#when this gets animated it’s gonna be over for me

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, Christmas, ghosts, mentions of ptsd,

A/N: i'll be so honest. this is not edited i will come back during the day and edit this. it's 3am here man. welcome to Christmas in may

Previous part || Series masterlist

It was two nights before Christmas. 

Not to get too festive, but Bucky was already ho-ho-h-over this shit.

As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up. 

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store. 

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off. 

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free. 

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly. 

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?” 

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap. 

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it. 

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him. 

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead. 

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”  

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.  

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme. 

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly. 

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.  

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.  

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement. 

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

 “Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you. 

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested. 

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts. 

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him. 

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter. 

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.” 

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished. 

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday. 

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time. 

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge. 

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it. 

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown. 

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours. 

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount. 

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random. 

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas. 

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead. 

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands. 

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room. 

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs. 

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.  

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops. 

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway. 

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.  

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?” 

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you. 

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like. 

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes. 

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says. 

You  find yourself nodding before it even registers. 

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again. 

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently. 

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs. 

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while. 

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.” 

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself. 

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond– 

You come up empty. 

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you. 

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall. 

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened. 

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to. 

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides. 

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you. 

It damn near knocks the breath out of you. 

They look like you. 

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue. 

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately. 

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask. 

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?” 

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile. 

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.” 

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.” 

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile. 

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for  split second. 

When you look back down, you’re on your feet. 

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair. 

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.  

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it. 

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth. 

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t. 

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box. 

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

 “You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little. 

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.  

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence. 

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer. 

You stand quietly in the centre of it all. 

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out. 

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades. 

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can. 

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.  

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name. 

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty. 

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags. 

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else. 

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time. 

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago. 

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears. 

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake. 

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him. 

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one. 

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more. 

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves. 

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing. 

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing. 

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.  

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.  

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet. 

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace. 

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet. 

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas. 

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?” 

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off. 

It was too short, you looked too distracted. 

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past. 

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him, 

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.” 

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid. 

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one. 

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up. 

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before  looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red. 

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges. 

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him. 

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you. 

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time. 

It takes a while to register what it is. 

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite. 

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory. 

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room. 

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.  

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible. 

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost. 

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet. 

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead. 

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up. 

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else. 

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters. 

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months. 

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes. 

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious. 

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath. 

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever. 

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. 

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language. 

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”  

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly. 

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously. 

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters. 

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You fight random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air. 

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky. 

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.  

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him. 

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something. 

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it. 

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow. 

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth. 

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[himasgod]

HEAR ME OUT. Sebek/Malleus/Silver bring the girl home/dormitory. Lilia: *draws out a huge photo album with the most embarrassing pictures* so when he was 3 he accidentally knocked over his potty.... *long paternal recounting of the boy's childhood*.

DIASOMNIA X READER

Where Lilia shows you embarrasing photos of the boys as children

Where Silver, Malleus and Sebek invite you to Lilia's house to formally introduce you as his partner… but Lilia is faster at taking out the photo album

You’re honored (and slightly terrified) to be invited to Malleus’s castle. It’s all cal until a familiar giggle echoes down the corridor.

“Oh~ what’s this? Malleus brought someone special~?”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. He smiles, polite as ever. “Yes. I hoped you would meet her, Lilia.”

“Excellent!” Lilia spins into the lounge, dragging a wheeled cart stacked with five albums. “Let me share the legend of Briar Valley's Heir: Baby Dragon Malleus.”

Malleus sighs softly. “Do we need to—”

“Oh hush. This is important heritage. Now, look here, lady—this was Malleus when he got curious about human inventions. He once tried to sit in a refrigerator because he thought it was a portal to a cold realm. He was twenty. Just a toddler in fae's age. And his little horns were growing and he was getting stuck in a lot of places, so…”

You stare at the photo. Malleus is curled up inside a fridge like an overgrown cat, the door unable to shut.

“I was… investigating dimensional storage,” he explains calmly.

"He once asked some frogs if they would crown him. Some frogs! He told me "If I am the future king of these lands, all the animals will be under my rule." SOME FROGS!! In the end, we gave him a coronation with toy frogs. He got so angry that the real frogs were struck by lightning-"

You cover your mouth, snorting.

Malleus looks at you, utterly unbothered. “I have always embraced whimsy.”

Lilia beams. “Best boy.”

You barely make it through the front door before you hear it.

“Oh~ Sebek, my boy! You brought someone home~?”

Sebek instantly stiffens beside you. “Master Lilia!”

Lilia floats into view with the speed of someone who’s been waiting for this moment since forever. He claps gleefully, disappearing into a side room and returning with a massive album covered in glittery frog stickers.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” he says sweetly, flipping it open.

“This one’s Sebek when he was five. He was trying to prove how brave he was—stood on the edge of the pond in the backyard and shouted, ‘I fear NOTHING!’ and then fell straight in. Cried for twenty minutes because his favorite boots got soggy.”

Sebek looks like he’s going to combust. “L-lilia, PLEASE!”

“Oh, and here’s one where he’s yelling at a squirrel for ‘mocking the young heir Lord Malleus’!”

You try not to laugh, really, you do.

But Sebek’s bright red face and Lilia’s absolute joy at recounting every high-volume disaster of his childhood?

Impossible.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, smiling at Sebek.

Sebek hides behind his hands. “Please… don’t listen to any more of his lies…”

Lilia smirked searching for another photo “I never lie. I only... embellish lovingly.”

Silver brings you with that serene air of a man who thinks everything will go peacefully.

He is wrong.

The moment the door opens, Lilia peeks around the corner, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my~ you brought a guest, Silver~?”

Silver nods. “I wanted you to meet her.”

“WONDERFUL!” Lilia yells. “SIT DOWN. I HAVE STORIES.”

Silver gives you a look that says, you can still run.

But you sit.

He sighs and accepts his fate.

Lilia slams a pink binder onto the table.

“This boy—this sweet baby—once slept through his own birthday party. We made a lovely picnic in the woods. He woke up the next morning and asked why there were balloons.”

Silver groans quietly. “You said you wouldn’t tell people that…”

“And here’s a photo of him as a toddler hugging a tree because he thought it was a ‘very patient person’.”

You gasp. “That’s… kind of adorable.”

Silver: 🧍🏻‍♂️“…”

“And this one—he was ten, and he fell asleep mid-sentence. He said, ‘Father, I wish to go out and explore the wooorrr—’” Lilia pantomimes a faceplant. “Straight into the soup bowl.”

You’re cackling by this point, while Silver tries not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

“He still does that sometimes,” Lilia says fondly.

Silver mumbles, “I can hear you.”

[spinecouture]

꒰ jerk off ꒱

themes: nsfw, gn!pov, male masturbation, sub!daryl, dirty talk, use of ‘good boy,’ handjob

a/n: i’ve had this cooking for awhile. sorry i’ve been inactive. coming back slowly!

to get daryl into a comfortable enough headspace to even consider letting go of control, is no easy feat. getting a dixon to open up is like trying to break a brick wall with a plastic spoon. he’s hard-headed, stubborn and cold. so why do you have the feeling he’s a whimpering mess underneath it all?

it started on accident. you were looking for someone else, and frankly, daryl was the last man you wanted to run into. but on your hunt, you stumbled across daryl, leaning against a tree. a hand clasped over his mouth, muffling the whines as his other hand pumped his cock, leaking pre-cum all over the forest floor. what a mess, you thought. there’s no way that’s…

but oh, yes it was. daryl dixon, eyes watery and fluttering, hips bucking like a wild animal. shit, you’d never seen him so desperate. hell, you’d never seen him expressive at all, let alone gasping and moaning like a total man-whore.

of course, the show was short lived, as daryl came minutes after you found him. spurts of hot, white load spill onto the grass, and daryl’s soon huffing, puffing, flushed and guilty.

the image haunted you for weeks, plaguing your mind like a sick disease. of course, you let no one know what you saw. because hell, you’d be called a pervert for it, despite daryl being the one jerking it in the woods.

but it’s not an easy thing to get over. when you saw him wandering away from the crowd next, you had to follow. curious.

back against the tree, eyes fluttering, zipper pulled down. daryl was at it again, like a dog in heat. you didn’t know what to think, what might’ve gotten into him that made his libido spike—you weren’t even sure he could get it up before now—but something had him whipped.

which was all fine and dandy until you slipped and hit your face on a rock. blood pooled, spilling from your nose with a groan, one that had daryl pulling his pants up, stuffing his aching dick away as he saw you struggling.

“jesus H. christ,” daryl growled, before marching over. “the hell y’doin’?!”

you blinked, a goofy, messy grin on your face. “totally not watching you jack it,” you said bluntly.

daryl scowled, ready to rip you a new one. “oughta leave y’here to rot,” he grumbled.

“you oughta,” you spat, grass and dirt coming out of your mouth as you stood. “but you won’t.”

“says who?” the man snapped, glaring accusatorially.

“says the boner in your pants,” you replied with a shit-eating grin. “you ain’t just gonna leave yourself hangin’, are ya?”

daryl debating smashing your face into a tree. but lord knows he ain’t one to start something he can’t finish. instead, he stared at you with a beet red face, trying to process what just happened.

“are ya?” you repeated, taking a step closer.

daryl meant to move back, to lean away from you, but he was frozen. “shuddup,” he spat.

“nah,” you snickered, cupping his chin. “y’know what i think? heh… i think you wanna keep going. think you’d like an audience, someone to push you while you desperately try t’cum.”

daryl grumpily moved his head out of your hold, but felt his pants tighten further. goddamn, where did this side of you come from?

