slightly ajar, allowing him to spot the dim light of the bedside table lamp that you must have forgotten to turn off. König pushed himself past the door, and finally, after six long months, got to see you again. Yes, you had face timed almost every day, but it was just not the same. Didn’t feel the same as your soft touch, your lips—
He stood there for another moment, admiring your soft, innocent silhouette on the bed. One leg angled up, duvet slipped to the side, exposing your bare skin to his eyes. Your top, which had slipped during the course of the night, now allowed him to see the soft swell of your breasts—perked nipples visible under the satin material.
And fuck—last time he saw you in those flimsy, hot-pink pyjama shorts you were wearing, he could have sworn they covered at least the curve of your ass—unlike now.
The sight of you like this, asleep, all innocent, unknowing of his return—he had left a day early—sent blood rushing straight to his cock. It had been too fucking long.
The mattress sank under his weight as he carefully lay down beside you, admiring your form once more—the soft rise of your chest as you breathed, fingers relaxed and curled up—and all his. He had missed having something all for himself.
Gently, he turned you around, your head against his chest, legs spread, and still asleep, his hand briefly coming to a rest on your tummy—and he sighed.
Your warmth.
But he had no intent to wait any longer. Hand travelling further south, over the waistband of your shorts, between your thighs—
“Mein Gott—“ König mumbled under his breath when he felt the damp fabric beneath his fingers. You were fucking soaked.
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before sliding the material down your thighs, leaving you in just your panties. Finally dipping beneath the lace, he growled—a low sound somewhere from the back of his throat as he felt your arousal coat his finger.
Too slow—too fucking slow. One digit circled your entrance before he pushed in—and god, it felt heavenly. Your warm walls gripped him tightly, sucking him right in. Then, a second finger, already struggling there. But he made it fit. Gave you a few seconds to adjust, then started pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them just how he knew you would like it—
“König?” You mumbled, voice thick with sleep as your eyelids fluttered open, a slightly painful, yet pleasurable sensation radiating from between your legs.
He looked down at you then, his blue eyes staring right back at you.
Yes, definitely him.
“Liebling, forgive me. I couldn’t— I can’t wait any longer.” He apologized half-heartedly, burying his fingers knuckle deep inside of you—and fuck, you almost forgot how much bigger he was than you. Everything about him, his height, his arms, his fingers…
“Hurts,” you gasped, but he merely shushed you, telling you how much he needed this, needed you.
And who were you to say no to him at this point? You did miss him just as much, after all. And that dream you had about him just before you woke up—
Just when König felt you relaxing around him, finally adjusting, he withdrew his fingers, parting his lips to taste you.
“Mmpf— missed this so much,” he drawled, and just a moment later he was between your legs, fingers curling into the lace of your panties, the material easily giving in with a sharp tear.
Those were your favourite.
“I loved those!” You protested, but it was too late anyway, and the sound of his belt dropping to the floor drew your attention back to your boyfriend. He didn’t waste a second undressing, trousers merely past his hips before his cock sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip, so hard it must have hurt.
“Will get you new ones—“ he breathed, leaning over you to press a kiss to your swollen lips. “I promise, Engel. Just be good for me now.”
You only had to nod, enough of a signal for him to continue, tip pressing against your entrance—and you inhaled sharply, preparing yourself. You knew him by now, and each time he was this eager, it meant you would struggle to walk properly in the morning.
His hips stuttered at the mere contact with your wet cunt, and he slipped inside—just the tip, yet enough to make him groan. “Relax, baby. Just relax and let me have this.”
Another inch and another inch—you were sweating by then, and fuck, it felt good to have him back—but sometimes you wished he wasn’t this big. You were stretched out around him, walls pulsing as they tried to accommodate his girth. God, it was hard to relax. But you tried.
Two more inches.
“König, gentle!” You squealed beneath him, and his eyes met yours briefly—before they dropped to where you were connected.
