#the show and ended up with nothing really fixed in the end of the show deserved to have so many more fix its

[fangirlfuel]

Hey love! Can I request an angst-to-fluff fic where Lando Norris and the reader get into a huge fight, and he shows up at her door in the middle of the night to apologize?

Midnight Reconciliation

---

The fight had been devastating.

Not in the physical sense, but in the way emotions had flared uncontrollably, leaving behind words neither of you truly meant. Voices raised, accusations exchanged, and by the end of it, you had walked away, leaving Lando alone in the unbearable silence of his own regret.

Now, hours later, that silence suffocated him. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at your contact name. His mind replayed the argument, dissecting every moment, every mistake. The things he had said, the way he had let his frustration cloud his judgment ,it all gnawed at him. He never wanted to hurt you, but tonight, he had.

And he couldn’t let that be the last thing between you.

So, without another thought, he grabbed his keys and drove through the quiet streets. The city lights blurred past, but he barely noticed them. All he could think about was you ,whether you’d even want to see him, whether he had already lost you.

By the time he reached your place, it was late. Too late. But that didn’t stop him from knocking, his heart hammering in his chest.

At first, nothing. Then, soft footsteps. A pause.

And then, the door creaked open.

You stood there, wrapped in an oversized hoodie , his hoodie. It made his throat tighten with emotion. Your eyes were puffy, cheeks still marked with the traces of dried tears, and the sight made his heart clench painfully.

"Lando?"

Your voice was quiet, hesitant, and it only made the ache in his chest deepen.

"I’m sorry," he said immediately, voice raw. "I was wrong. I should’ve listened, I should’ve understood instead of...." He exhaled sharply. "I hate fighting with you. I hate knowing that I hurt you."

Your arms tightened around yourself, your expression guarded. "You really did hurt me, Lando."

He swallowed hard and nodded. "I know. And I hate myself for it. But I don’t want this, us, to end like that. Please. Let me fix this."

The silence stretched, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was laced with something softer hesitation, hope.

You studied his face, searching for sincerity. And you found it etched in his tired eyes, in the way his hands trembled at his sides, in the quiet desperation in his voice.

You sighed, shoulders dropping. "Come inside."

The relief that flooded him was overwhelming. He stepped forward hesitantly, as if afraid you'd change your mind. But when you didn’t pull away, when you let him wrap his arms around you, he exhaled shakily, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Because, in truth, you were.

You felt his body relax slightly against yours, his breath uneven as he clung to you. He was warm, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The storm between you had passed, but its remnants still lingered in the quiet space between your heartbeats.

"I was so scared I lost you," he admitted softly, his fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie.

Your throat tightened at the sincerity in his voice. "I just needed time, Lando. Time to cool down, to think."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes pleading. "And now? Are you still mad?"

You sighed, searching his face. The boy you loved was standing in front of you, eyes wide with regret, shoulders tense with the weight of his own guilt.

"A little," you admitted, but the sharp edge of your anger had dulled. "But mostly, I just... I don’t want to fight with you like that ever again."

"Me neither," he whispered, cupping your face gently. His thumb brushed against your cheek, a silent apology in the touch. "I’ll do better, I promise. I don’t ever want to make you feel like that again."

Your fingers curled around his wrist, grounding yourself in the warmth of his skin. "You mean that?"

"With everything I have."

His lips hovered over your forehead for a second before he pressed the softest kiss there, his breath shaky. "I love you."

Your eyes fluttered shut, exhaling softly. "I love you too, Lando."

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, pulling you closer again, this time without hesitation. The night was still and quiet around you, but inside, the weight that had settled in your chest after the fight had finally lifted.

---

[mcrdvcks]

Congratulations on 2000 followers! Can I request something with logan? Just pure fluff and sweetness - maybe he’s dating a teacher and she takes him to class one day. The kids LOVE him and just treat him like their own personal jungle gym all day and he’s just grumpy but sweet and it makes reader fall even more in love with him. I was thinking worst Logan would be a good fit

i hope this is what you wanted! i rarely write for worst!logan, just because i rarely have any inspo for him, but this was really cute! (almost added a bonus scene as wade joining your class with logan, but wade was dressed up as santa.)

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: teacher!reader, worst!logan, fluff

You were nothing like Wade’s other friends. You were sweet and kind, your apartment—which was across the hall from Wade—was well kept and homey.

Your guest bedroom was an office, were you kept many drawings from your past and current students.

Colorful crayon scribbles, notes in wobbly handwriting ("Miss Y/N is the best!!!"), and paper flowers covered the corkboard wall.

Wade made fun of it once, calling it “the Hall of Tiny Cult Worship,” but even he got a little quiet when he saw one that said “thank you for helping me feel safe.”

You’d been dating Logan for about seven months—quietly, sweetly, with a kind of unspoken understanding that neither of you had the energy for drama.

He wasn’t one for words, but he was always at your door when your car made weird sounds, and always remembered which days you had parent-teacher conferences (and brought you snacks).

He'd grumble when you kissed him on the cheek but never pulled away.

One Friday morning, you invited him to stop by your classroom before the long weekend. "Only for a bit," you said, knowing he’d hate being in the spotlight.

Logan muttered something about "not a damn babysitter"—but still showed up ten minutes early with coffee for you and a steel thermos of plain black for himself.

He hovered by the door at first, arms crossed, clearly hoping to avoid notice. That hope lasted about thirty seconds.

One kid spotted him and whisper-shouted across the room: “Miss Y/N, is that your dad?!”

Logan grunted. You laughed so hard you had to set down your coffee. “No, he’s my boyfriend,” you said gently, and half the class gasped like it was a scandal.

“But he looks so grumpy,” one kid offered.

“He is,” Logan replied, sipping his coffee. “Don’t let that stop you.”

You had planned a chill morning—reading groups, coloring, maybe a craft. Instead, Logan was immediately adopted like some kind of big, flannel-wrapped emotional support bear. Two of the smallest kids clung to either of his legs like barnacles. One was braiding yarn into his sideburn.

“You’re like a jungle gym!” one kid shouted, climbing onto his back without asking.

“He’s not a toy,” you started to say—

“S’okay,” Logan muttered, hands still in his pockets. “Seen worse.” He wound up sitting on the carpet, surrounded.

One kid sat in his lap showing him their drawing of a dinosaur. Another was explaining the entire plot of a made-up video game. A third just wanted to hold his hand. He didn’t say much—but he nodded at all the right parts. Let them keep talking. You caught him gently fixing a kid’s broken glasses. He didn’t make a big deal about it. Just muttered “hold still,” and adjusted the frame like it was second nature.

That same kid later whispered to you, “Miss Y/N, I think your boyfriend might be a superhero.”

You smiled and said, “I think so too.”

At snack time, a kid offered Logan a fruit snack with reverence usually reserved for royalty. He took it like it was a peace offering. “Cheers, bub,” he said, and the kid beamed.

You found a picture on your desk later: crayon drawing of you, Logan, and the class, with the words “Miss Y/N and Mr. Logan – Best Day Ever.” Logan saw it, grunted, then quietly slipped it into his jacket pocket.

When the day ended and the kids hugged his legs goodbye, Logan crouched down and muttered, “Be good for your teacher, alright?”

One of the kids said, “you’re soooo grumpy. I like you.” Logan actually smiled. Not a lot—but enough for you to feel it in your chest.

As you walked to the car, you slipped your hand into his. He didn’t pull away. Just gave it a light squeeze. “Thanks for coming,” you murmured.

“Could do worse,” he said gruffly. “You got a good class.” Then, after a pause: “You… you’re real good with ‘em.”

You looked up, heart warm, and whispered, “So are you.”

That night, he asked—very casually—if you needed help cutting out shapes for next week’s bulletin board.

You kissed him on the cheek and said, “only if you wanna.” He grumbled. But an hour later, he was at your kitchen table with scissors and a pile of cardstock.

[deepspace-raconteur]

Oooh this time it’s a Sylus hurt/comfort!!! Angst go brrrrrr

Sylus being a big protective softie, background Kieran and Luke doing boss’ bidding, they refer to mc as kitty, bc Y’know kitten -> kitty, hurt/comfort, mc thinks she’s going to lose her job, massive dick unnamed character for plot reasons, this one’s SFW, except for one little dirty joke abt eating lol, bc all the boys are munches and I stand by that, she/her pronouns for MC,

Sylus x MC, established relationship.

🐦‍⬛🐉

Sylus knew that you took it as a joke each time he asked you for a list of those who wronged you. It was a jerk reaction on his part, really. The urge to ‘take care�� of all the problems in your life. It isn’t really a joke, though. Not for him.

The day you actually gave him a name, let him really stretch his metaphorical wings and show you what he could do… well, he waited for it with bated breath.