“c’mon, dar,” you cooed, smirking something fierce as you stepped even closer. “you know how irritable you’d be if you just… walked away? how pent up and stiff?”

you let your hand rub up and down his arm, feeling him shudder against your touch. damn, this man was a mess—a broken wreck who’d never been given an ounce of love in his life.

“i could help you,” you breathed, brushing your nose against his ear. “c’mon, jus’ lean up against the tree… let me help…”

you pushed him until his back hit the wood, and your fingers danced around his belt, mocking him. the man wanted nothing more than to bash your head in, to scream at you, call you a sick pervert and fuck off somewhere for the rest of the day.

unfortunately, he couldn't seem to move. he stood frozen, allowing your hands to undo his belt, unzip his fly. "damn," you snickered. "still hard as a rock, doll." "don't fuckin' do that," daryl grumbled, looking away with a flushed face.

"why?" you cooed, licking a stripe up his neck as your hand wrapped around his aching cock slowly. "can't take it?"

"ain't no doll," the man spat.

you couldn't hold back a laugh. it was adorable, how shy he got like this. you never knew him to be hesitant, to be nervous. but here, now, with his cock in your hand, slowly stroking him... god, he was a wreck.

it was inevitable that he'd start giving in. soon, daryl's hips were bucking into your hand, nails digging into the bark, breath heavy. your hand moved faster, but not fast enough to give him what he needed. curse you and your taunting ways.

"fucker," daryl snarled, still unable to make direct eye contact.

"oh, c'mon," you purred, leaning in close. "you can do it, baby, c'mon. cum."

daryl shook his head. not because he didn't want to finish, but because christ, he was humiliated. and that fact only got him closer.

"f-fuck off," he growled.

you scoffed, hand slowing until it came to a stop. "heh. okay," you replied, letting go of his swollen dick.

daryl huffed in frustration, suddenly looking you dead in the eye, a hint of desperation hidden beneath the anger and irritation. "what..." he panted.

"you said to fuck off," you smirked, stepping back. "so... i'll go."

daryl let his head fall back against the tree, catching his breath. his dick was throbbing, twitching, uncomfortable in the cold air without a hand to grasp it, to keep it warm. daryl knew this game. he was going to have to admit it. kill me now, he thought.

"please..." he muttered under his breath, looking down in defeat.

"hmmm?" you leaned back in, mocking him with your expression. "what?"

daryl groaned, wiping his face and debating whether or not to go through with this. his own hand grasped his cock, desperately attempting to relieve that tension. but he knew what he wanted.

"please," he repeated more firmly. "jus'... fuckin'..."

he grunted, stroking faster. he had to. he couldn't stop now.

"you want... hm?" you tilted your head, eyes glazed over with lust as your hands traced his sides. "ohhh... you wanna cum, huh?"

"fuckin' please," daryl roared, heart pounding. "don' care anymore, just fuckin' do it, god, fuck-"

"shhh," your face moved into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. "relax, baby. let me take care of you..."

daryl sighed, a breath of relief, as you replaced his hand. slowly, you matched his pace, your grip god-sent. it was humiliating, horrendous and gut wrenching, being degraded like this. and yet, he was letting you do it.

“you got it,” you praised, squeezing him just right, letting your thumb swipe across the tip. “jus’ drippin’ for me, ain’t ya?”

daryl whined, nails digging into the tree bark. he felt his stomach churning, that familiar coiling. he almost wanted to draw it out, to feel your hand forever. but god, he needed to cum. his hips thrusted involuntarily, eliciting a snicker from your lips. he glared up at you through wet lashes, but you only went faster. he tensed, panting and gasping like a pathetic dog.

“gonna cum?” you breathed, biting his neck gently.

daryl only nodded.

“got it,” you smirked, moving at the perfect pace, just enough pressure. “go ‘head. cum for me.”

daryl’s head fell back, scraping his scalp on the rough wood of the tree. he didn’t even feel the sting, just the pounding in his chest and his balls tightening. “fuck, fuckin’, fuck, i’m–“

his words were cut off by a strangled snarl, something deep and primal as he let go. your hand slowed, but didn’t stop as you milked his orgasm out. he spilled onto the forest floor, tainting it with his seed as he wheezed, breathless.

“ohhh, there ya go,” you cooed. “so good for me, doll. so good. such a good boy.”

soon, your hand left his cock, and daryl nearly collapsed. his legs were jelly, mind blank. you looked over his disheveled appearance, how the sweat stuck strands of hair to his forehead. he looked utterly wrecked. it was beautiful.

daryl finally looked up at you, flushed and spent. “fuck… fuck you,” he grunted.

“you would,” was your only response.

[whumpsday]

"Something's Wrong"

@medwhumpmay Day 17

Medwhump May Masterlist

content: demon whumpee, caretaking, hoof whump‼️, infection

heavily inspired by this video by the hoof gp, which can provide context, visuals, and terminology

-

All the farmhand had said was “Something weird’s in the barn.” The boy could have prepared him a little better than that.

Caretaker had never seen anything like it. The critter–was it really a critter?–huddled itself in the back corner of the barn. The cows gave it a wide berth, and none of them seemed injured, at least. It looked almost like what he could describe as a satyr of myth, with the head and torso of a man and the legs of a goat, spiral horns growing from his head.

There was another cloven-hooved being it fit the description of, though. Just to be safe, Caretaker made the sign of the cross. It didn’t seem to take any effect.

And yet, despite having never seen one before, Caretaker was somehow positive he was looking at a demon in his barn.

“Hoo boy.” Who was he supposed to call for this? The police? A priest? An exorcist?

Before he could make up his mind, the demon growled at him. Caretaker may work with cows, but he knew that when an animal growls at you, you stay away. He took a step back to the barn’s entrance.

“Easy now,” he said out of habit.

“Leave me alone,” the demon spat.

Caretaker blinked.

“You talk?” he asked incredulously.

“Leave me!” The demon’s voice broke a bit. It scrabbled further against the wall, wincing as it did so, as if the action hurt it. It held one hoof aloft, balancing on the other with its arms spread against the wall behind it.

It looked unnatural and uncomfortable and… familiar.

Something’s wrong, that little voice in his head said.

Caretaker put his hands up, taking another step back so he was fully out of the barn, looking in. “Alright. I’m all the way over here, not comin’ near you. That hoof bothering you?”

The demon glared at him, like it was trying very hard to be intimidating. “What’s it matter to you?”

“I fix hooves. I could take a look at it.” What the fuck was he saying? He should be taking this thing’s advice and leaving, calling someone to come get it out of his barn.

“Don’t touch me!” it shrieked, startling a few of the cattle.

If this demon were capable of hurting him, he was pretty sure it would’ve done it by now.

“Okay, okay, not gonna,” Caretaker assured it. “Not taking a step into this barn unless you give me the all-clear. I’m just saying, it looks painful. Usually when my cows won’t use a foot, means they’ve gotta get looked at.”

“I’m not a cow,” it glowered. And then, after a little hesitation: “It… hurts.”

“I can take a look. Only if you want. And only if you promise not to hurt me or my cows.” Even as Caretaker’s brain screamed at him that he was a dumbass about to get himself killed, he couldn’t stop himself. He’d done dumber.

They stood there in silence for a long moment.

“F-fine. Just do it,” the demon conceded.

“Alright. Not gonna hurt’cha. Just looking,” Caretaker reminded it. He approached slowly, no sudden moves. The closer he got, the more dread he felt, like the demon was radiating an aura of it. Still, he persisted, kneeling down in front of it, trying to ignore the feeling. “Can I see? It’d be easier if you turn around.”

Just as slowly, the demon extended its hoof. Caretaker took it gently by the ankle, resting it on his knee. He could feel the demon’s skin jump a little bit, but it let him. It was something he’d usually never dream of doing, but the demon was rather smaller than a cow and capable of reason, and Caretaker was sure he’d never get it to agree to go in a chute.

Coarse brown fur, rather unlike that of a goat, led to a dirty hoof. Despite the demon’s lower half looking like a goat from afar, its hoof looked more like a cow’s than anything else. Lucky, he knew what he was doing with that. Immediately, this close, it was apparent that the inkling he’d had was correct: the bit of the inner claw more toward the heel was higher than the rest, darker in color. If it were a cow, he’d start grinding it down to free the problem clearly lying inside, then get a block on the other toe to keep the pressure off while it healed.

But, as the demon had pointed out, it wasn’t a cow.

“Yeah, something’s wrong on your inner claw right here. Can’t tell exactly how bad without giving you a trim. I’ve got the tools to do it, if you’ll let me.” Caretaker dropped the hoof. “When’s the last time you got these trimmed?”

“Trimmed?” the demon asked, skepticism dripping from its voice as he went back to balancing, turning back around to face him.

“See, that’s where you’re going wrong. You’ve gotta trim your hooves.” Caretaker stood back up. “Two or three times a year for cows, that’s what I’ve got experience with. I know goats are more often. Not sure about demons, if that’s what you are. Maybe someplace in between.”

“I’ve never met anybody who trims their hooves,” the demon retorted.

“And do they get problems with ‘em a lot?”

The demon looked away. “Most demons fly. I don’t have wings.”

“Well, there’s your answer, then. Gotta trim ‘em.” Caretaker raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Ugh. Fine.” It was almost cute, the way it pouted. Made Caretaker wish he could talk to all his patients.

“There you go,” he praised. “Lemme grab my tools.”