“Fuck— sorry, can’t—“ he rasped, pushing in deeper. “Can’t wait any longer. You can take it. Just— take it.”
And with one more slight thrust, his hips were flush with yours, finally. Tip nudging at your cervix.
His head dipped to your neck, breathing heavily, staying there for just a moment to let you adjust to him. He knew you were struggling, but fuck. You just felt too good around him, too warm, too wet. In that moment, he realised just how much he had missed you.
“So tight. This pussy is so goddamn tight.”
He pulled back just enough for you to feel it, and pushed back in. Even in the dim light the lamp provided, he saw it. The outline of his cock on your lower abdomen as he pushed in and out of you. It made him fucking feral.
König’s hand traced the slight bulge before pressing down on it. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am?”
“Oh my— yes— fuck, yes.” You whimpered, and he gave you another slight thrust, trying to set a rhythm.
“No,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Need you like this.” And instead of asking you to get on all fours, he just wrapped his arm around your waist, roughly repositioning you himself, almost like you weighed nothing, like you were a doll. Ass up, face down. Just how he liked to take you.
He pushed back inside, and you jolted at the new angle—he felt even bigger like this. But no. König wouldn’t let you go anywhere. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so your back was pressed flush against his chest.
“Sei ein braves Mädchen, ja?” He growled right in your ear, his hot breath on your skin having goosebumps rise all over your body. You remembered that one.
Be a good girl, alright?
“Yes! Please just—“ you whimpered, hips bucking against his, a sign you were ready. A sign you needed him just as much as he needed you.
König pushed your face back into your pillow, letting go of your hair then—and thrust forward. Deep and fast. The force sending your body forward once more.
“Stay—bleib hier.” He sneered, his rough, calloused hands gripping the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you back against him, making sure you stayed right there.
From that point on, he was merciless with you. Pounding into your warm, welcoming walls like it was the first time all over again. So harsh, it knocked the air from your lungs, and you were sure your cervix would be punishing you with cramps for this later.
You couldn’t bring yourself to care, not right now.
Not when you felt him twitch and pulse, hands slipping between your thighs to rub on your clit—tight circles that had you see stars, fingers curling into the cotton fabric of your bedsheets.
Your combined moans echoed around the room, and you were sure if you were living in a flat, your neighbours would fucking hate you. Not that you would mind.
“Fuck, Liebling—“ he groaned, thrusts growing erratic. He was close. So, so close. “Going to come inside, ja? Make you nice and full of me.”
You loved how his German accent grew thicker whenever he was aroused or angry, and you didn’t even pay attention to what he was saying at the end—mind too hazy to even comprehend his words at that point, on the verge of tipping over the edge yourself. You nodded anyway.
With just a few more thrusts, he spilled inside of you, his warm release coating your walls—the feeling of it sending you right into your own bliss of pleasure, your climax ripping through you like a lightning bolt—setting your nerves on fire as you convulsed around him, your cunt eagerly milking him dry.
He slowly pulled out of you then, staying behind you, watching his cum drip down your folds before pushing it back inside—deep.
“Not going to let you waste a single drop, Engel.”
König was sweet with you after, like always. Cleaning you up with a wet towel, taking you in his arms as he muttered soft praises against your hair. Staying awake until you were asleep.
Then, he dozed off himself and only woke the next morning when he heard your voice coming from downstairs, the usual softness gone. Replaced with? Anger? What could he have possibly—
“Did you break my vase!?”
Scheiße.
Thanks for reading! Feel free to reblog and leave feedback. <33
©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ#how did I do? I am nervous.#könig#könig cod#könig call of duty#könig smut#könig x reader#könig fanfiction#konig cod#konig smut#konig x reader#konig fanfiction#cod#call of duty#dividers by saradika#dividers by strangergraphics
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if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.
his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.
you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.
jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.
“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”
“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”
you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.
leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.
“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”
jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.
“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”
you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles.
“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole.
“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”
“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”
the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.
it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.
“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”
you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.