Still, you always just laughed, shrugging it off. Someone cut you off in traffic? List, please; and again you’d smile that soft smile and sigh exasperatedly at him. It was just a part of your banter at this point. His solemn promise to fix all the problems you bring to him, no matter what. From a rip in your hunters jacket he had his tailor take care of, to a random craving that his chef could whip up (if he couldn’t do it himself).

He knew you weren’t ready just yet for his particular approach to solutions. Still so cute and optimistic about the world, and the supposed ‘inherent good’ in people. It was just another part of you he adored- even if he could absolutely make your life so much easier if you’d just say yes.

C’est la vie. He’d be there when you finally came around.

… He isn’t expecting it, the day it finally comes. Sooner than expected, too, which is when the warning bells in his mind really start to ring.

You show up at his door unannounced in the mid-afternoon on a Tuesday. He hadn’t been able to sleep that morning, feeling inexplicably on edge. Perhaps it was his sixth sense about you.

You hadn’t texted him beforehand, and you look… rough. A wanderer fight gone bad, he quickly concludes, but it’s not the torn uniform that worries him. Even with the bloodstains, and the sluggishly bleeding abrasion on your shoulder.

It the deadness in your eyes. Eyes that he knew could hold so much joy, and light, and excitement, and so many other emotions he liked to tease out.

Now there was just… nothing. Exhaustion, maybe. A complete absence of light behind your irises.

“Have a list of names for me, sweetie? Who extinguished your fire?”

It’s just their normal banter, but now it’s packaged in a growl that could make his enemies piss themselves. She just buries her face in his shoulder, and then it comes out.

Just a single name. One he’d heard before, actually. A newly transferred hunter that you’d been having to work with lately. One that seemed to cause trouble to no end. From improperly preparing for hunts, to slacking on office work, to generally being horrible to be around. A ‘cocky dick, and not the good kind’ you’d once described him to Sylus.

Sylus had mistakenly not looked further into him. A transgression he’d be repaying tenfold.

-As soon as he works through the shock of you actually giving up a name. You, who were still uncomfortable with his methods. Who never wished harm on anyone beyond suitably annoying, mundane revenge. Usually in the forms of stubbed toes and lost keys and late trains.

Yet, here you were, fully aware you were essentially giving your blessings to Sylus to begin fixing problems according to his terms.

Just yesterday you would have never resigned another person to the fates Sylus was known for bestowing.

He hugs you tighter to his chest, broad shoulders hunching as if to shield you from an onslaught. Right there in his foyer, you break down, and he becomes your lifeline.

Through your sobs, Sylus pieces together the story. A hunt had gone wrong, and your team of five had been violently cut down to three because of the cocky dick’s impulsivity. You hadn’t been able to save the two hunters, barely managing to drag the cocky dick and the incapacitated third out of the dangerous energy fluctuation.

Then, he’d blamed it on you to your higher ups. Pinned all his actions on you and the two dead hunters, and gotten away with it.

You had been cited as the cause of two hunters’ deaths, and had been summarily dismissed.

“I-I’m on administrative leave, Sylus! I don’t know if- if- if I’ll be allowed back!” Sylus can only listen and hold you close as you cry hysterically. He can hear the helplessness and hopelessness in your voice, and it makes him seethe.

It’s the final statement, whimpered from your lips like a dying breath, that breaks something deep in Sylus. “…I’m going to lose my dream.”

He had wanted to poach you from the hunters for Onychinus for seemingly forever now. But not like this. Never like this, with such a defeated look in your eye and a weight on your shoulders that seemed intent to drown you.

Sylus does not take kindly to things he considers his being fucked with- much less… shattered so completely.

You’re still shaking, but have quieted down when he makes up his mind on his exact course of action.

Your arms stay around his neck as one of his arms scoops you up to carry you. With his other hand, he sends a single message into the group chat he has with his boys, Kieran and Luke. All it contains is a name, and a sentence containing a few keys words they would understand. Two little thumbs up emojis reply back near-instantaneously, and he is satisfied for now.

His boys will take care of the problem while he takes care of their girl.

A warm bath is in order, and is the second item on his impromptu to-do list. It is dim all throughout his rooms, because he is tired, and so are you. Still, he doesn’t skimp on the luxury, because now is one of the few times you actually let him get away with it. Imported bath salts, essential oils, hair and skin care he had bought especially for you. All things you had previously gawked at and refused, only becoming more flustered when he just smirked at your requests to know the price points for each item. He knows you’d looked it up later anyway.

He does, however, use his own expensive soap on you. It’s a small indulgence he allows his more dragon-like instincts to win. For you to smell like him is the staking of a claim, and it soothes his inner distresses, still so wound up from your own anguish.

Practiced, firm hands massage your body. He works sweet smelling soaps and oils until your skin and hair, treating you how he has always wanted to. How you have always refused.

Eyes drooping, you’re again scooped up and out of the tub. He’s quick to wrap a heated robe around you before any chill can set in, then gets to work drying your hair. He hums as he works, low timbre echoing around the large bathroom.

You wonder if perhaps this is what a siren could sound like. It’d certainly lure you into the depths like this.

“Here, kitten.” He murmurs softly, adjusting the way you sit until he can easily rub even more oils onto your soft skin, and lotions as well.

“Are you going to bake me next? I feel like a ham receiving a sugar glaze.” You mumble, sniffing at the arm he just finished. Sylus just chuckles, thumbs rubbing firms circles into the muscles.

“Don’t worry kitten, any eating I do won’t require an oven to preheat.” He smirks, then agilely dodges the half-hearted thwack aimed for his head. Instead he catches the hand, kisses the top, and releases it.

The next and final destination is the bed, already rumpled from Sylus’ previously failed attempts to sleep. He’s just setting you down and pulling the duvet up when his phone dings. He watches you cutely bury your face into his pillow and take a deep breath as he unlocks the phone. Seems he isn’t the only one who likes the way certain things smell.

It’s a single picture, and a short message. Kieran is holding a severely bloodied man up by his hair for the picture, Luke assumedly playing the photographer. The text reads: “he says he is very very sorry and promises to fix the situation he caused and accept the consequences within 24 hours.”

A second later, and another message dings upon arrival. “Also we drained his bank account, since we can’t kill him. Seems that his daddy’s money is going to buy kitty a car.”

Sylus smirks, and reminds his boys of her favorite color before he sets his phone down again. He crawls under the covers, and it really is so telling of your mental state just how quickly you curl into him. Like you want to crawl between his ribs and stay there for eternity.

He’d let you, too. Keep you warm and safe right next to his heart. Let his ribs take the blows meant for you.

“It’ll all be alright, kitten.” He murmurs into the dimness, wrapping himself you in turn. “You’ll see. I’ll make it all better.”

[squidbun]

“pas de deux”

(ballet instructor!sukuna x ballerina!afab!reader)

thinking about ryomen sukuna as a ballet instructor. all the students at the academy gossip about him, how scary he is, how strict. some say he once kicked a girl out because the ribbons on her shoes were wrapped wrong. they also discuss how insanely attractive he is, but that’s besides the point.

ryomen sukuna who really is insanely hot, muscles bulging through his tight tanks and leggings. you walk into class and swear your heart stops when you see him. not just for his good looks, but the way he carries himself. he’s light, and graceful, but yet with raw power that you’ve never seen in your entire life.

ryomen sukuna who screams at you for misunderstanding his brief and rough directions. sukuna who just stares dumbfounded when you snap right back at him, telling him exactly what you heard and to fix his directions if he wanted you to follow them. “brat” was your determined nickname from then on.

ryomen sukuna who surprises you every single time you see him. one second he’s screaming, demanding you to arch farther and jump higher and spin longer, the next his hands are running up your sides as he guides your body, speaking softly into your ear with that gruff voice that he must know drives you nuts. he wouldn’t admit it, but you’ve got talent. not only for ballet, but for standing up to assholes like him.

and he likes it.

ryomen sukuna who maybe, just maybe, smiles a little when he sees your reaction to getting odette and odile in swan lake. all smiles, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and a sideways glance to sukuna, like he had anything to do with it. that talent, the talent that got you that role, was all yours.

ryomen sukuna who starts to have trouble focusing when he begins his private lessons with you in preparation for your role. you’re delicate and fragile, gentle and conveying, with the way you dance. but he’s swears to god, when you dance as odile, your curves just tease him a little more. your sultry glances, and soft smiles. the way you spin and drag yourself across his when he dances as the prince. the way your hand drags across his chest, brushing his waistline ever so slightly. he won’t ever admit it, but there’s a damn good reason he ends your lessons with that dance - to rush home to fist his cock to the thought of you dancing with him utterly naked.

ryomen sukuna who’s forehead vein pops out and pulses when he sees you do that dance with the actual dancer. he knows it’s stupid, he knows that those sideways glances are in character and even with him they mean nothing, but seeing yuji so painfully obviously flush at it still makes him furious, even if the brat is his cousin.