He returned with a grinder, a hoof knife, a block, glue, and a blowtorch. “I know it might look intimidating, but none of this should hurt. Reckon you’ll start to feel real better soon. Don’t kick me.”

The wariness never left the demon’s eyes, but it turned back around, hoof extended. “Just do your job, human.”

Well, that was something Caretaker could work with.

He knelt and rested the hoof on his knee again. “I’m going to grind down both toes to correct the height and balance the soles. Then I’ll use the knife to model them out and hopefully relieve that pressure. I’ll put a block on your good claw with the torch and glue, and that’ll let you walk on it and stay off the bad one while it heals,” he explained.

He started up the grinder, only for the demon to jump at the whirring. “What is that!?”

“The grinder. Won’t hurt you, just try to relax,” Caretaker soothed. “Let me know if you need a break and I’ll stop. You ready?”

The demon nodded hesitantly, and Caretaker touched the grinder to the hoof. Already, he could see a few cracks in that inner claw as soon as he got past the very surface. Once the toes were evened out, he took the knife for the more precise work.

He carefully chipped away at that cracked area, modeling it out, until finally, one of those little cracks opened, releasing a trickle of built-up fluid.

All at once, the demon relaxed. Its shoulders drooped, its entire being went from tightly wound up to the picture of relief. It let out a little sigh. “How did you do that?”

“You’ve got a cavity in your hoof right there, got filled with fluid.” He resisted the urge to say poor thing. “Just got to the tiniest opening and it started to get outta you. I’m gonna get this taken care of, so just sit tight for a few minutes.”

“Okay.” There was no hostility in the demon’s voice anymore. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He kept chipping away at it, the cavity growing and growing until he’d exposed and drained the whole thing. The hoof horn was downright flexible with damage, but hopefully now it’d be able to dry and cure until it could grow back healthy. “I’m going to use the torch on your good hoof now, just to make sure it’s completely dry before I apply the block. It shouldn’t hurt, might feel a bit warm.”

The demon nodded, and Caretaker got to work. Just a quick thrice-over with the blowtorch was enough. He spread glue generously over the outer claw, then pressed the block into the hoof. He waited a few minutes for it to set, petting the demon’s shin a little. It seemed to appreciate that, appearing calmer by the minute.

“There. You should be all set,” he announced, setting the demon’s leg down. “Try walking on that block. You might be a little unsteady at first.”

Slowly, the demon touched its injured hoof to the floor. Only the block touched it, the cavernous claw raised up. It took only a few unsteady steps before it got the hang of it, walking confidently.

“It doesn’t hurt,” it said, amazed.

“Come back in a few weeks and I’ll take the block off. I’ll let the farmhands know I’m expecting you. Want me to trim your other hoof?” Caretaker offered. “So it stays healthy, too.”

The demon smiled. “I’d like that.”

-

Oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@all-hail-pigeons

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

@jumpywhumpywriter

@scoundrelwithboba

[runforthehillsbestie]

Sympathy For The Devil

Part 1 - we're gonna die

Pairing - Thomas Hewitt x Female reader

Read the story context and warnings here

He'd let you hitch a ride if you gave him a blowjob. An even trade, he said, reaching out the window of his pickup to brush a strand of your tangled hair out of your face. How he could even think of that when he saw a bloodied, limping girl with a black eye, you wouldn't know. But then again, you looked weak and vulnerable, and he didn't think to ask what had happened to you, or if that was your blood. His mistake.

You get in the truck.

He wastes no time, unbuckling his pants with one hand and driving with the other.

"You know what to do?" He asks, and you nod silently, running your sore tongue over your teeth.

You'd bitten it when your boyfriend punched you--now your ex by way of death. It's his blood that is soaked into your clothes, causing your shirt to stick to your skin.

"Well? Go ahead," the man says. "Earn your way. Suck me real good, and I'll even buy you dinner."

The thought of food makes your stomach rumble. Food, clothes, money. You hadn't thought of any of those things while you hauled your boyfriend's still-warm body to the river and let the rushing water drag him away. You can't go back home. Your father probably won't shoot you upon sight like vermin, but you're not entirely certain. No need to risk it. You paid a heavy price to get away from your family, and you're not about to go back now.

"C'mon," the man coaxes. "See, I even got it nice and hard for you."

"Keep your eyes on the road," you mutter, your voice coming out hoarse from all the screaming you did earlier.

"So you can speak! Will you look at that," he crows.

You lean down and take his shaft in your hand, angling it towards your mouth. The moment you slip the swollen head past your lips, he sighs contentedly.

"Yeah, that's it," he groans, rubbing your back before he lifts his hand to your hair.

You wince as he begins to tug, guiding you to take him deeper. You play along until his grunts and moans are loud enough to cover the clicking sound of the razor knife as you pull it out of the waistband of your shorts and extend the blade. It's tacky with your boyfriend's arterial blood. You hesitate.

How do I do this?

You learned quickly that it's harder to kill a person in real life than it is in the movies. Your boyfriend's screams echo in your mind, raising goosebumps on your arm. You palm the razor blade and wonder if maybe, you should leave this guy alone. After all, dinner would be nice...

"The fuck?" The man says, and you tuck the blade away and lift your head.

A massive tree has fallen on the fork in the road, blocking one side off. He doesn't seem to notice the way the trunk looks neatly sawed-off, as though someone used a chainsaw to cut it down.

"Shit, I'm going to have to call the long way through that fucking town," he groans, thumping the steering wheel.

"There's a town?" You perk up.

"It's abandoned," the man replies. "Nothin' out there but ghosts and wild animals." He wheels the pickup onto the dusty road and floors it.

You pass a rusty sign that says Welcome to the town of Fuller and whip by houses with broken, boarded-up windows and sagging porches. The late afternoon sun beams into your eyes as it begins to settle on the horizon.

"There's no need to go so fast," you tell him, but he only scoffs.

"Wouldn't want to be driving on this road in the dark. I've heard some stories. Hey, weren't you busy? Get back to it."

You shrug and lean down to revive his half-hard cock but before you can, something pops. The car skids, and the man curses and slams on the brakes. He pushes you away and yanks his pants closed.

"What the hell was that?" He says, jumping out of the truck.

It's a flat tire, you discover when you get out and join him.

He kicks the wheel angrily. "Now I got to change the damn thing. At least I have a spare." He pauses and gazes at you. "Hold on a minute, this is your fault, isn't it?"

You're not in the mood for games, so you level him with a hard stare. If he tries anything, you'll go for his throat.

"Those stories talk about hitchhikers that appear around these parts like some kind of bad omen. Plenty of travelers have gone missing after picking one of them up." He notices your hand lingering close to your hip. "What have you got there?"

"Nothing." You back away as he strides forward.

"Let me see," he demands, quickly escalating into shouting at you and threatening to leave you here.

You feel something black and ugly rising inside you, your lips curling into a sneer. He doesn't like that and lifts his hand to hit you. You put all your strength in your legs, ready to spring forward and bury the razor knife into his neck, when a gunshot goes off. He staggers backward, clutching at his shoulder, going pale with shock. He tumbles to the floor as blood pours over his fingers. A man appears on the side of the road, chuckling. That's when you notice the cop car tucked behind the bushes.

"Shame on you, raisin' your hand on a woman like that," he drawls and turns to you. "Sheriff Hoyt, at your service. You alright, Miss?"

You nod wordlessly. He has a sheriff's badge and a cream-colored hat resting over his bushy grey brows. His jaw works as he chews on something, spitting dark saliva against the ground as he saunters over to the man on the ground.

"Y-you shot me," the man stammers. "What the fuck, you shot me."

"And I'd say it serves you right! Think I didn't notice you blowin' through here going 80 in a 45, hmm?"

"Wha--" the man groans. "I'm bleeding."

"Put some pressure on it, wussy," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Both of you, in my car."

"But I need a hospital!" The man cries out.

"We'll get you fixed at the station." Sheriff Hoyt grunts. "Now get in, son, 'fore I put another hole in you. You too, Missy."

Your fingertips itch at the tempting thought of your razor blade tucked away in your shorts, but you eye the gun at his hip and decide now is not the time to be taking gambles. You get in the Sheriff's car, and he drives down the road. "M-my truck," the man says. "Someone'll come by to pick up that hunk of junk," Sheriff Hoyt says. There's nothing but the sound of the injured man's breathing and the squeak of the loose hinges of the doors. Sheriff Hoyt adjusts the review mirror, taking a long look at your chest. You haven't got a bra on, and the sticky shirt is abrasive against your nipples, making them perky.

"Aren't you a sight," he says. "Whose blood is that?"

"It's not mine." You cross your arms over your chest. "I thought this town was abandoned, Sheriff."

"Well, someone's gotta make sure the bikers and hooligans don't make a mess of this place," he says, spitting out the window.

In a few minutes, the Sheriff's car pulls up to a large farmhouse sitting amongst a graveyard of dusty cars and leaning barbed wire fences.

"This isn't the police station," the man mumbles, his speech slightly slurred, eyes hazy. "You said we were going to the station."

"Mae can fix you up good as any," Sheriff Hoyt says, getting out of the car with a grunt.

You watch as he comes around to the man's side and yanks open the door, leaning his hands on his knees as he leans down to look at the man. His eyes gleam with a sadistic cruelty you know far too well.

"Boy, you don't look too good," he says. "Let's get you inside. Tommy?! Come out here and help me bring in this poor sod."

Even though the man is almost delirious from blood loss, he can tell something is wrong. He begins to shake his head.

"Nuh-uh," he slurs. "I won't go in there."