“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”
jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.
“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.
it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.
“you still with me, gorgeous?”
the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.
eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.
“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”
a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.
“right here…”
© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚
#jack abbot smut#jack abbot x reader#jack abbot x you#dr jack abbot x reader#jack abbot imagine#dr abbot x reader#dr abbot#jack abbott smut#jack abbott x reader#jack abbott x you#jack abbott#the pitt x reader#the pitt hbo#the pitt#sorry if this is bad#my horrible headache came back but i had to appease my muse <3
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DPxDC "Pick Me Up"
The stream goes live on the first day of the school year. It's the usual song and dance - mad laughing, threats, poor jokes, terror, and about thirty kids huddled together in a classroom behind Joker's back. Tim recognizes it as one of the Gotham Academy classrooms. Dick can't imagine the horror those kids' parents must be feeling right now. Jason jokes about middle school traumatic experiences. Damian is feeling very justified for skipping classes today.
Bruce, all suited up in his Batman garb, is making his way to the Academy as fast as he possibly can. Those are kids.
Gotham is once again anxiously kept on the edge of their seats, watching as Joker decides to interview the kids on their learning experience so far. Something about leaving a good first impression on the new generation or some other bullshit. Most kids stutter over their words - it's true that Gothamites are way more composed when facing life-threatening events, but those kids are only fourteen or fifteen for the most part. They are not old enough to keep their cool in the face of a murder clown.
That is, until Joker points his camera at one of the girls. Black hair in a high ponytail, blue eyes without a trace of fear, a slightly displeased, even bored expression on her face. She looks straight into the camera, not even waiting for the laughing madman to finish his question, and deadpans:
"I don't think I like school. Pick me up, please."
Joker sputters.
"Not so scared, I see," he sneers, and, in the next moment, a comically large gun painted in purples and greens is pointed to the girl's forehead, "How about now?"
The girl scrunches her nose and makes a so-so gesture.
"It's kinda meh," she admits, "Like, yeah, points for style, but you know, size doesn't matter. It's all in the technique."
Dick snorts over the comms. It's a bad time for laughing, sure, but the phrase caught him off-guard. This is not what you'd expect to hear from a teen, and definitely not something you'd expect anyone to say to the Joker. Jason's comms are muted, but Barbara knows he also laughed a little.
"Technique, you say?" Joker hisses, pressing the gun closer to the girl's head, and she winces, leaning away from it, almost as if she is disgusted by the touch.
"Yeah, I mean, guns are not that scary anyway. What are you gonna do with them, blast my brains all over the floor? Been there, done that," the girl shrugs, "Kinda nasty, but overall, it's just like slime, only sticky." She pauses and looks to the side, seemingly lost in thought, "Huh, maybe we should have added Borax to it. Or was it baking soda?.."
"Listen here, you little brat," Joker's fingers catch the girl's chin, and his voice becomes sickeningly menacing. Bruce is almost there, just two more minutes. Tim is already grappling onto the wall.
But none of them get to finish.
"Put your dirty fingers away from my sister," a low, cold, and even in a way that speaks of barely contained fury, voice comes from out of the screen.
The camera spins, like whoever is holding it turned really fast, and everyone watching the stream sees a fairly normal guy standing by the window - a turtleneck and ripped jeans, same black hair as the girl, same blue eyes... Wait, they are not blue.
And that's not a guy.
The camera falls down to the floor, and there are a lot of panicked screams coming from the broadcast now, but none of them sound like children's voices. It's the screams of adults, of grown-ass men, and later, someone even claimed they heard Joker's scream among them, too. The picture on camera glitches a few times, and the angle is awkward, but everyone still gets to see how shadows in the room morph into eyes, wide open and green, and how the darkness grows sharp teeth, countless grinning mouths that don't belong to any faces.
Screams turn into gargling and then to quiet whispers, filling the ears of all those listening with countless words in languages they don't know.