ryomen sukuna who is shocked to find you one day in a fit of tears and anger at his door. not tears of sadness, but tears of frustration. he listens with slits for eyes as you vent about how you feel like you suck as odile - never sultry enough. “how would i know how to be enticing?” and sukuna bites his tongue as he wants to explain you don’t even have to try. you always were too much of a perfectionist. staying too late to perfect each move, each flick of your fingers intentional and poised with hours of practice. practice he facilitated.

ryoman sukuna who offers you to meet him at his own personal studio in his penthouse tonight. sliding you the address and his number on a sheet of paper, he’s staring so shamelessly and intently at your ass as you walk out. you’re in those goddamn white lacy tights he told you weren’t dress code approved (mostly because he got a hard on just thinking about them - tearing them off you and making you fold in half in front of those massive mirrors in the practice hall, that is).

ryomen sukuna who knows exactly what he’s gonna do tonight to show you how sexy you are.

a/n: hi hi, do we want this as an actual oneshot orrr?? sorry for any grammar/spelling errors, this was loosely glanced over lol

[chanelgrll]

Domestic Ronin and Reader fic or relationship hcs?? I imagine after being in a relationship with him for a while he’s able to be a bit more vulnerable and soft w/them (by his standards at least). I need more Ronin fluff lowk (only if you feel up to writing this ofc) 🫶

A/N: oh I've been so ready for this hehehee, I'll have hcs at the top and a little one shot below

I'd guess he’s not used to having someone else in his space, especially after ther and angel. At first, he was more tense, subtly hiding it from you. But you started leaving little things, hair clips, clothing, plushies, the occasional note. Now he catches himself checking the bed out of habit when you’re not in it. Probably lays on your side when you're not home

He doesn’t say “I love you” often, but he always shows it. Cutting fruit for you while you’re half-asleep, keeping your side of the bed warm if you get up, fixing the door that creaks even though you never asked

He’s the type to stand behind you while you brush your teeth, arms loosely around your waist, just watching in the mirror, resting his chin on the top of your head.

If you fall asleep on the couch, he never wakes you. He covers you with a blanket, then sits nearby, cleaning a knife, doing nothing. He likes hearing you breathe (proof of life)

When it comes to Ronin being more vulnerable, you find him sitting on the floor sometimes, just still. You sit with him without asking why. Sometimes he’ll take your hand, sometimes he just leans against your thigh and breathes. There are nights he clings tighter in his sleep, face buried in your neck. You don’t ask what happened, just hold him

You pick something dumb to watch, and he complains, “This is brainrot.” but he stays. You end up laying with your legs across his lap, and halfway through, he starts absently rubbing the back of your hand like it’s second nature

When he comes home fresh after a kill drenched in blood, you don't freak out. You lather shampoo through his hair, wash his back. Blood circles the drain like old sins, and he appreciates how you don't try to fix him and just quietly help him clean up

He doesn't feel like he has to clean himself before touching you, something he always did in the past for others

If you can’t fall asleep, he’ll talk quietly about anything. Where he traveled last, talks about his most recent kill, speaks in that poetic way. Anything to keep you at peace

Whenever he wakes up before you he doesn't wake you up, but listens to you breathe, running his fingers through your hair and listen to your heartbeat

Speaking of which, when he's going through something or feeling down, feeling your pulse or listening to you heart beating is something really grounding for him

He’s surprisingly good with a knife in the kitchen (of course). Chops vegetables like he’s defusing a bomb. He makes really simple food like eggs, rice, pan-seared meat

He always knows where your things are. Even when you don’t. You ask where something is and he immediately tells you without looking up, it's almost like he has a sixth sense but he just pays really close attention to you

Another way for him to say he loves you is threatening to kill anyone who hurts you (what's a serial killer without the killing?)

Rain tapped the windows, gray light spilled across the room in soft drapes. The sheets smelled like sleep and warmth, twisted loosely around the limbs of two people who had nowhere else to be.

You stirred first, barely. Your cheek rested against Ronin’s chest, skin to skin, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The weight of his arm across your back was grounding, his hand curved over your spine like it had always belonged there. Outside, the storm whispered through the world. Inside, time didn’t exist.

You tilted your face just enough to look up at him. He was awake, barely. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes dark against his skin, mouth relaxed in that rare softness he only wore when the world didn’t require him to be made of knives.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak. Just hummed, low in his chest, and pulled you closer. His hand slid up your back to cradle the back of your head. As if he thought you might slip away if he didn’t.

“I think it’s still raining,” you murmured against his throat.

“Good,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

You smiled, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “Wasn’t planning to.”

He shifted, just enough to roll onto his side and take you with him. Now you were facing each other, tangled up in limbs and breath. His thigh slid between yours, anchoring you. His eyes, though sleepy, were clear and soft as rain. He studied your face like he always did when you were this close. Like you were something he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have.

“What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Just…” His hand came up to brush your hair behind your ear. “You look peaceful when it rains.”

“So do you.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something smaller, deeper. “Don’t say that shit,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away when you kissed the tip of his nose. You let the silence stretch. You didn’t need to fill it. Outside, the rain thickened. You could hear the wind shifting through the trees. A car passing in the distance. But inside, in this bed, in this room, there was only warmth and the slow rhythm of skin and trust.

Ronin’s thumb brushed across your cheek. “Y’feel safe with me?”

The question hit harder than it should have. Not because you didn’t, but because he didn’t always believe it. “I do,” you said gently. “I always do.”

He looked at you like that answer physically hurt. Then he kissed you, slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the taste of your mouth. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

You curled closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I know. I don’t want you to.”

He rubbed slow circles into your back. His lips brushed your temple. Your jaw. Your shoulder. “You cold?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Good. You feel warm. Like home.”

Something fluttered in your chest. You didn’t say anything. Just held him tighter. Eventually, the rain faded to a misty hush. The room grew even quieter, but neither of you got up. You drifted together. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. And when you fell asleep again, safe in his arms, you didn’t even hear the storm anymore.

Because Ronin was the peace you needed

And you were his.

[creepycranberry]

Crying during sex (3)

Bob Reynolds x reader

Plot: Bucky gives you a job working for the team and you’re faced with an old friend who would give anything to prove himself to again

Warnings: drugs, abuse, references to SA, alcohol, cussing, mental health issues, parental issues, sex, soft smut (in this chapter), references to neuropsychiatric issues, angst, not proofread. Brief Depiction of SA, please take care of yourself. Do not read if you have a hard time with such topics.

Pt 1 Pt 2

A/N: last part of this, thank you for reading <3

————————————————————————————————————

Bucky came back by your room hours later to find Bob sitting at the end of the bed, watching you paint.

Bob hadn’t seen you paint much, you used to draw a lot in class and when he would sit with you while you did your homework and there’d be little doodles in the margins. But you were really very good at painting. Your eyebrows creased when you were concentrating, and your hands moved with purpose, like you’d practiced which ways to move to make your lines come out clean.

“How’re you doing, kid?” Bucky asks and you look up, a smile breaking on your face once you see him.

“I’m okay, look!” You held up the canvas to show him what you were doing. The painting was half done, half just drawn reference. It was a rendering of one of the magazine covers of the team.

“That looks great kid,” Bucky had seen your art before, he knew you were good but every time he saw something else you did he was slightly taken aback, “maybe when you’re done with it we can put it in the living room or something.”

“Okay.” You smile.

“Bob? You okay?” Bucky asks, noticing the faraway look on bobs face.

“I’m fine. She ate all of her breakfast, then took a nap, then ate a sandwich. She’s had like two water bottles.” Bob informs him, his eyes not leaving her hands as he tracked their movement.

“That’s great, are you feeling okay?”

“I'm alright. If she’s alright, I’m alright.” Bob smiles, looking at you in a way Bucky can only describe as complete adoration. Bucky wasn’t sure what it meant when you told him that you and Bob had a past but he has a feeling his instincts were right.

Because just looking at the two of you, he can see the pure love radiating from the both of you.

———

Bucky and the others left for another mission days ago and you were going stir crazy. No team meant no one needing help and no one needing help meant that you had absolutely nothing to do.

Bob was watching you pace in the living room, his eyes following you like you were the ball in a game of ping pong.

“Why can’t you just enjoy your days off, again?” He asks, resting his face in his hand.

“I’ve enjoyed like four off days and now I need something to do.” You pout, falling next to him on the couch.

He moves your hair out of your face, smiling at you amusedly.

“This isn’t funny.” You insist and Bob laughs, shaking his head.

“Oh, I know. It’s very serious.”

You stare up at him with feigned offense and a reluctant smile you can’t quite hide, “I’ve been cooped up in this tower forever.”

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Bob asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.

“Where is there to go?” You remark, reaching up to fix Bob's hoodie strings.