Sheriff Hoyt plunges his thumb and pointer finger into the wound on his shoulder and swishes them wetly around. The man howls in agony. You push open your door and get out.

"There now, here's the bullet," Sheriff Hoyt is saying. "You'll be fine, quit your bawlin'."

The farmhouse is sitting on what was once a functioning farm, but now there's nothing but broken farming equipment and dry yellow grass. Your gut instincts have served you well so far, and you trust them. Right now? Everything in you is putting up warning flags and ringing alarm bells. You're in danger. It's instinct that causes you to start running, but you only make it a few feet before you bump into the biggest, burliest man you've ever seen. You catch a glimpse of black scruffy hair and dark eyes before something hits you hard on the head, and you slide bonelessly to the floor with spots in your vision.

"Tommy, you almost let her get away," a female voice is chiding. "One look at a pretty face and you lose your wits, don't you?"

You roll onto your back and find an old lady with a soft face and fluffy blond-grey hair peering down at you.

"Shhh," she says. "Go to sleep, hun."

It's not like you want to, but your head hurts and your eyes feel heavy, so you close them for just a moment. It feels like a few seconds pass before you open them again, but when you do, you're in a different location. A basement, maybe, because you can see stairs on the right that go up. Water drips persistently from a pipe nearby, and butcher knives and meat hooks hang from the rafters. Your shoulders are tight and burning with pain. You've been hung up by your wrists, the scratchy rope biting into your skin. Your toes are just a few inches off the ground. You hear the thump of footsteps and squeeze your eyes shut, pretending you're still passed out but peeking through your eyelashes.

It's the huge man you saw earlier, and he's got the pickup driver tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He has a mask that covers most of his face. It seems to be made of strips of leather with a hole in the middle, showing you a glimpse of his unsmiling mouth. You watch as he proceeds to tie the man's wrists together with a thick rope, tugging several times to make sure he's secure before he hangs him from one of the meat hooks just like you are. He screams as his shoulders take the brunt of his weight, and he seems to pass out again.

While you ache all over, most of the pain is gathering low in your belly. You realize you've started your period, of all things. It's often irregular, causing you to spend a day or two in complete agony as it tends to come up on you fast. You can tell from the warmth in your panties that you're about to soak right through. You let out a soft groan as your muscles clench up, and the man spins around to look at you. You flinch as your eyes connect with his. There's a primal hunger in them, like the eyes of an animal.

He lumbers over to you, gripping something laughably tiny in his hand. It's your razor knife. He twists it one way, then the other, looking at the blood on it. He prods your ribs and stomach, looking for the cause of the blood on your shirt.

"It's not mine," you croak, swallowing to try and wet your sore, dry throat. "The blood, I mean."

Not that blood, anyway.

You feel a trickle of warmth down your thigh, and since he's looking at you, he notices as well. His calloused fingers scrape against your inner thigh as he smears at the blood. It's warm, of course, and fresh. He lifts your shirt just high enough to check your belly, but other than the bruise on your side from your ex-boyfriend's boot, there's nothing to see. His thick fingers fumble with the button on your shorts. Finally, he yanks them down and they slide down your calves and catch on your shoes. You can't see, but you know your white cotton panties are crimson at the crotch. You can't see much of his face thanks to his unruly hair and that strange mask, but he seems confused.

"I've got my period," you tell him.

He doesn't seem to care that you're talking to him, his chin lowered to his chest as he stares between your legs.

You try again. "I'm menstruating?"

He tugs your panties off, and you cringe, unable to do anything other than hang there, your shoulders begging for relief and a big ball of pain in your belly. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch him hunker down, putting his face way too close to your intimate parts. He's still holding your razor blade. You're almost relieved when he reaches out with his empty hand, though that changes to dismay when he drags his finger through your folds, coating it in blood. You jump and squeeze your legs together, letting out a shriek when he smacks you on the thigh, a clear sign that he wants you to keep them open.

Your thigh stings, and your whole body trembles as you let yourself go lax again. He's still confused about where exactly you're bleeding from because you're clearly not injured. His thick finger prods between your folds, and when he finds a spot that seems to open up, he promptly pushes his finger in. You cry out in shock more than anything. He has his finger up in your pussy. It's thick and rough, simultaneously scraping and stretching your walls. You whine at the intrusion.

"Supper's in a minute!" Sheriff Hoyt calls, and you hear his footsteps clunk down the stairs.

"Cleanin' up your dolls?" He asks as he comes in, pausing as his eyes fall on the sight of the man crouched in front of you with his finger pressed into you.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation, and you look away, gritting your teeth. He grins.

"Well, well, would you look at that! Looks like Tommy's learned something new, haven't you, Boy?"

Tommy pulls his hand back, staring at your blood, which winds down his palm in a trail of red. Sheriff Hoyt whistles when he sees it.

"What, did you just pop her cherry?"

"It's period blood," you hiss angrily.

"Oh, Tommy doesn't know about that stuff," Sheriff Hoyt says. "Now's a good time as any for a lesson, I reckon."

He ambles closer, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops. "Why don't you go ahead and try that, son? Have a taste."

"No!" You splutter, queasy at the thought.

Tommy lifts his finger to his mouth and you hear a wet sucking sound as it disappears into the hole in his mask. He grunts.

"Whatcha think?" Sheriff Hoyt says, his gaze glued between your legs. "Does that taste good?"

Tommy nods, and Sheriff Hoyt laughs. "There's plenty more, son. All for the takin'."

"No," you whine, squirming in place. "Nooo. Stop!"

Tommy's hands, large and warm, clasp around your thighs. You try to kick him, but he pulls you close with a yank, kneeling on the waterlogged floor. His breath blows between your legs, and you freeze at his noisy, ragged inhale.

"There we go," Sheriff Hoyt says, rubbing the bulge in his pants as he watches. "Lookie, he's a natural!"

You shriek when you feel the material of the mask against your skin and a wet tongue probing against your pussy. It's a horrible, terrible sensation, dragging both a painful cramp and the slightest bolt of pleasure out of you.

"Stop," you whimper as you dangle.

Tommy ignores you and presses closer, his muffled breathing noisy and hot as he laps at your folds. His hands dig into your thighs to the point of pain, dimpling your skin, and he squeezes, sampling their softness. The pain in your shoulders is so overwhelming that when Sheriff Hoyt tells you to rest your knees on Tommy's shoulders, you do it without hesitation, moaning in relief as your shoulders get a break. This brute can lick you all he wants if it means you get to stay perched right there. Sheriff Hoyt is watching Tommy closely.

"Hold your horses, son, we can't have you bricked up at the table."

Tommy doesn't stop, and you jump when you even feel a slight aggrieved nip, like he wants to continue.

"Don't bite me there," you gasp. "Please."

"Thomas Hewitt!" Sheriff Hoyt shouts. "You stop that right now."

Tommy freezes. Slowly, he scoots back. You're unprepared to bear your weight and squeak when you jangle back down. Tommy rises to his feet, towering over the Sheriff. His hands open and close in loose fists. He could probably snap the Sheriff in half if he wanted to, but the shorter man looks unconcerned.

"Gotta learn some self-control," Sheriff Hoyt grunts and gestures to the stairs. "Come on up now. That filly ain't going nowhere."

Together they disappear up the stairs, leaving you in the dark. A few minutes later, the man on the hook stirs, letting out a bone-deep sound of pain as he wakes up. He raises his head and spots you hanging a few feet away, bare on the bottom. Now, when he looks at you, the only thing in his eyes is terror.

"We're gonna die," he rasps. "We're going to fucking die."

Part 2 - whatever it takes

@runforthehillsbestie

[starmaidengarden]

Hey so how do you think Azul Ashengrotto would deal with a crush who’s kind of innocent and an airhead, but very sassy. Causes him headaches, but is oddly supportive. Like he comes over and this crush is like “Hi. You still doing your evil Businessman thing? :D… Cool!” He’s making a speech and while he was talking, crush stopped paying attention, and he looks back and s/o’s holding an animal in their arms or something pretty they just picked up off the ground, “sorry. I zoned out while you were talking. It’s cute/pretty”. He makes a good point about always reading contracts before signing them and nobody believes him cuz of his past antics and his crush is like “He’s right!” He’s like “being around you is gonna ruin my rep. I swear”. And his crush just hits with him, “actually. I think me being around you will make people like you more”? (He be looking like a villain constantly, but stick him next to this crush and he is humanised).

Azul Ashengrotto x Crush!reader, who is innocent/airheaded, sassy, and unexpectedly supportive

At first, Azul tries to convince himself he doesn't have feelings for you. You're flighty. Distracted. Sassier than a Leech twin on a sugar rush. And you always manage to make some comment that leaves him flustered or clutching his forehead. "Still doing your evil businessman thing?" "It’s called entrepreneurship, thank you very much."

But you're also… oddly loyal. In a way, he isn’t used to. You zone out during his long-winded monologues, sure, but then suddenly pipe up with a sharp observation that actually proves you were listening… kind of. Sometimes. And despite all your teasing, you're quick to stand by him when it matters. Like when no one believes his advice about contracts. "Of course he’d say that." "Don’t listen to him—he’s scamming us again." And then you, without hesitation, “He’s right.”

Azul short circuits. Briefly. Just a pause in his rhythm. But to him, it feels like a lightning strike. He tries to reason with you, one day after you’ve wandered off mid-speech to pick up a fuzzy animal or glittery rock. “You’ll ruin my carefully cultivated image if you keep doing things like this.” “Actually,” you reply with a cheeky grin, “I think my being around you will make people like you more.” He splutters. In part because… you’re right. But also because that thought has never occurred to him, and now it’s stuck.