Red Robin turns off the recording and looks to that same guy from the levestream, sitting across him on the couch. The guy - Daniel, or Danny, as he introduced himself - looks him in the eyes and raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, and?"
"How did you do it?" Tim asks for the third time this evening. Danny blinks.
"Did what?" He asks, completely incomprehending. Tim groans. He's been trying to get his answers, any answers at this point, from the guy for thirty fucking minutes already. So far, he's got nothing. Danny, whoever the fuck he is, proves to be the most annoying human being on Earth.
"Seven people in a coma, including Joker himself, with no physical injuries and none of the children remember a thing! How?!" He demands, and a girl's face peeks from around the corner:
"I remember!"
Tim snaps his head at her, "What do you remember?"
The girl pauses, blinks, and looks to Danny. Then shrugs, "My brother picked me up from school."
Tim drops his head down and breathes out in frustration. He can't force the information out of civilians, he is a vigilante, not a mafia.
"Would it make you feel better if I promise not to do it again?" Danny asks, and his voice is way too innocent for Tim to believe him. He raises his head to look the guy in his shameless, amused eyes.
"I hate you."
"Thanks," Danny grins.
#danny phantom#dc x dp#dpxdc#tim drake#batfam#batman#dani phantom#danielle phantom#eldritch danny#but he wont admit to it#cork prompts#i wrote this as a way to relax#theres zero plot to it#just danny being petty#and dani saying mildly concerning shit in camera#it was her first day in the new school#all in all it was a fairly okay first day
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need that
Pairing: John Walker x Reader
Summary:
You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror. Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him. He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?” You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Or You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, implied smut, confessions, pining, yearning, all hours are yearning hours for reader
WC: 2.3K
A/N: Thank you @fire-joestar for this request and idea! I have another one for Bob with the same concept here. Hope you all enjoy it!
☆☆☆
You wanted John Walker so bad that it was becoming a problem. Friends weren’t supposed to be crazy in love with other friends, but here you were, heart racing every time he so much as looked your way.
It came to the point where he’d be standing still, and you’d just be absolutely losing your mind. The way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirts, it was enough to short-circuit your brain.
Like when he caught you staring and started talking to you about his guns, “This one is pretty good for close-quarters. Lightweight, easy trigger…”
You nod along and pretend to pay attention, but it’s hot the way he’d handle them, all casual and confident. The way his fingers curled around the grip, the intensity in his eyes when he explained the mechanics, you’d transform into a gun right now if you could, just for the chance to be held like that.
“You still with me?” John asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you that crooked half-smile that never failed to melt your brain.
You nod, maybe a little too eagerly, even though he’d lost you as soon as you saw the veins in his hand flex around the barrel. You’re not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Tactical specs? Firing range? Who cares.
"Cool," he says, and goes right back to talking shop, completely unaware that you're about three seconds away from combusting.
It was an everyday occurrence. But during training, it was something else entirely. That’s when things really test your self-control.
Flipping you over like you weighed nothing during sparring sessions, he was strong and agile, all precision and power wrapped in that unfairly good-looking package. You found yourself on the mat more often than not, too distracted to fight properly.
Not to mention listening to him talk, helping direct you on how to angle your arms, how to keep your balance and improve your fighting stance. It was so distracting the way he’d give directions, voice low and focused.
“Right foot here, and I want you to put all your weight behind it when you punch,” he’d say, tapping the mat lightly where he wanted your foot to go.
“Alright,” you murmur, trying not to sound like you're dying inside, and you try again, not quite doing as he instructed. He observes you for a moment, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.
“Can I?” he asks, hands hovering near your hips, asking for permission, like you wouldn’t let him do pretty much anything.
“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.
He moves your hips into place with a firm, steady grip that has no business being that gentle. “Now,” he continues, voice closer now, “shift forward and twist your hips, it has to be all one movement.”
He’d basically been manhandling you, guiding your arms, adjusting your hips until you were exactly where he wanted you. But still, he was gentle and patient, never getting frustrated, always calm, always in control.