While the two of you had silently agreed to take things slow with your friendship, you both couldn’t help but return to your original close physicality. Bob didn’t try to claim your time the same way he used to, he slept in his own bed but made it known to you that you were welcome to come get him if you needed him. You didn’t pry into Bobs mind and life the way you used to but you supplemented your usual questions with affectionate actions and long amused stares when he gave long winded explanations to the plots of his books.

You enjoyed being able to lean on him again, no matter how hesitant you were to believe that he would stay with you in the long run.

“You’re in New York, there are plenty of places to go.” Bob reasons, tracing the lines of your collarbones with the tip of his finger.

“Yeah? Like where?”

“There’s a good book store a couple blocks away.” He suggests and you sit up.

“Can we walk?” You ask.

“We’re in New York and neither of us have a car.” Bob retorts.

“Hey, at least I have my license.”

Bob doesn’t seem to have a come back, instead he just sticks his tongue out at you earning him a bubbly laugh.

The sidewalk is crowded, you keep getting pushed to the side. everything.

Bob leads the way, his finger hooked into a belt loop on your jeans.

Once the both of you get to the book store you follow him down the aisles as he looks, he finds a book and sits there by the shelf to read the first chapter or so.

The lack of conversation happening doesn’t feel forced, it feels natural. You sit next to Bob, reading the book over his shoulder. It’s some kind of book on psychology. The first few pages touch on memory and how the brain stores information.

Bob seems to decide against it and puts the book back and heads to a different shelf, you trailing behind him. He goes to the fiction section and grabs another book, sitting on the floor again and you sat with him.

He finds another book and does the same thing. Sitting to read on the floor and you sit next to him again, leaning over his shoulder to read along with him.

He does that two more times before he finds a book he wants to read and turns to you. He follows you aimlessly. Trusting you to lead him to the ends of the earth if necessary.

You go to the memoirs section, combing through various shelves and finding something to sit down with. Bob reads over your shoulder, his chin lightly resting on you.

You stand up after a minute, looking around more, smiling and then holding up Just Kids for him to see.

“You could finally get your own copy.” You tease but instead of smiling and brushing it off he goes a little still.

“I have my own copy.”

Your eyebrows knit together, “you do?”

“Yeah. I got it like a year or three after you left.” He’s suddenly very interested in his hands, averting his gaze so he doesn’t have to meet your eyes, “I did meth and wandered around… somewhere, Dallas maybe? And um- I thought I saw you and so I followed you for blocks and blocks for like an hour and you disappeared into a big half price books. I did laps around it for like two hours before I realized you weren’t actually there. So I asked that guy at the desk if they had the book. Apparently I was lucky because they just got it in and normally they go really fast.”

You stare at him for a long time, “Bob-“

He’s like a faucet. It’s like once he let go of the one piece of information, now he has to give you all of it, “I came back for you after that, I tried to find you. I even got your moms address but I was- I was doing bad and I was worse off than ever. And I knew that even if I found you, you might not forgive me. And if I got better and committed to being sober and you didn’t forgive me than I- than I forfeited having you the way I did. I couldn’t sit with you under a bridge somewhere in any city in the world and fall asleep feeling like you were there if I ruined how I saw us.”

It’s not a grand confession of love but it feels like it. It feels like he’s laying everything on the line to tell you this, to tell you that he loved you and he has forever.

You think about where you were mentally at that time. You were in your first year of college after taking a gap year, you were having still spells multiple times a week, you were exhausted and bitter and a mess. You were a mess he made of you.

You probably would have broken his heart quicker than you could think about it.

“I’m glad you didn’t come to see me. I hadn’t softened yet. I wouldn’t have let myself see you how I do now. Though I wish you didn’t have to turn further into drugs just for me. You deserved more than I was at that point, Robert. You deserved patience, docility.” Your voice is so soft that it feels like pressure on all of him. It feels like you’re pulling something out of him slowly.

“You deserved more than I was too,” his voice is so sensitive, like it feels all of it, all of you, “even before I left, you deserved someone who was better than I was. You deserved someone who didn’t overindulge themselves because they couldn’t feel happy apart from you.”

Neither of you speak anymore. You trace your fingers over the spine of the book.

“I love you.” Bob says tentatively, like he’s checking to make sure he hasn’t fucked anything up with his transparency.

“I love you too, Robert.”

——————

Sleep was starting to come easier. Dreams didn’t feel as much like a threat as before, you weren’t afraid of the still spells. You've had pleasant dreams lately.

Dreams where you’re sitting with your mother or Bucky or Bob, and you’re just talking to them. You have dreams where you’re laying on your childhood bedroom floor, a record playing softly in the background as you stare up at the ceiling.

And you wake up peacefully, your eyes open and you breathe and it’s easy.

Which is why you’re so confused now. It had been weeks. You were okay, you were doing better. You thought you were doing better.

‘You’re doing so good.’

You’re stuck staring at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, waiting for the pressure of his hands to stop, to go. You don’t know yet that this is wrong, you’re young, and sweet. You shouldn’t have to know that this is wrong.

Panic grips your tiny limbs but you don’t move, you stay as still as possible, holding your breath so you don’t have to smell it. The dampness of the room and the smell of his breath as it fans over you.

You don’t yell, or struggle, or cry. You just sit and wait for it to be done.

And then the door opens. And there’s yelling, the sound of a kind of impact and a grunt of pain, and you think you’re done, you breathe again.

And your eyes open and you’re in the tower, staring at the ceiling. And you’re breathing, you’re in your bed, the city lights glow through the windows. The world around you is still alive, you’re still alive.

So you close your eyes again, thinking sleep will be safe now.

But it’s not. You’re stuck there again.

And the scene plays out again but this time someone lifts you, someone saves you.

“You’re okay, it’s okay, we’re going home.” Your fathers voice says in your ear, his hands rubbing your back, “dads got you, you’re safe.”

And then you cry. You let it all out, your breathing is erratic and you’re hiccuping sobs, your body shaking from the force of all the emotions that hit you at once.

When you wake up you’re crying, you want your dad. You want to be held and safe.

The sun is rising, bearing witness to the wracking sobs that overtake you. You try to self soothe but it doesn’t work, you can’t stop.

“I want my dad.” You sob to yourself, “I need-“

You hiccup loudly, the air knocked out of you with force as you wheeze. You’re sat up in your bed, your knees to your chest as you try and remember how to breathe.

There are footsteps in the hallway, a light turns on and your bedroom door opens.

Buckys standing there, his hair mussed from sleep or a workout but his eyes are honest and solely focused on you, “hey kid, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Bucky sits with you, pulling you into his shoulder, shushing you rhythmically like you’re a child. He rocks back and forth, telling you to breathe.

“You’re safe. You’re okay.” Bucky mutters into your hair, “nothing can hurt you here, I promise.”

Your breathing slows but you can’t stop crying. You turn your face into bucky's shoulder so he can’t see your face.

——

Bob stood in the doorway. He’d been the one to get Bucky. He had woken up and couldn’t sleep anymore so he went to make himself some tea, maybe sit in the living room and read until everyone woke up.

But then he heard you. He couldn’t tell you were crying at first but he heard you ask for your dad, so he went and got Bucky, who was already awake and in the gym.

And now he sat and watched as Bucky calmed you down, waiting until you were okay to go and sit at the end of your bed.

“Bob.” You gasp, reaching for him like a lifeline.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on, he can’t tell why you’re crying but given how pensive and tense Bucky is, he feels like Bucky probably has an idea, like this has happened before.

“You hungry?” Bucky asks you, smoothing strands of your hair down your back, you shake your head, your forehead resting against bobs chest, “I’m gonna go get you some water. Are you okay here?”

“I’m okay.” You croak, your voice thick.

Bob sits with you in silence, listening to your breath shake as you inhale and exhale slowly.

“What happened?” Bob asks quietly.

“Just-just a bad dream. A really bad dream.”

Bob ends up staying with you the whole morning, you don’t talk much. Bucky brings you water and you sip on it, staring out of the windows.

Your mom calls you an hour later, probably because Bucky called her.

He’s started doing that when he feels like he’s out of his depth. Sometimes it makes you feel a little pathetic because you’re well into your twenties.

You don’t stay on the phone with her for long. She makes sure you’re okay, Bob hears her apologize about three times, he thinks he can hear her crying.

When the afternoon rolls around none of the team come to bother you or ask for help. Bob just stays in your room, sitting by the windows and reading a book.

“I’m sorry about that, I don’t mean to freak out like that.” You say later, Bob looks up from his book.

“You don’t have to apologize. It happens to all of us. Even Alexei, even Walker.” Bob assures you, “what happened in your dream?”