The deeper effect you have on him: When you’re around, people stop seeing Azul as “scheming Octavinelle boss” and start seeing him as “the guy with the sweet, weird, shiny-thing-collecting partner.” The tweels tease him endlessly about how “soft” he’s gotten.

He doesn’t get why you’re so supportive of him, but it hits a deep, soft spot. You believe in him without needing him to prove himself first, and that’s a type of affection he’s never had.

He won’t admit it out loud, but he starts adjusting his speeches to be shorter, less convoluted. More to the point. Because you space out, and he wants to keep your attention.

And when he finally confesses? "Being with you is terrible for my blood pressure. You’re nosy, easily distracted, and you say things that make me question my entire moral standing—But” he sighed “…But I… would like to continue being ruined by you.”

[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b.

chapter six, click

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: gonna be honest ive never watched click LOL. lowkey getting attached to them and their banter… lmk if youd like to be added to the taglist!

prev. series masterlist! next.

Thursday came. Then Sunday. Then the next week still flew by. And Jacob still kept his mouth shut–still too afraid of what you’d say, how you’d react, what you’d do.

Rather than letting his fears consume him, he was at your place. Again.

He came by without knocking. It’d become so routine your mom had stopped acting surprised at his sudden appearances. She greeted him like a second child—handing him a slice of banana bread and reminding him to take off his shoes before tracking dirt inside because she’d just cleaned.

“Smells good in here,” Jacob said as he stepped into the kitchen, taking a deep breath. His hair was still damp from a shower, cheeks flushed with leftover warmth.

“My mom’s in her baking era,” you said, handing him a cup of tea.

He took it, lifting his pinky the way you’d taught him during the pretend tea parties you’d forced him into with your stuffed animals. “Tell her to never leave it.”

You leaned against the counter beside him, raising an eyebrow. “You just like anything you don’t have to make yourself.”

“Gotta take what I can get.” He shrugged, biting into the banana bread and following it with a sip of tea.

Your mom came back into the kitchen, holding one of those old cookie tins from Costco—the kind everyone used for sewing supplies or random junk. She wore a smile that meant she was either amused or had found something worth sharing.

“Look what I accidentally packed,” she said in a sing-song tone, popping the lid off. “Voilà!”

Inside: a mess of childhood leftovers. Coins from every state and a few countries you’d ever been to, a tiny pouch of your baby teeth (gross, Mom), and under it all, pictures. Lots of them. The first one you pulled out was a Halloween photo—Jacob grinning wide, both front teeth missing.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, loud and bright. “You look like you used to eat table legs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Jacob flushed and rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Like you don’t have a massive green snot bubble hanging out of both nostrils.”

You instinctively sniffed and wiped your nose, shooting him a glare. Your mom gave you both one last fond look before mumbling something about laundry and disappearing down the hall, leaving you with the box.

As you kept digging through the photos, Jacob leaned over your shoulder. You could feel the soft heat of his breath on your skin. He reached out, placing his hand over yours to stop you on one picture, then gently pulled it out to look closer.

It was the two of you beside your bikes, the first time without training wheels. Jacob was on the ground mid-cry, while you knelt beside him, clutching a fistful of Starbursts.

“Remember when you used to bribe me with candy to kiss your scraped knees better?” you recall, chuckling.

His laugh was warm, low. He traced a slow circle over the photo with his thumb.

“You charged me five Starbursts for a single Band-Aid.”

“You were a terrible negotiator.”

“I was eight.”

The memory settled between you—sweet and familiar. You remembered every part of it. His bloody knees. His bulging pockets full of crumpled wrappers. You’d pretended to be annoyed, but you’d never been able to say no to him.

He glanced over at you, a slow grin forming. “You’ve always been trouble, you know that, right?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah? I normally charge double for lasting psychological scars.”

Jacob barked out a laugh, head tilting back just slightly. “Figures.”

He flipped to the next photo: the beach, a little fort in the corner.

“Remember the houses we built on First Beach?”

You snorted. “The ones you swore wouldn’t collapse?”

“They held up.”

“For twenty minutes.”

Jacob grinned, unrepentant. “Still worth it.”

You gave him a playful shove, but he caught your wrist before you could pull away, shaking his head with a teasing smile. His voice dropped, soft but amused. “You were holding my hand the whole time it came down.”

“You were crying.”

“I was eight,” he repeated, then, quieter, “Still made sure nothing hit you, though.”

And he had. Even when the branches gave way, even as you both ducked into the sand, Jacob had shielded you. You ended up with a scraped knee. He’d needed stitches.

There was a pause. Then:

“Don’t you ever think this is so weird?” he asked.

“What is?”

“You and me. Sitting here, looking at old pictures. In Forks. Like no time’s passed.”

You shifted slightly, resting your head against the counter to face him. “Yeah. I do think about it.”

He looked at you, really looked. “And?”

“And… I think we were always gonna come back to each other.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, softer than you’d ever heard him:

“I hoped you’d say that.”

The words hung in the air between you, quiet and full. You didn’t respond, just looked at him for a moment longer, and then—

“Let’s go to the drive-in,” Jacob said suddenly, standing and stretching. “The guys were planning on going tonight. They're playing Click.”

You blinked. “The Adam Sandler one?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Time travel remote. Dumb, but kinda genius.”

It wasn’t long before you were in a crowded lot surrounded by pickups and blankets and the smell of cheap popcorn drifting from the snack shack. Some guys were already there–Embry was draped across the truck bed like a cat in the sun, and Quil was dramatically recounting a story to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

You loved summers here. The weather was warm during the day, but around sunset, the sun glowed gently like a comforting hug. It was a soft kind of golden hour, the kind that made everything feel like it was happening inside a dream. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. The leaves rustled with the last of the daylight creatures still scurrying, lianas swaying gently as if the trees themselves were settling down for the evening. The sounds of nature made the perfect kind of background noise for the buzzing conversations spread out across the field where the massive screen shone bright above everyone.

Jacob found you a spot to sit up front on a blanket–just the two of you. Not totally on purpose. Not totally by accident either.

The movie started, the screen flickering to life with the opening scenes of Click. You leaned into the humor easily, laughing at the dumbest jokes—loud, unfiltered, the kind of laugh Jacob hadn’t heard in years. His head tilted slightly as he listened, eyes not on the screen, but on you. There was something about the sound of it—your laugh—that made his chest ache in the best way. He wanted to record it, bottle it, play it back on a loop forever.

“Oh my god,” you giggled, pointing at the screen. “He really paused his boss to slap him in slow motion.”

“Peak cinema,” Jacob said with a smirk.

“It’s so stupid,” you said, still laughing.

“But you’re still watching.”

“And you’re still listening to me talk instead of watching the movie.”

He looked down, caught. “Guilty.”

The summer heat faded as the movie went on, traded for a creeping chill carried in by low-hanging clouds. The rustling of animals died down too, like the whole forest was tucking in for the night. You shifted slightly, brushing against Jacob’s side, and he didn’t say anything. He just leaned a little closer.

About a quarter through the movie, a drizzle started. Soft at first, like a whisper against the skin. Then stronger. People groaned and scrambled—some pulling blankets over their heads, others bolting toward their cars or the snack shack awning.

“C’mon,” Jacob said, grabbing your hand and pulling you up with a laugh. “Before you get soaked.”

You both sprinted to his car, rain plastering your hair to your forehead, clothes sticking to your skin like cling wrap. He fumbled the keys but managed to unlock it just in time, and you dove into the passenger seat, breathless and laughing.

He started the engine, the radio kicking on low. Warm air pushed through the vents. Then, without a word, Jacob pulled his hoodie over his head and handed it to you.

“You’ll get cold,” he said simply, not looking at you when he said it.

You took it and tugged it on. It was way too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole, the fabric warm and soft and smelling like him—like pine, a little like motor oil, and something else unnameable but comforting.

You curled up in the seat, drawing your knees toward your chest. The rain drummed steadily on the roof, and Jacob reached over to turn the volume down just a little so he could still hear the movie and, even more, your laughter.

Somewhere between the second act of Click—a scene where Sandler used the remote to fast-forward through a fight with his wife—and the emotional part where time starts slipping too fast, your eyelids drooped. The hoodie was warm, the car was warmer, and Jacob’s presence was steady beside you. It was enough to lull you to sleep.

Jacob noticed when your head tilted against the window. Then your breathing slowed. He looked over and saw your fists tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, your hair still a little damp, your lips parted slightly in sleep.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there quietly, looking at you. Letting the movie play. Letting the moment stretch.

A knock on the window snapped him out of it.

“Dude. Dude. Is she wearing your hoodie?” Embry’s face was practically pressed to the glass, eyes wide with a grin.

Jacob cracked the window an inch. “Go away.”

Quil leaned in over Embry’s shoulder. “She’s out cold,” he whispered with a smirk.

“Man, this is peak romance. All you’re missing is a playlist and some candlelight.”

“Shut up,” Jacob muttered, but his voice lacked any real bite.

Embry squinted. “She drooled on your seat.”

“She did not—” Jacob looked over, then frowned. “...She did.”

The two of them broke into cackles, backing away from the car as Jacob rolled the window back up.

When the quiet settled again, Jacob looked at you once more. Still asleep. Still curled into his hoodie like it belonged to you. His hoodie. His car. His heart, probably. Despite the teasing, despite the rain, despite the ache that never quite left his chest when he looked at you—Jacob smiled.

[botanicsoul]

Trinkets

Time skip | Bakugou Katsuki x gn! Reader

-> if you are a trinket lover / blind box obsessed freak! this is for youuuuu ;)

. ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

It started small.