And it was so unbelievably hot.
You could only imagine where else those firm instructions and steady hands would come in handy. The way he said, "twist your hips"? Yeah, you were already spiralling.
“I’ve lost you again,” John says, catching the faraway, glazed-over look on your face, one brow raised.
“No, no, I’m… I’m here,” you stammer, blinking hard and trying to pull yourself back into the moment, even though your brain had very much left the building five minutes ago. He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And you’re not sure if that’s better or worse.
But you’re hopeless whether or not he’s interacting with you or not. Watching him work out in any capacity was a dangerous game. You were at risk of keeling over and dying on the spot every single time.
Watching him run on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his skin, shirt clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. Or when he boxed, the way his muscles rippled with every jab, every hook, every fluid, powerful movement. You were obsessed.
You put your head in your hands for a second, trying to cool down your spiralling thoughts, then looked back up at him.
He turned to you just then, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, chest heaving slightly from exertion, and asked, “Did you need something?”
“N-nope,” You stutter out as you walk backwards out of the room, bumping into multiple walls, your eyes not once leaving his shirtless body.
Though you liked the little things too.
He offers to drive you wherever you need to go, because, well, after a few incidents of reckless driving, your license had been suspended.
In your defence, it was a matter of life and death. Several times. But try explaining that you were being hunted by sword-wielding assassins and not getting laughed out of the room.
You climb into the passenger seat, trying not to feel awkward about it.
“Thanks…” You mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He glances over at you, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, teasing just enough to make your chest flutter.
He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The windows are down, wind in his hair, sun in his eyes. Then once you reach your destination, he does the thing.
The thing where he puts his arm around the back of your seat as he reverses, his jawline sharp in the golden wash of afternoon light, the clean, strong line of his neck exposed beneath the collar of his shirt.
You don’t know why it has you holding your breath, but it does. Maybe it’s the casual way he does it, like he’s done it a hundred times. Or the fact that he’s so in control and completely unaware of how stupidly attractive what he’s doing is.
You’re gawking, and you know you’re gawking, but you’re only human. Gawking was your speciality, and you’re always putting yourself in situations to do it.
Like when he’d be on cooking duty and you’d jump at the opportunity to be his unofficial sous-chef, just to be near him. You’re currently struggling with this godforsaken onion. Eyes watering, grip awkward, and the knife refusing to cooperate.
“I can do that for you,” John offers gently, taking the onion from your hands with that same ease he handled everything. “The blade’s dull, that’s why you’re having such a hard time…”
You nod, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you watch him grab the knife-sharpening rod. He starts working the blade against it with practised movements.
John Walker is an acts of service king; you noticed it early on. One time, you had barely even acknowledged that you were thirsty. There was no glass of water in front of you, you barely even sighed, but before you could even stand, John had quietly placed one in your hand without a word.
Or when you fell asleep on the couch, and felt the weight of a blanket being placed on top of you, the warm, familiar scent of his cologne letting you know it was him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wake you.
Just made sure you were comfortable and tucked the blanket around your shoulders. He could be loud, commanding, the centre of attention when he needed to be, but moments like that reminded you of how soft he could be when no one was looking.
You snap out of the memory, focusing back on him as he now dices the onion with mechanical precision, the knife gliding like it was an extension of his hand.
“See? Easy when your tools actually work,” he says with a half-smile, glancing your way.
A few days later, you were searching for him to get some insight on a mission you’d all be heading out on later that day.
You try not to swoon. Or stare. Or let him see how completely ridiculous it is that someone chopping onions could look that good.
But honestly? It’s a losing battle.
“John?” you called out from outside his door, your knuckles tapping lightly.
“Come in!” he called back casually.
You step inside. His room was as clean and precise as you’d expect. Neatly made bed, organised, everything in its place. You glance around, not seeing him at first, but the moment you step into the bathroom, your soul threatens to leave your body.