You don’t answer for a minute and Bob prepares to take the question back, “when I was younger, a kid, my mom had this relative who was always at her moms house for some reason. We were over there for some holiday and I needed a nap so my mom put me down to nap in the guest room.” You exhale shakily, trying to thin out the odd feeling in your throat, “and that relative came in while I was sleeping and- and my dad came in to check on me and caught him.” The air leaves bobs lungs, he feels a pressure on his chest, “I didn’t remember it, my brain blocked it and my dad didn’t like talking about it so I didn’t know until I was seventeen. When we-“

“Oh. Oh my god.” Bob feels remorseful and angry and horrible, “holy fuck, I’m- I’m sorry, I- fuck.”

“That tends to be the normal reaction.” You shrug, “I’ve been to therapy, I’ve worked through it and all of that bullshit but sometimes it catches me off guard.”

“Wow. Shit. That’s- does Bucky know?” Bob asks, his book long forgotten, sitting in the floor next to him.

“Yeah. My mom told him when she was drunk once. After it happened my moms mental issues got worse, she couldn’t be present, my dad couldn’t deal with the both of us and he had to prioritize me so they divorced, she moved in with her brother in Louisiana, my dad got full custody.”

“Then why was your dad so distant? That doesn’t make any sense? You needed him.”

“He had a hard time talking about it. I think he blamed himself, and I didn’t remember so he just couldn’t bring himself to tell me.”

“Holy shit.” Bob curses. He keeps cursing, at a certain point you think he’s just putting it on but really he has no idea what else to say.

It’s only when you start laughing that he starts being dramatic, getting creative and more outrageous if only to make you laugh more.

“You don’t think I’m like totally pathetic or like damaged goods now right?” You ask after a minute.

Bob stands up and sits in bed with you, moving the hair out of your eyes with a satisfied smile on his face, “I still think you're an angel. I think you are way too good to have anything to do with me. I don’t think anyone could ever think of you as damaged goods.”

You smile, your cheeks flushed red and your nose scrunching at his sincerity, “you’re such a schmuck.”

“Only with you.” Bob pokes your side and you instinctively jump away from him like he just electrocuted you.

“You suck.” You laugh.

“No. You love me.” Bob teases.

“I mean, yeah. But you still suck.”

“You’re cute.” Bob blurts, he looks like he didn’t mean to say it.

“You too.” You say nonchalantly.

Bob leans back against your headboard, his fingered running lines up and down your arm. His eyes are intent on you, you try to avoid his gaze but you can’t help it, you’ve spent your whole life searching for the feeling you get when your eyes meet his.

You lean forward, letting your fingers trace the arch of his eyebrows, and the cupid's bow of his lips. His eyes close instinctively, enjoying the feeling of your touch.

He doesn’t realize you’re leaning forward until your breath fans over his face, his eyes flutter open, immediately finding purchase on your lips.

“Are you sure?” He mutters to you and you nod.

“I miss you.” You reply back to him.

“You have me.” His hand is on one of your hips, pulling you closer to him until your lips move over one another.

He hums into you, pulling you closer to him, one hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you pressed to him. You make a sort of high breathy noise that has him reeling immediately.

His hands move down your shoulders, to your waist, arms fully wrapping around you to pull you into his lap. When the both of you come up for air he holds you to his chest, your forehead rests on his shoulder.

After a moment he seems to find his voice, “is it weird that we did that after how this conversation started?”

“How did this conversation st- oh. I- honestly I forgot what we were talking about the second you called me an angel.” You confess, pulling back to look at him, clear eyed and smiley.

“You like that?”

“I’ve always liked it when you called me that. Did you not know?”

“I never really thought about it. It just came naturally.” Bob tells you, kissing your forehead.

——————

Valentina had you running around like a headless chicken, getting booze from her supplier, picking up yours and the teams outfits for the night, dealing with caterers, etc.

Val was throwing a party at the tower, a sort of mixer to encourage certain a list clientele to become more familiar and personal with the team. Mel was dealing with the guest list and rsvps, along with making sure Val was on her best behavior.

By the time it’s time for you to get ready you’re bone tired, you just want to lay in bed forever but just when you’re contemplating faking a fatal illness Bob walks in, an untied bow tie in his hands.

“Can you help me figure this out?” He asks, holding the tie out to you like it personally offended him.

“C’mere.” You mumble, taking the tie from him. He stands still while you work it for him, stepping back to make sure it’s not too lopsided.

“Can you also help me with my hair? I’ve never had to look nice like this before.” You smile up at him, nodding.

He follows you into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet lid while you got out gel and a comb.

“Have You not started getting ready yet?” He asks you.

“I really don’t want to go. I’ve done so much today already.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Bob doesn’t sound too convincing, “I mean it probably won’t but I need someone to suffer with.”

“You can suffer with Bucky.” You assure him, combing his hair back.

“Please?” His blue eyes are hopeful and lovely and entirely too convincing.

“Fine.” You concede and he smiles, “stop moving, Robert.”

“Sorry.” He mumbles, watching your concentrated face.

“Go see if you like it, I’m going to go change.” You sigh, leaving the bathroom to slip into your closet where the garment bag sits.

The dress was black, with a sweetheart neckline and thin straps. It fell to your feet. You looked around your closet, finding a simple pair of black pumps. You step out of the closet to sit on your bed so you could put the shoes on easier. When you look to the bed you’re met with Bob, whose gaze is tracing the lines of your silhouette.

“You look- wow. Really.”

“Thank you, Robert.” You grin, sitting next to him on the bed to put on your shoes. You get up to fix your hair, bobs eyes follow you around your room. You start fixing your makeup and he gets up finally, standing behind you in the mirror, innocently resting his head on your shoulder.

He watches you carefully, like he might implode if he lets his eyes drift.

“You’re beautiful.” He mumbles to you, his breath tickling your ear.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” You put on your earrings and his hands begin trailing down your silhouette, starting at the top of your ribcage and slipping down until his hands sit firmly on your hips.

——————

The beginning of the party was rough, trying to explain to Val that you weren’t her assistant took effort, especially when you were doing it at the same time as caterers are carrying trays of food in the stagger throughout the room every half hour.

Once the party was in full swing things got easier. The team was all accounted for, the party guests seemed charmed by Alexei, they were familiar with Bucky to some extent, they avoided Yelena who wasn’t putting in the least amount of effort to seem approachable and every time someone approached Ava she dissipated.

Bob had taken to following you around, watching you do your job and avoiding being approached by anyone. You did one more round to check on everyone before you snuck away to the balcony where it was quieter.

Naturally Bob followed you, not talking, just staying with you where he felt safe.

You appraise him, taking in his appearance. Him in a suit almost felt like a death sentence. His waist was eventuated and his hands looked almost edible as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

“Have I told you yet how handsome you look?”

Bob turns bright pink, his tongue peaking through his lips to wet them before he speaks.

“More or less.” He shrugs. You grin wide, holding your hand out for his. He takes it and pulls you in close, his fingers nervously tapping at your sides. You rest your hands on his shoulders, beginning to sway, “are you trying to dance with me?”

“Maybe.” You play coy and Bob smiles an easy, relaxed smile.

He grabs one of your hands and the both of you sway like that for a while.

Bob dips you unexpectedly and you hold onto him but you trust him not to drop you. He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. He grins against your mouth, hand splayed wide against your back while your leg is hooked into his other hand. You’re relishing in him, in the taste of him and the privilege it is to have him here. Strong and sturdy and holding you.

Let this be sweet. You pleaded, seemingly with god. That god you’d never believed in now something real in your mind, taking shape in the form of him and your calls and his responses.

————

Tag list: @my-name-is-baby @chimchoom

[moonwalkingprincess]

Mockingbird part 10: Machine gun jealousy

Summary: You start to date someone Eminem hates.

Warnings: Jealousy, cyberbullying...

Words: Idk i'm to lazy to check

Marshall had Hailee close to him as they walked into the jewelry store. He's dressed in his usual hoodie, cap pulled low, trying not to draw attention. He hated these kinds of places, growing up poor, he’d always be careful around expensive things like jewelry and he felt like he didn’t belong.

“This is stupid, isn’t it?” he mutters to Hailee, who had her arms crossed as she was thinking about what kind of ring you’d like. She glanced up to him. 

“No I like jewelry”

“What is it with women with jewelry?” he asked himself,

“They’re shiny.” she says, he rolls his eyes and looks at the displays. He looks at her glass display case before him. Jesus, how much does these things cost? Is this why his father left? He needed to pay off his mother’s  ring? Then he remembered, he’s a millionaire now, he’s not some poor guy in the southside anymore… he always forgets that. 

He gives Hailee a look. She sighs and nudges him toward it, some rings she liked. They were children's rings, mostly pink and had fairies on. 

“How about that one with Cinderella, that’s y/n’s favorite princess?”

He smiles at her.

“That’s not what adults wear honey.”

“Adults are boring.” she shrugged. 