A little cinnamon roll keychain on your bag. A Smiski peeking out from your bookshelf. Bakugou didn’t think much of it when he first started coming over. He figured you were just cute. Weird, but cute.

Then, like some chaotic collectible infestation, it multiplied.

He spotted one on your nightstand. A tiny half naked baby with a strawberry hat and dead eyes. He actually flinched.

“What the actual fuck is that.”

“That’s my Sonny angel,” you said, completely unfazed. “I got him from a blind box. I was trying to get the cherry one.”

“There’s more of them?”

“…Yeah?” you said, slowly, like it was obvious. “You’ve never opened a blind box before?”

“No.” His tone was flat. “Because I’m not five.”

But you caught him glancing at the tiny shelf where four more Sonny Angels had mysteriously appeared—cherry, watermelon, a rare sprout head one… and a cursed one with a eggplant hat on that you’d named eggward.

Soon there were Smiskis in your bathroom (they glowed in the dark—how could you resist?!), tiny Sanrio figures peeking out from plant pots, and a few bakery animals lined up on your kitchen windowsill like a cursed breakfast buffet.

There was a Nyota figure holding a star above its head, perched on your bookshelf now. You claimed she brought good vibes. Bakugou wasn’t convinced.

But what finally broke him—what made him realize he was in too deep—was the day he spotted a rogue trinket on his own nightstand.

A miniature hirono figure, next to his alarm clock.

“I don’t remember putting this here.”

You blinked innocently. “He looked like he needed a home.”

A few weeks later, you come home after your shift and You step into your living room—and there it is. A new wall-mounted shelf. Sleek. Sturdy. Hand-built. Three tiers.

You cover your mouth. “Katsuki…”

He doesn’t look at you, crouched by the toolbox, eyes still focused on tightening the last screw. “Ya didn’t have any damn space. Those little freaks were gonna start multiplying on the floor.”

You just beamed, walking over and wrapping your arms around him from behind.

“…You love my little freaks,” you whispered against his neck.

“god you’re weird.”

⸻

Later that night, after you’ve lovingly arranged your favorites on the shelf—you spot a small, unopened Pro Hero blind box tucked into your pillow.

Your eyes go wide. “No way.”

Bakugou, toothbrush in mouth, doesn’t look up. “Told that nerd Deku to bring me one from his collab drop. Figured you’d like it.”

You tear it open like a kid on Christmas.

And scream. “IT’S YOU.”

Bakugou looks over—and sure enough, there he is. Chibi him. Little angry face, little gauntlets, little explosion backdrop.

“Holy crap, Katsuki—he’s got a tiny scowl and everything!”

You clutch it like a prize. “This is going on the top shelf.” Bakugou tries to act like it’s nothing. Like he’s not soft. Like he didn’t literally build you a shrine for your trinkets and get you a mini version of himself because he knows how much you love them.

. ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

[yushiroll]

"Perv." Armin x Fem!Reader

Cw: College Nerdmin, masturbation, listening to him jerk off, very perverted armin, very horny stuff LMAO, reader and armin are both horny fucks

An: This is split into two parts! Part two might take me a while to make because Im going on vacation for 2 weeks but don't worry, I'll be posting it as soon as I can! (If you guys really want to~) This is my second time writing a long ass fic so dont expect it to be that good.

As always, MDNI

Armin Arlert had been your roommate for a few months now, and everything you’d thought about him before was now out the window. Your first impression of him was anything but perverse—you thought he was just the typical nerd type. Apparently, you were so, so wrong.

Despite his avid collection of books, dictionaries, and thesauruses, he also owns multiple fleshlights, has gooner anime figurines, and jerks off so loudly that you had to ask him to keep it down while you were writing an essay for your major. Who knew this boy would be so perverted? Certainly not you.

You couldn’t lie, though—his moaning does turn you on. The way his voice quivers whenever he lets out a moan, the sound of the fleshlight plopping up and down his lubricated cock… it gets you so riled up that you once convinced yourself you needed to record a voicemail of him moaning for “research purposes.”

Don’t even get me started on his tongue piercing. The first time he told you about it, you absolutely freaked out—and for good reason. Having a thing for tongue piercings, and then suddenly your cute, nerdy, perverted roomie gets one? It was like the universe was telling you to go bang him already.

“Min, I’m going somewhere with a friend,” you say, spraying your signature perfume on the crooks of your neck.

“Oh? I’m going out for a bit too,” he replies, looking away from his phone and letting his gaze land on you. He subconsciously bites the inside of his cheek—his eyes darting over every curve of your body before he snaps out of his trance, just as his pants begin to tighten.

“How long are you gonna be out?” he asks, bashfully fiddling with the drawstrings of his dark green hoodie.

“I’ll be out for a few hours—oh, and since you’re going out too, you have the extra key with you, right?” He nods.

“Alright, I’ll be going now, Min.” He gives you a small “bye,” which you return before exiting the room.

You come home absolutely fried and drained, your social battery at its lowest. It didn’t help that your friends made you take a few shots of whatever the fuck they handed you. Struggling to get out of your thigh-high boots, you stumble into the living room.

“Mmm. Guessing Min isn’t home yet,” you whisper to yourself.

“M… ‘mh… fuck… y-yeah… like that… just… like that… fuck… y-Y/n… please…”

It came from his room. Those loud, familiar, wet plops. The whimpering, the whining, the moaning—he was most definitely home.

And wait… did he just say your name?

You thought you misheard him. Maybe he was jerking off to an anime character with a name similar to yours…? You just had to eavesdrop.

Quietly walking toward Armin’s wooden door, you press your ear against it.

“Mmmh… Y-y/n… goddamnit… feels… good… ngh…

t-take it, take it, take it, please… Y/n…”

He sounded so beautiful, so hot, and so fucking desperate. You couldn’t help but shift your thighs to quell that hot, throbbing feeling. You were getting riled up by the second, biting hard on your bottom lip. He was jerking off to you. Him having a thing for you had been the last thing on your mind.

Millions of possible scenarios race through your mind as you unknowingly match the muffled rhythm of Armin’s strained breaths. Your hand slowly inches toward your aching pussy, subconsciously circling your clit through your panties.

Should I open the door? What the fuck do I even do when I do that… shit, shit, shit, you thought.

You take a deep, shaky breath before placing your hand on the metal doorknob. "Fuck it.”

You open the door—and wow, what a sight to behold. Tissues littered everywhere. Clothes scattered across the floor. A finished bottle of lube lying on his desk. A picture of you pulled up on his monitor. And finally—Armin’s tear-ridden face looking at you in horror as he makes a feeble attempt to hide his cock.

“W-what the fuck?! Don’t you fucking knock or something? Jesus Chri—GET OUT!”

His voice cracks so much you lose count of how many times it breaks. He looks pathetic—face red, tears running down his cheeks from what you’d assume were the result of hours of just jerking off. And the smell of sweat and desperation in the air? God, it was intoxicating.

“Y/n, I swear to god, if you don’t get out of my room right now I’ll—”

“Is that a picture of me on your monitor? Were you… jerking off to me?” Even though you already knew the answer, you still wanted him to say it—just to milk the embarrassment from his face.

“It’s none of your fucking business. C’mon, please get out of my room…” he pleads, his voice like music to your ears.

“Excuse me? It’s totally my business since it’s me you’re jerking off to,” you say, taking a few steps closer.

Still sitting in his sweaty gaming chair, he slowly pushes himself backward, avoiding your piercing gaze. “I-I wasn’t jerking off to you, I swear! It just so happens that your Insta was pulled up on my monitor and—”

You lean in, placing your mouth so close to his ear it makes his cock throb. “Why’d I hear you moan my name then? Multiple times?” you whisper, sending a shiver through his whole body.

He looks at you shamefully, eyes glossy and brows furrowed. “Okay, okay—I was jerking off to you! I-I’m sorry… I know I shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate of me, a-and—”

You didn’t have time to hear him apologize—for something you jerk off to every night just thinking about. You pull him into a messy kiss, and it takes him no time to reciprocate.

He stands up, pushes you onto the bed, and kisses you again—eager to feel your lips against his. You feel his tongue slide into your mouth—the way it clashed with yours, the cold metal ball gliding between you—it made your warm cunt twitch.

He rubs his fingers against your clothed cunt, letting out a soft whimper when he feels how warm it is. “Fuck… can I eat you?”

[mintmatcha]

cw: death

Everything in your house is the same as it ever was. All of your dishes are stacked in the sink, your mail is piled on the hall, the floors need a good polish: Sero kicks off his shoes and quietly observes it all, soaking in the familiarity.

Because the second he sees you, things will no longer be normal.

The usual was thrown out the window months ago, when you strolled up to his apartment and announced you were dying.

"Terminal," you had said. "Less than a year, probably."

Neither one of you had cried in that moment. Nothing had been tangible yet. He thinks, maybe, he had even laughed at the thought. The idea of his longest friendship ending so abruptly, so early felt impossible.

Today, as Sero walks into your living room, it's real.

From your indent on the couch, it takes a moment for you to even process he's entered the room. You full body jump, scrambling to grab the television remote.

"Oh-" you throw a hand over your heart. "You can't scare me like that."

Sero cackles as he leans against the wall. A rerun of your least favorite show is playing. Turns out, even when your time is limited, you still like hate watching things.

"Did you think I was that fox again?" Sero asks and you gasp indignantly.

"Oh my--" You toss your hands up in the air with an insulted scoff. "I swear to god that actually happened. Cross my heart!"