You’d seen him shirtless often enough that you should be used to it by now, but nope. Especially not like this. The room was steamy from the shower, and he stood there with only a towel slung low around his hips, v-line in full view, chest gleaming slightly in the light.
You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror.
Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him.
He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?”
You blinked, realising you’d been staring.
“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, I… just came to ask about the mission.”
He turned slightly, not even trying to cover up. “Sure. Just give me a second to finish up. Unless you’re in a rush?”
You shook your head fast. “No rush. I can wait.”
So you stay there, doing your best to focus as he continues to shave.
You start going over the mission details to distract yourself, letting him know the objectives, listening to his responses, but it’s nearly impossible.
Thankfully, the next, next mission, you sat out with Bob, spending the day chilling and playing Mario Kart with him. It was easy and a perfect distraction from the John problem, as you started dubbing it. Until the rest of the team walked back in.
They looked rough. Bruised, dirty, clearly fresh off a firefight. John was at the front, jaw tight, a few shallow cuts on his arms and a particularly nasty one near his temple that definitely needed attention, yet he still somehow looked unfairly good.
You barely had time to blink before his eyes found yours. Then he was moving, across the room, straight to where you were still curled up on the couch.
Without a word, he jerked his head toward the hallway. “We need to talk.”
You blinked, glancing at the others like someone might tell you what the hell was happening, but no one seemed surprised. With a sigh, you stood and followed him down the hall to a quiet, empty corner. Why this was his number one priority after a mission was beyond you.
“We do?” you asked, arms crossing defensively.
“You’ve been looking at me weird for a while now,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes locked on yours.
You froze. “What?”
He stepped a little closer. “You have. In the kitchen. In the gym. In my car. You stare.”
Your mouth opened but closed just as fast. How on earth would you rebut any of his claims? You doubt you had been subtle in the slightest; if someone made a compilation of you staring at John, they’d have enough footage to make a movie.
“You’re imagining things,” you said, way too quickly.
He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “Am I?”
You step back, but your back hits the wall, the space between the two of you impossibly small.
“You like me, don’t you?”
Hearing that you’re sure it’s over for you. You stand there waiting for the ground to swallow you whole. You look down, unable to meet his eyes, but then his fingers are under your chin, tipping your head up gently.
“It’s okay if you do,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “I like me too.”
You let out a breathy laugh and swat at his chest playfully. “Asshole…”
He laughs with you, but soon his expression softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper.
“I like you too,” he says quietly.
The words hit like fireworks going off in your chest. You mean that?” You ask to which John answers genuinely, “Yeah, I do.”
“Do you…” You start, heart racing, “Do you want to show me how much you like me?” you ask, voice dropping, the boldness rising in your chest before you can second-guess it.
He smirks at you, then he pulls you in, his hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile and precious. His lips meet yours gently, and you melt as you hold onto his arms. Without them, you’d be a puddle on the floor. The kiss slowly deepens, becoming more passionate, more desperate. Your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. He groans softly at the touch, one hand slipping from your cheek to your waist, then he slots his knee between your legs and…
“No, no, no. Not outside my room,” Yelena interrupts with a sigh, “Take that somewhere private.”
Alexei is grinning like a proud dad, arms folded, nodding approvingly. Bucky is concerned about how quickly you guys started making out against the wall.
Ava just throws up her hands in relief, muttering, “Finally,” under her breath, clearly thrilled that she no longer has to witness you making heart eyes at John during every single meal, briefing, and training session.
And Bob? Bob’s smiling, warm and supportive, genuinely happy for you both… though mildly overwhelmed, like he just walked into something he isn’t entirely sure how to exit.
John chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. “Well… you heard the lady.”
You groan into your hands, face burning.
Yelena’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. If you two are going to be gross again, do it behind a closed door.”
He pulls you towards his room, and the second you get inside, you shove him onto his bed, trying to peel his suit off.
“Eager, aren’t you?” John chuckles.
“Shut up.”
Masterlist
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