Hailee eyed her father who kept looking at another display case. 

“You really think a ring fixes this?”

“Geez, I hope so.” He says quietly. 

The sales associate walks up — an older man with sharp eyes and a polite smile. She recognizes Marshall but doesn’t say anything.

"Looking for something in particular?"

“Yeah. Something that says, ‘I know I messed up, but you’re still it. You’re still mine, always.’” 

“Well, unfortunately that can’t fit on a ring, sir. Here we have a beautiful collection…” he said and showed him a display case that he hadn’t looked at yet. He leans over it, scanning ring after ring. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels like you.

Then his eyes land on a vintage ring — a ring you’d want. 

He points at it.

“That one. It’s got her written all over it. Beautiful and rare. Like her.”

“You sure she’ll even want to see you?” Hailee asks softly. 

“I’m not sure of anything... except that I still love her.”

He holds the ring box in his hand like it’s made of glass.

“She said she needed to be reassured that I’m over Kim. What says that more than a proposal?”

Hailee nods at his words.

“Do you think she will say yes?” 

He looks up at her. 

“I don’t know what she'll say.” 

He pays for the ring, and he and Hailee walk out of the store together. The ring is tucked in his jacket pocket. 

“Can we get some mcdonalds?” Hailee asks.

“Yeah of course.” he says and puts his hands on her shoulder, leading her to the mcdonalds.

__

Eminem wakes up the next day and checks his phone, he sees text messages from people in his team, then he realises he���s blowing up on twitter. What is going on? He makes a huge mistake and opens twitter, sees what the fuss is about. It’s about you and your date to american music awards. Your date… the problem wasn’t even about you being on a date, well, he wasn’t happy about that, but the problem was WHO you took.

Machine Gun Kelly.

He’s some loser trying desperately to get Eminem's attention and trying his hardest to be slim shady. He even used Hailee for attention. It ended badly, he released a song called Killshot and next thing you know, MGK switched to rock and started to dress in pink. 

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, the headline practically glowing like a slap in the face — “Y/N Steps Out With MGK at AMAs: New Power Couple?” It wasn’t the words, it was the photo. Her smile. The way she leaned into him like it was natural, like it wasn’t him she used to turn to. The rage came first — not at her, but at him. 

It wasn’t jealousy. He doesn’t give a damn about MGK, please why would he? He was past that. If anything, it was frustration. Disappointment. Not in her, exactly... just in the situation. MGK wasn’t doing this because he liked her — it was so obvious. The guy was still bitter and petty, still chasing clout, still trying to poke the bear. And she... she was walking right into it.

"She really doesn't see it," he muttered to himself. That’s what got him. Not that she moved on — he could handle that. But that she might get hurt trying to prove she was over him. That she'd let someone like him get close. Someone who didn’t give a damn about her heart — just the headlines.

He shook his head, jaw clenched. “You’re better than this,” he said under his breath, even though she wasn’t there to hear it.

He moved on to the comments below to read his fans reaction.

emslilmonster

MGK??? Out of all the men on Earth??? Eminem wrote love songs for her 😭

hotgirlsloveseminem

Me watching Eminem pretend he's not about to storm the stage #AMAs

shadyqueen88

Girl really downgraded HARD. From the GOAT to the clown? Couldn’t be me.

notyourslimshady

Marshall deserved better anyway.

rapgodsfav

Y’all remember when she used to talk about loyalty? This is what “loyalty” looks like? 🤡

Mgksucks23

She’s just mad Em moved on and didn’t write another song about her. Attention seeker 101.

marshallmatters_313

She went from being with a legend to being with a joke. Imagine waking up next to someone who got bodied in one track.

Hailiesdad

Let’s not act surprised. She always looked like she wanted the spotlight more than the relationship.

slimshadyfan4life

This confirms it. She's dates whoever she wants for attention.

He scrolled through the comments without meaning to, they all agreed at one thing, this was betrayal and this was just attention seeking. He hated it. Hated seeing them tear her apart like that, hiding behind usernames with his lyrics in their bios like that made it okay. And yet... some of them? They weren’t wrong. Not entirely. She had made her choice. She had walked right into MGK’s arms like it wouldn’t come off as a statement. Still, he hated that his fans were the ones doing this to her. They thought they were defending him, but all he saw was her face, he moved on and scrolled down to see this other thing that they talked about. It was an interview with her and MGK.

The flash of cameras was almost blinding as Y/N stepped onto the red carpet in a sleek, champagne-colored dress, her hand gently hooked into MGK’s. (This made Em sick to his stomach). He leaned in and murmured something that made her laugh quietly before a reporter stepped up, mic raised and a little too eager.

“Y/N! Quick question — a lot of people are surprised to see you here tonight with MGK, given… well, his history with your ex, Eminem. Can you comment on that?” 

y/n leaned in to answer, but MGK leaned toward the mic, that familiar smirk curling across his lips.

“I am so over this feud and I’m ready to drop it” He said without hesitation and then he looked at y/n with a smile. 

“She helped me grow up.”

Her eyes lit up at his words. Without hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, the paparazzis went crazy.

Marshalls chest tightened, rage simmering just beneath the surface. Without thinking, he slammed his phone down on the table. It slipped, then with a sharp crack, it slammed against the wall. Pieces of shattered glass glittered on the floor like tiny shards of his patience.

He stood there breathing hard, anger coursing through his veins, but underneath it all was a twisting knot of something else — hurt, disbelief. He had to save her… 

Mohahahahaahaha...

[bookworm-1196]

I went to a preserved medieval city today and they had a bird show with falcons which made me think of Jace.

So just imagine Clace are on holiday in France and go to this quaint medieval style city called Provins and go to the bird show there. They are told “do not raise your arms above your head because it might confuse the birds and they’ll land on your arm instead of the professional’s”. Clary side-eyes Jace like “you’re going to do that, aren’t you?”

The show is actually really nice, they teach you a lot about different species of birds and how falconry was developed in different cultures like in Mongolia or Arabic countries, not just in Europe. Jace shares small tidbits with Clary about Shadowhunter falconry techniques or other obscure facts the show doesn’t cover.

Clary’s favorite part are the tiny barn owls, because they’re so cute. Jace’s is when a falcon grazes his cheek with its talons near the start of the show because the birds fly over the audience sometimes quite low, and incidents happen (and Jace is tall which makes it more likely.)

The cut is shallow, it won’t leave a scar, but it reminds Jace so much of his own falcon from when he was a kid, and of all the cuts and scrapes he had because of it.

At the end of the show, the voice-over talks about how falconry is about loving and respecting the noble animals they work with, a love that spans the millennia since the practise has begun, and Jace starts tearing up a little.

After the show, some of the birds are being a bit rebellious when it comes to returning to their enclosures, including the falcon who grazed Jace’s cheek earlier. It’s on a wooden perch super high up, and even though the handlers wave around their bits of meat and urge it to come down, it won’t.

So Jace raises his own arm, in the same posture as the handlers do to have the bird land on their forearm, and this time the falcon swoops down from its perch to land on Jace’s arm. It affectionately rubs its head against Jace’s head, then flies off to its enclosure.

Jace’s arm is bleeding because you’re not supposed to let a falcon land on your arm if you don’t have the proper protection, but he’s fine, it’s nothing an iratze can’t fix. Mostly, he smiles wistfully the whole day, and wonders if maybe he shouldn’t consider getting a falcon of his own when they get back to New York. (Clary reminds him it’s wildly impractical but she’s supportive nonetheless)

[fatuismooches]

will u be writing more of ur long fragile reader x zandik?? 🤗

YES OFC!!! I NEVER WANT TO STOP WRITING LONG DOTER FICS </3

I guess i do have one idea rotating in my head - but it's angsty. Focusing more on the not-so-good side of being Dottore's lover. The angst of him diligently taking care of your health in the physical sense, but neglecting the emotional aspect. He's simply not there when you want him. He turns you away for any reason except a genuine emergency. He gets caught up in work and research and forgets things. He restricts you from doing things he deems potentially dangerous while not giving himself up as a solution. Maybe he doesn't notice how much you've withdrawn. Maybe he doesn't notice until it's too late in the end. (OMFG I SWEAR. i have such a good line for this kind of idea, i'm just going to put a small snippet here before i forget.)

Your eyes were usually an accurate indicator of your mood. You also shared this knowledge and always peered deep into his eyes when you were being serious, which was why Dottore tended to keep his mask on to avoid your prying gaze. When you truly were mad, your eyes could show whether you were just playing or really upset. When you were sad, your eyes would shimmer with sorrow or glow with mirth when trying to get your way. Your eyes always told Dottore how to fix the problem. But now, now your eyes hold nothing. No emotion, no feeling. Your eyes are empty, he's the cause, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

I plan to write my yearly birthday fic with fragile reader/dottore in July no matter how lazy i get as well (which i WILL NEED ideas on what to write this year)

I've also got flufftober slowlyyyyyy cooking up, which will include fragile reader ofc 😭🥺

(i also got to finish up those tea prompts, which may or may not include fragile reader)

So yes. Things will happen. Eventually. I WANT TO!!! But i also have bouts of unmotivation easily lol. I need to get a true spark of inspiration. Of course i'm always open to ideas. Whether i will click and zero in on an idea however depends on if it tickles my dottore brain.