The animation returns to your face when you laugh. It makes Sero's heart ache to see that you haven't faded, even as your body goes.

"I told you. I literally left my front door open to take out the trash and I turn around-" Sero's heard this story at least a fozen times, but he nods along like it's new. "That fox was in my doorway! Just looking at me like-"

Your eyes widen and bulge. It's a familiar lyrics good for impression, Sero thinks. He can picture it's red eyes boring into his.

"It just watched me and I watched it watching me. Then it turned around and calmly walked away, like it was no big deal." The spike of energy in your voice is fading. You settle back into the couch with a placid look, watching him with a passive interest.

Sero strolls over and joins you on the couch. You move your legs to give him room, but he pulls them back over his lap.

"You're so full of shit," he says. "I've lived in this city my whole life and I've never seen a fox."

The smile on your face splits wider. The two of you sit with it for a long while, watching the subtitles on the television flip by. Sero keeps his hands on your ankles, squeezing them as if it's a shape he needs to remember.

What are the things he should be holding on to now? Should he be having grand conversation with you, something kind of final, impossible talk that's going to make the inevitable easier?

"When I die-" you say suddenly. "I'm coming back as a fox and I'm going to sneak into your house."

"Really?" Sero asks. He's no longer playful, just genuine. "You're gonna be a fox?"

You shrug with one shoulder, never looking away from the screen. It's getting close, he thinks. There's nothing he can truly pinpoint, but there's something about you that's slipping away.

"Yeah, why not?" you muse. "There are worse lives."

"Okay." He squeezes your ankles again. "I'll keep an eye out for you."

Sero considers saying that he loves you, or that he can't imagine the world without you, or that the grief he's already carrying feels so ridiculous because you're still here, still in reach but all of it feels unfair to say. Instead, he holds it in until the corners of his eyes burn and his breathing hiccups.

"Or maybe an oarfish," you say. "That'd be sick."

Sero palms away his tears. "You just wanna play Animal Crossing."

"Busted." You crack a smile. "Can you grab another carton of ice cream for me? The last one melted."

Yesterday's container is half full and completely melted, sitting on your coffee table, but Sero gets up anyway. He tosses you your switch, then strolls to the kitchen.

"You can't just eat garbage, you know," he calls back. "It'll kill you."

Your guffaw rings throughout the whole apartment. "I'll eat garbage all I want."

.

It's three weeks later when he passes your place again. A big, red sign is in the window declaring it's for sale. Your parents had placed your furniture on the curb and the neighbors had already claimed all of the pieces, including your misshapen couch. Sero knows there is no piece of you in any of those items, but it feels cathartic, like spreading your ashes across the street.

There's one trash bag on the curb, filled with things your family didn't want. He wonders if you threw out your vibrator before you died, or if it's in that black bag, fully charged, never to be used again. An animal is picking at the plastic, rustling at the plastic.

"Pst," Sero calls out to scare it away. "Scat-"

A head peeks up and he catches red eyes, wide and bulged, boring into his. A fox, with bits of garbage stuck to its muzzle. It regards him for a long while, watching him watching it.

"Hey," he says. "You're supposed to be at my apartment, not yours."

The animal doesn't blink.

"I'll-" A wave of sorrow hits all at once. Every tear he didn't shed, every joke he didn't tell or story he didn't share, every little moment that'll never happen. It hits like a train, right into his forehead. It's the calm kind of cry, the one without gasps or sobs, but an abnormal amount of tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I'll keep the door open for you, okay?" he whispers. "Just visit soon."

The fox turns and lopes off into the dusk.

[lesiasmadness]

All sorts of WIPs and shots that I like from the animatic

Also me yapping about all the struggles™

For some reason Luke always comes out way cuter in the sketches than line art augh >_<

Also for the more detailed shots I had to first draw normal Luke and then dress him up in his uniform basically because it's hard for me to place the proportions of his face otherwise, kinda the same way I can't draw hatless Layton unless I first draw the hat and then erase it

I wanted Luke's shadow to look like Clark when he's making the costume, and then out of this shadow Layton should have stepped out but that was too complex to do on Photoshop's primitive motion graphics options so I had to change that scene

BTW because as mentioned above photoshop sucks for animating, I almost completely ruined the first half of this animatic because sometimes when you transform one frame it transforms ALL of the frames and at some point while working on it I managed to scale and move all of my frames without noticing cause why would I look through perfectly fine done frames from early in the animatic. And you're gonna be like "just scale and move the frames back" AND I DID TRY but every layer that was supposed to me moving gets completely thrown off by that. Like moving an image in a word document levels of unfixable. But because I know what a bastard photoshop is, I save two versions of each animatic I do, so I pulled out my back up copy, and it was quite a few frames behind, but basically I exported it as a ready made video and just pasted the untainted version as like... a bandaid over the pile of all my working frames being deformed and screaming in agony. After that I made a third back up copy just in case

There are lines in the song that are also so so delicious buT I just didn't have a way to fit them into this because too much unrelated fluff was separating them from this specific clip I wanted, but yea, if it wasn't fir that if would be cool to have the first chorus in there, cause i could have stretched the layton-clark parallels even further by taking the "like a lioness only with less fur" and using it for a scene of Clark's hair being cut. Also the "will she braid your hair will she eat your heart how can you outsmart the apex predator" that I used for the headline in the end is just very tempting.

[goforth-ladymidnight]

A Long Overdue Review of Calanmine

Tamlin Week 2025 may be over, but it's never too late for a good review, right??

@calanmine

Just in case you haven't already played this fantastic game (and if you haven't, what are you waiting for???), I'll discuss any spoilers below the cut. But for now, here are my thoughts!

First off, you should know I am not much of a gamer. So, this was my first official "dating game" experience! From the start, the music lured me in and set the mood. @thrumbolt, your taste is immaculate. It was so perfect. I was never once distracted by the songs, although I did check the credits to find out where they came from! I appreciated the direct links, by the way, because this type of music is exactly the sort of thing that I enjoy listening to when I want to be transported into a mystical, magical world. <3

Then, we get to the gameplay. Screencaps don't do the experience justice. There are sound effects and little bits of animation that really draw you in and make the game a lot of fun. @copypastus, you outdid yourself. You did sexy moments as well as silly ones, and I loved each and every one!

And speaking of sexy and silly... @highlordofkrypton, you have a way with words, I swear. I found myself grinning, giggling, *and* blushing as I clicked through the options. I need to take sexy-writing lessons from you. Whew!

Now, before I get to my favorite scenes, I wanted to take a moment to appreciate the fact that you can keep track of your progress through the image gallery. Like I said, I'm not much of a gamer, so I liked being able to see what I had completed, and hints of what was left. (Also, can we all just take a moment to appreciate that we get to revisit some of our favorite scenes in detail?? Whew. Yes. Thank you. <3

On to the game itself! Spoilers below the cut:

Because Book 1 is my favorite and I wanted to see what would happen, I went into my first playthrough as "Feyre", and look who I met at the bonfire:

Bahaha. Best. Easter Egg. EVER. XD

This was delightful. And, sorry Tamlin my love, but I Feyre said "yes" when Lucien asked me to stay. Just look at him... How could I not?

Oh, the sound I made when I saw this!! It was the perfect first ending. And, hey, what can I say? It made my Feycien-loving heart sigh with happiness.

I played the next round as Feyre again. (I wasn't done having fun! Not by a long shot.) There's a bit of familiar dialogue when she meets Rhysand, in case anyone wants to check it out, *wink wink*, but Eris was completely unimpressed. XD Not gonna lie, Eris was not my favorite in this game. That's not to say that he isn't a fun character! He's just not my type. My type is more like...

This guy.

Of course, we get all kinds of sexy Tamlin in this (there are three-ways AND four-ways!!), but sweet shy Tamlin is my favorite. <3

I know there's no special dialogue for Briar, the former Daughter of the Blessed that Tamlin helped rescue in ACOWAR, but I wanted to play as her for a short while, anyway. As it turned out, sweet and shy Tamlin made an appearance when I played as her! (Okay, it happened because I went to the cave first, but I like to think the story *needed* to happen with her that way. Hey, I'm a romantic! And isn't that what the game is for??)

Anyway, it makes me so happy that we got to see shy, goofy Tamlin as well as sexy Tamlin here.

My Feylin-shipping self was oh so satisfied. Mm-hmmm. Oh, and did I mention we get to see Tamcien? As in, we could be the throuple that never was?? The FeyTamCien?? <3<3<3 Yup. No kidding. Wow.

And, hey, speaking of ships that should have sailed... If you like to picture pre-canon Tamlin and Rhysand as messy, bitter exes, there's a fantastic make-up scene featuring them that pretty much healed my soul, actually.

Play it. You won't regret it.

Also, for the love of the Cauldron, you *have* to play as Amarantha at least once! Everyone's reactions (including Amarantha's!!) are absolutely hilarious. They really make the game.

And, hint hint, there are even more Easter Eggs if you play as the following characters:

Elain

Nesta

Cassian

Azriel

I think there are more, but these are the ones I played (including Feyre). I had so much fun playing with canon characters, I nearly forgot to play as an OC! So I guess I'll have to do that on my next playthrough. ;)

I can't thank everyone involved enough for making such an amazing game. You're all phenomenal, and it blows me away at how passionate and talented you are. I'm so glad I've gotten to know you! Thanks for making all our days - and nights - a little brighter! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to play a little more Calanmine. <3

[jamesdeanbby]

Omgg can we get more of Cade!reader if you're not busy?? xx

────۶ৎ "that's my sister!"