[callme-holly]

𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 - 𝐃.𝐖

||۶ৎ a part 2 to the fic "visting hours" . dallas is out of jail, but reader wants nothing to do with him...

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

You never really visited him again, not after that first time, not after giving him that letter which revealed everything your heart wished it could say but your brain wouldn’t let you. It would have been too awkward.

So instead, you called. Once every week, a brief phone call just to check in and make sure he was still alive and still coming home to you. They were painfully professional when he picked up, formal in a way your conversations never were, lacking that adoration behind each word that you usually had no issue speaking…

And when he was released, you didn’t go to pick him up. He knew you wouldn’t, and that’s why he’s here now, standing outside of your bedroom window like some lovesick fool, waiting to be let into the dry warmth of your space.

“What’re you doing?” You snap, the hinges of your window squealing as you push it open, stepping aside just enough to let him in. You should turn him away, really, and in an ideal world, you would. But you just can’t bring yourself to do it, not when you’ve missed him this much. 

“No hello?” His voice is rough in a way that makes you melt, the butterflies in your stomach starting up no matter how hard you try to contain them. “Thought maybe I was gonna get a better welcome than that.” 

The look you fix him with says enough: stern and devoid of any form of fondness he’d secretly hoped you might let show. Your hurt was guileless, and Dallas couldn’t help but feel something akin to guilt bubble up at that sorry look shining behind your eyes.

“I don’t think you deserve anything better than that.” 

He sighs heavily, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket—actions he’s learnt to do whenever you’ve cleaned your room—before flopping down onto your bed. The sheets are clean, pretty and soft, just like you, and he lets himself sink into them with a low groan.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” your voice cuts through the sleepy haze like a knife, rbeaking the stillness in the room and sawing straight through the flesh of what he’d built between you and the parts he didn’t want you to see. “You don’t live here, Winston.” 

And that hurt the most. The fact that he didn’t even have a place in your room anymore, the room that had practically become his too. “Didn’t realise I needed to have a lease to see my girl.” 

“You don’t get to call me that anymore.” Quiet, uncertain, but spoken with such a firmness that it knocked the wind out of him. It was like he’d been hit by a tidal wave, dragged out to sea by the current and left to drown in the torrent. 

“What?” 

You scoff, moving to sit on the opposite end of the bed. Not next to him, not in your spot. The mattress dips beneath you and there’s something strangely hollow about it. “You think you showing up here fixes things?” 

He shakes his head slowly. “I—no, doll. That’s not what I’m doing.” He starts, stumbling over his words in a way that’s near embarrassing. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

“I’m not supposed to be your last resort, Dallas!” Your voice cracks, that despairing tone causing something in him to crack because he’d done this. He’d stripped you entirely of any form of tolerance you had left, your patience worn down to the final thread, which had grown tired of being stitched back into place over and over. 

“Don’t do that.” He mumbles, leaning forward slightly. His hand brushes your knee, tentatively, uncertain on whether or not he’s even permitted to touch you. But when you don’t pull away, he tugs you close, his grip unyielding until you’re settled against him, a warm weight he’d craved like a drug each night. 

“You know it ain’t like that.” His fingers brushed through your hair idly, combing through stray knots, unnaturally tender. “I read your letter.” 

You hum faintly, head resting on his chest, the dull thump of his heart lulling you into a more tranquil state than before. “I gathered…” He’d never mentioned it, but then again, why would he? It ached too much. 

“Took me three tries to get through it all the way,” he laughed faintly, but it was lacklustre, devoid of any real humour. “Thought maybe that was it. That that was your way of saying you were finished with me. With us.” 

“It almost was,” you admit, refusing to meet those stupid blue eyes that you fall in love with each time you look into them. “Wasn’t sure I could keep visiting you. It hurts me, Dal. To see you like that, locked up like some sort of dangerous animal.” 

“I am dangerous, sweetheart.” 

You scoff, the sound muffled against the fabric of his rain-soaked shirt; he still smelt of cigarettes, something that both comforted and repulsed you all at once. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckles lowly, a deeper rumble low in his chest. “I mean it,” he grumbles, lifting your chin so that you finally meet his steady gaze. “I’m bad news. Aren’t good.” 

“You’re good to me.” And that was the truth, the whole reason you stuck around through it all. Because he treated you like you were the sole thing on earth that mattered; he didn’t always get it right, but he tried. He’d walk to the ends of the earth and back if it meant not only having you but having you happy. 

“You ever gonna stop letting me back in?” His voice was a whisper now, dripping like honey in that stupidly addictive way that made you want to kiss him senseless. 

“I’ve been trying for months.” The words are barely audible, but he catches them. And while they hit hard, the truth behind them isn’t entirely solid. 

“Not hard enough.” 

And then his lips are on yours: soft, tender, everything you’d missed these past few months, like  a fix you’d finally been allowed to fulfil after so long of spending nights alone with nothing but the shadows of your room.

Your fingers card through his blonde strands, long and unruly, but still soft in the way you remembered. He tasted of old smoke and spearmint and every possible bad decision. But never once did you pull away; not even when your brain screamed at you to do so, that you wouldn’t just end up back here in a few months' time. 

No. You didn’t pull away. Because it was then that you realised: this was your boy. And as messed up as he might be, he would do anything to make it up to you. 

||۶ৎ dallas masterlist

||۶ৎ tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d , @groovydonutpost, @rizzraa , @sheepandlams , @marinefreaakk , @sugarrootwrites , @marilyn-girly , @itonlyhastobetruetoday , @dairyfairyy , @williamafton26 , @mystiqueonfleek007 , @atpeacee , @theoneandonly-vrg

[tiktowafel]

do you ever think about how all you used to draw when you were 10 was ponies and that you should still know how to do that, then get an idea and proceed to draw something like these in nearly one sitting and it turns out better than any drawing you've done in the entire past month

sooo anyway does anyone have cutie mark or pony name ideas for them?? lol

[maliciousalice]

Hear me out (or don't... it's fine I'm just venting and mean) yeah um I don't believe Chakotay was saved in Prod*gy s2.

[rosesradio]

.

[iridescentoracle]

Hello! I am here to ask about your Dior headcanons re: the political cohesion of Doriath. 👀

Oh man, I didn't expect anyone to actually take me up on that!

(Okay so I got partway into writing this and then realized I should probably note up front that I tend to stick to the Silm (& LOTR/the Hobbit where applicable, but they... aren't, here) as the most authoritative version of canon, and I can get into why and where the nuances/exceptions are there (I do say tend to stick, it's not hard and fast!), but that's mostly a side note here: the point is simply that I don't really factor other drafts or the poetic Leithian into my take on Doriath, Thingol, Dior, etc, just what we're told in the actual Silm. I also read the Silm as an in-universe history text compiled by in-universe scholars, who, being people, are going to have their own biases and blind spots, even when they're doing their best to be accurate!)

So, this is a two-part thing: #1, there's the political cohesion of Doriath before & at the time of Thingol's death, which i talked about in the tags of the post that prompted this ask but is kind of necessary as context for the Dior part to make sense, and #2, there's the actual Dior headcanons. Both of these parts are very long because I've never really seen anyone else suggest any of this stuff and I want to explain where I'm coming from thoroughly enough that it actually makes sense to people who aren't me, but the TL;DRs:

TL;DR 1: I think Doriath was probably a hot mess politically after Thingol died, with tensions between various groups of Sindar and Laiquendi in the leadup to Thingol's death & Melian's departure, and more political tensions afterwards between those who wanted Beren & Lúthien to come be the new rulers, and those who thought they should stay gone, with someone still in Doriath taking over.

TL;DR 2: I think Dior became Eluchil, potentially at the request of some portion of the Iathrim, hoping to help prevent Doriath from devolving into civil war, and saw dealing with the Silmaril-Fëanorioni situation as a lower priority than stabilizing Doriath's internal political situation until it was too late.

1. The political cohesion (or rather, lack thereof) in Doriath prior to Thingol's death

So, okay, the thing about Doriath is that we don't actually have any real idea of like... how much the Iathrim liked being the Iathrim? We're never told about any intra-Iathrim conflict, but a) the Silm was probably compiled mostly by surviving Gondolindrim or their descendants, so they wouldn't know about anything liike that unless surviving Iathrim told them, and after the Second Kinslaying I don't imagine many Iathrim would've been eager to talk about how things had actually been tense/messy/etc when they could remember everything as having been perfect until it was ruined by the Fëanorionrim, and doubly so after the Third Kinslaying, so why would anything like that make it into the Silm?

and b) what we do know about Doriath is that it wasn't really Doriath as we know it until Morgoth came back to Middle-earth, and everything went to hell.

At the start of the first age, you suddenly get Doriath (the fenced land!) being the one protected area of a continent that used to be totally free and open. How many Sindar actually didn't particularly care for Thingol's style of leadership, or simply preferred to live nomadic lives, going basically wherever they pleased, until suddenly that wasn't safe anymore, and you were only guaranteed survival if you were close enough to Menegroth to be within the Girdle when it went up? ditto how many Laiquendi had no interest in swearing loyalty to Thingol right after their own king had just been killed, but again, made it to safety and stayed there over taking their chances on their own in the outside world? (None of this is meant as any insult to Thingol himself, by the way; he can have been a good king who did his best for his people and still rubbed some of his new subjects-by-necessity the wrong way, through no fault of his own or theirs.)

I think it's entirely possible that there were always potential political tensions under the surface in Doriath that just... never got written about, because they never boiled over into actual political conflict, and so it was never the sort of tension that had any bearing on the historical record.

Except then Beren & Lúthien happen to the world, and a few years later the Narn, and in the blink of an eye suddenly the only king Doriath has ever had is dead, and the only queen Doriath has ever had is gone and the Girdle with her—and more than that, the only rulers the Sindar had ever had for three thousand years before Doriath existed.

And where a few years earlier I think the Iathrim would probably have turned pretty universally to Lúthien, now she's abandoned them for her human husband—and while she's my favorite character in the entire legendarium hands-down and I don't blame her, I think that's another place there might have actually been some very mixed feelings among the Iathrim that nobody wanted to admit to later because how could anyone have been upset with Lúthien—and on top of her abandoning them for him, I think it's extremely probable most of Doriath did not actually get over their xenophobia about humans in general or Beren in specific when Thingol did (we know for sure at least some of Doriath didn't, cf. Saeros insulting Túrin's mother & sister to his face), but again, who's going to admit to having had a grudge against the holy couple of Middle-earth after the fact, you know?

Conversely, there could've been a sizeable faction of Sindar who had been totally loyal to Thingol until everything happened with Beren & Lúthien, but who found his actions towards them and/or Finrod to be where they drew the line, and while (unlike B&L themselves) that faction stayed in Doriath, there could've been a new, additional tension on that front.

Finally, for all we know there were multiple factions within the Laiquendi of Doriath, with political tensions stretching back to before their king died, rooted in who-even-knows!

2. Dior

All of that, of course, sets up a very, very messy political situation for Dior to walk into.

The Doriath stuff is arguably more speculation than actual headcanon, but here's where the unambiguous headcanons come in: I don't think "Dior Eluchil set himself to raise anew the glory of the kingdom of Doriath." Obviously that's how it got written down, but bluntly, I can't see Beren and Lúthien having a kid that stupid or, like, power-hungry and arrogant?

What I can see is a situation where the messenger that brought word of Thingol's death and Melian's departure asked Beren & Lúthien to come take over as the new king and queen, we promise we're not mad about you leaving and we won't be xenophobic to your husband anymore we swear it's fine now pretty please, Beren & Lúthien said no, and the messenger either asked Dior as a second choice, or said "okay fine none of that was actually true but Doriath is falling apart and we need a leader ASAP and there's about eight different contenders* (mostly kinsmen of Thingol or Laiquendi) being backed by various factions and it's going to devolve into civil war any minute so if you care at all—" and Dior said "would I do?"

(* Ask me about my Galadriel headcanon)

I don't think Dior necessarily wanted to be king of Doriath, and I don't think he saw the throne as his birthright or anything like that; I don't think anyone involved, from Thingol to Lúthien to Dior himself, ever considered the possibility of Thingol dying and needing an heir! I think it's possible he was asked, or at most that he offered, and either way, I think he saw becoming king as taking on a responsibility for the sake of others.

(Which, like, "well here's a potentially impossible task that I'm going to take up even though probably no one thinks I'm actually capable of it, but it's my duty to help others as best I can" sure does sound to me like an attitude one might develop when raised by Lúthien "I kicked Sauron's ass cast a sleep spell on Morgoth and persuaded the Valar to find a loophole in the fabric of reality" Tinuviel and Beren "I stayed by my father's side as an outlaw to give my mother time to lead the rest of our people away hopefully to safety knowing I would never see her or any of them again (and then spent several years being a giant thorn in Morgoth's side for good measure)" Barahirion, where "apparently my grandpa I may or may not have ever met died, guess that makes me the king of a place i may or may not have ever been" does... not.)

I also think he either took on the epithet Eluchil, or was given it by whichever factions of the Iathrim accepted him as king, when he actually became king. Obviously he's going to be referred to as Dior Eluchil even before that in retrospect because that's how he's thought of later, but that doesn't mean it was actually a name he always had, you know?

The final thing is, I think if Dior essentially walked into a political situation five seconds from devolving into civil war, it makes his inaction regarding the Silmaril prior to the Second Kinslaying make more sense: the Fëanorioni have been sitting around doing nothing about the Silmaril in Doriath / with Beren & Lúthien this whole time, the letter saying "hey that's our Silmaril give it back now" is probably just a formality, and Dior's only been ruling for a couple years, there's still plenty of people dubious about whether he should be king at all, he might well be subject to at least some of whatever xenophobia remains about humans in Doriath, and in general all the work he's done on stabilizing the kingdom will absolutely come undone again if he screws up; he's trying to keep a kingdom from falling apart, the Silmaril thing can wait.

Of course, it wasn't a formality, and it couldn't wait, but why would Dior have known that?

[tojisteddy]

Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation, lucky!reader

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

part 2!!! <3

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

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[megumismyhusband]

“how long was the bet supposed to last?”

rin freezes.

your voice is calm. too calm. the kind of calm that feels unnatural, like the quiet before a storm. but there’s no storm in your face—no anger, no hurt, nothing at all. just an empty, unreadable expression that makes his stomach churn.

“who told you?” his voice comes out rough, forced.

you shrug, like it doesn’t even matter. like he doesn’t even matter. “does it make a difference?”

it doesn’t. he knows that. he also knows that this is bad. really bad.

“was it a week? a month?” you tilt your head slightly, staring him down. “or were you just gonna keep going until you got bored?”

his jaw tightens. “it wasn’t like that.”

“really?” you let out a breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “because from where i’m standing, it kinda seems like it was.”

rin clenches his fists, frustration curling in his chest. frustration at himself, at shidou, at the whole stupid situation that never should’ve happened in the first place.

“you weren’t a joke to me,” he says, voice low.

“that’s funny,” you murmur. “because i kinda feel like one.”

he wants to fix this. to reach out, to grab your wrist, to tell you the truth—how the bet stopped meaning anything the second he got to know you, how he tried to find the right moment to come clean but was too much of a coward to risk losing you.

but he waits too long.

“say something, rin,” you say quietly. “anything.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. because nothing he says right now will be enough.

so you nod, like you expected this, like you already knew how this would end.

“got it.”

and then you walk away.

rin lets you. because what else can he do?

—

the next day, your favorite drink is waiting on your desk.

you don’t touch it.

the day after, rin is standing by your locker, holding out your books.

“you don’t have to do this,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

“i know.” but he still shoves them into your arms before walking away.

the day after that, he shows up at practice late because he spent an hour in line getting that stupid pastry you like.

“you think buying me stuff is gonna fix this?” you ask, raising a brow.

“no.” he stares at the bag in your hands. “but i know you like them, so just take it.”

you sigh, but you don’t give it back.

on friday, he carries your bag before you can complain, waits for you after school even though you ignore him the whole walk home, and when you finally snap and ask what the hell he’s doing, he just says, “making it up to you.”

saturday morning, you open your door to find him standing there, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes, holding a stupidly large bag of snacks.

“seriously?” you cross your arms. “you’re still on this?”

“yeah.”

“why?”

he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “because i’m not giving up on you.”

you blink, caught off guard by how sure he sounds. how raw he looks.

he looks tired. frustrated. desperate.

like this actually means something to him. like you actually mean something to him.

you chew on your lip, eyes flicking between him and the bag in his hands.

“…you got my favorites?”

“obviously.”

“did you get the right drink this time?”

he exhales, shoving it into your hands. “yes.”

you stare at it for a moment. then sigh, stepping aside.

“fine. come in before you start looking even more pathetic.”

rin doesn’t need to be told twice. he steps inside, and for the first time all week, his chest feels a little lighter.

he still has a long way to go, he knows that. but if you’re letting him in, even just a little, then maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance to prove that this was never just a bet to him.