Johnny is not thrilled that his best mate is trying to get in his sister's pants..

warnings : dallas being a feral flirt.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: AHHH I LOVE THIS TROPEE

The screen door creaks open like it’s mourning, and then bang—there’s a body slumped in the frame. Leather jacket torn. Jeans streaked with blood. Dally Winston, all swagger and smoke and sporting a busted lip, staggers in like the devil got kicked outta Hell and landed on your porch.

Johnny’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through some battered comic, and he jumps to his feet the second he sees that familiar silhouette. “Dal?!”

But Dally just groans, dragging himself into the hallway. “Hey, Johnnycake...”

Then he sees you.

Your hair’s tied up, loose strands falling into your face. You’re barefoot in soft shorts and an old t-shirt that says “cowgirl” in cracked red letters across the chest. You pause, wide-eyed in the kitchen doorway.

“Jesus,” you mutter, rushing to him. “What the hell happened to you?”

Dallas leans on the wall, smirking despite the split in his lip. “Nothin’ a kiss from you wouldn’t fix, sweetheart.”

Johnny groans behind you. “Oh my god.”

You ignore them both and help Dally onto the couch, careful not to jostle the shoulder that’s turning blue. He lets you touch him without flinching, watching you with those stormy eyes like he’s trying to burn you into his memory.

You go to get the first-aid kit, and when you come back, he’s slouched with his legs spread wide, arms thrown along the couch back, watching you like you’re his favorite sin.

“Take your shirt off,” you say simply, setting down gauze and alcohol.

Dallas whistles low. “If I had a nickel every time a pretty girl said that…”

You slap the alcohol bottle against his knee, hard enough to make him flinch. “Shirt. Off.”

He grins like it’s Christmas and peels off the bloodied leather, then his t-shirt, revealing bruises and gashes all over his chest. Johnny folds his arms and leans against the wall, trying not to gag from the pure horn-dog energy radiating off his best friend.

You start dabbing at the wounds, focused and gentle.

Dally hisses. “Mmm—thought you’d be rougher with me, sweetheart.”

“She’s patching you up, not seducing you, jackass,” Johnny mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I dunno,” Dallas purrs, eyes on your lips as you bite them in concentration. “Feels real intimate.”

You glance at Johnny over your shoulder. “You want me to kick him out?”

Johnny shrugs. “Nah, let him bleed out.”

Dally grins, teeth all stained red, and grabs your wrist as you wipe his collarbone.

His voice drops, almost quiet. “You always this good with your hands, babe?”

You freeze for a second, your cheeks heating, and Johnny groans audibly. “DAL. That’s my SISTER.”

“So?” Dally smirks. “She ain’t complainin’.”

You rip your wrist out of his grip with a glare. “Try that again, and I’ll pour the alcohol in your mouth instead.”

“Ooh, kinky,” he says with a wink.

Johnny throws a pillow at his head. “Get OUT, man. Go die in the alley or somethin’.”

But Dally won’t leave. He watches you work like he’s found religion. You wrap his ribs, tape his shoulder, wipe the blood from under his nose. Every now and then, he shifts closer than necessary: his knee bumps yours, his fingers graze your thigh, his eyes never leave your face.

“You're a real angel, y’know that?” he murmurs, low and hoarse.

You sigh. “You're not even bleeding that bad. Just drunk and full of yourself.”

He smiles, slow and sleepy. “Still thinkin’ about that kiss, doll.”

Johnny lets out a noise like a dying animal. “DAL!”

Dallas laughs, tossing his head back against the couch, and smirks at Johnny from under half-lidded eyes. “What? She’s legal.”

You slap a bandage across his chest extra hard.

He hisses—then moans. “God, I love her.”

Johnny looks to the ceiling. “I swear to god, I'm gonna drown you in peroxide.”

You finish bandaging him, shaking your head with a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re impossible.”

Dally tilts his head, voice low and dirty: “Baby, you have no idea.”

And Johnny, poor Johnny, just grabs a soda from the fridge and mutters, “I hate my life.”

[belit0]

Hello my dear💋 i like your works too much. How about a highschool au Indra, Madara, Izuna, Shisui with childhood crush reader? Its been a few years since they saw them but now they are back on their school. Love yah💋(Im getting too invested in your highschool au.)

I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKE ITTTTTTTTTTTTT

I'm obsessed with it lately, can't write any other thing asjdhaksdjh

Indra

He heard her voice before he saw her. Same cadence. Same bite.

It had been years.

He waited.

Didn’t speak to her that day. Or the next. Or the next.

She wasn’t important.

Not anymore.

Until he caught her walking toward the science wing alone, headphones in, hoodie off, neck exposed like she forgot what kind of animals roamed these halls.

She passed him in the empty corridor without looking. He turned.

Followed. Silent.

Outside the supply closet, she stopped.

She knew.

The second she opened the door and stepped in without checking, he was right behind her, hand catching the handle, clicking it shut.

She didn’t turn around.

He said nothing.

The silence dragged.

Then she scoffed—dry, unaffected. -Still lurking in corners, huh? You’ve really grown.-

He moved close enough to hear her breathing change.

-You should’ve stayed gone,- he said flatly.

She faced him. Eyes calm. Smirk lazy. -Scared I’ll ruin your reputation?-

-No.

He looked at her like a blade deciding where to pierce.

-I just don’t like seeing things I already buried get up again.

Her smirk faded.

Good.

He stepped back before she could speak, unlocked the door, and left.

He didn’t need to explain himself.

He didn’t want her back.

He just didn’t like that a part of him reacted.

Madara

The hallway buzzed with whispers the second she walked through. Madara didn’t care for gossip—unless it bled.

But when Obito bumped his shoulder with a crooked grin and muttered, “Look who’s back,” his eyes flicked up.

And everything froze.

That walk.

That mouth.

That girl.

She hadn’t changed, not where it mattered.

Still had that fire in her eyes like she’d bite anyone who got too close.

Still moved like she didn’t need anyone, like every step was her own.

But she didn’t know how Madara had changed. N

ot yet.

He followed her at lunch. Sat on the table beside hers. Didn’t say shit. Just stared.

She finally looked up, annoyed, like old times. -What?-

He dragged his tongue across his teeth. -Didn’t think you had the balls to come back here.-

-Didn’t come for you.

His laugh was dark and rough. -Good. I like it when they fight.-

She stood to leave. He didn’t stop her. Just said, loud enough for her to hear—

-Next time you look at me like that, make sure you mean it. Or I’ll take it the wrong way.

And she knew.

He’d wanted her since they were kids.

But now?

He’d break bones over it.

Izuna

The second he saw her, Izuna’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

No joke.

He blinked twice, slow, like he was hallucinating. Like maybe he’d smoked too much behind the gym again and the universe decided to fuck with him.

But no. That was her.

That crooked little smirk she always gave him when he was being an asshole, which was all the time.

She caught his stare.

And rolled her eyes.

That did it.

He was on her like nothing ever changed, leaning against her locker before she even opened it, voice low, dangerous, stupid with familiarity.

-You come back just to fuck with me or what?

-You think too highly of yourself.

He smirked.

-I used to be your favorite problem.

-You were twelve. And annoying.

-Second thing, still am.

She closed her locker in his face.

He leaned closer, voice dropping.

-I never forgot how you smelled, you know that? That stupid vanilla crap you used to wear. Shit’s burned into my brain. I smell it on girls sometimes and wanna throw up ‘cause it’s not you.

She shoved him back and walked away.

He laughed, heart pounding.

This wasn’t gonna be easy.

And that made it so much better.

Shisui

He smiled when she walked back into school.

Not the soft kind.

The type you put on when you’re already picturing how far you can push before something breaks.

She used to sit with him during lunch back then, always stealing fries from his tray and pretending she didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered. Always laughing at his dumb jokes while the others scowled in the background.

He found her at the vending machines, acting casual. Like she didn’t know he’d been watching her since homeroom.

-Long time no see, sweetheart.

She turned, unimpressed. -Still calling girls that?-

He stepped closer, invading space like it didn’t exist.

-Nah. Just the ones I remember moaning into my hoodie when they were fourteen.

Her eyes narrowed. -You're disgusting.-

-Miss me?

-No.

-That’s a lie,- he whispered, cornering her against the machine, hand sliding past her to press the snack button without breaking eye contact. -You just don’t wanna admit the idea of me still makes you stupid.-

She shoved him off.

He let her.

For now.

[toasttt11]

sick

March 9, 2024

Quinn gave Ophelia a concerned look as she sat quietly in her stall after they just won 5-0 against the Jets and the whole locker room was celebrating the big win and everyone was going out as they have the next three days off.

Quinn noticed today she was quieter, she ate less than usually, was a bit slower on and off the ice and her nose has started to get a bit red through out the day.

Quinn looked back at her just as she bolted up quickly heading out the locker room doors that head to the ice and she grabbed the first trash can outside the doors and started to throw up.

Quinn quickly rushed over and pulling her ponytail back and softly rubbed her back as her chest heaved heavily and she made uncomfortable sounds.

Demko quickly walked over with a water bottle and a towel for Ophelia and set them on the table next to Quinn and Quinn gave him a thankful look.

Ophelia groaned as she lifted her head and gave Quinn a pitiful look before she quickly leaned back down throwing up again.

“It’s okay, you’re okay Bee.” Quinn soothingly spoke rubbing her back gently as she tried to catch her breath. Quinn let out a brayan holding back his worry for Ophelia so he stays calm to take cake of her.

“Sorry.” Ophelia mumbled as Quinn wiped her face for her and she took a small sip of water. She has always only had her Dad talking care of her and she got use to taking care of herself when she is sick since he passed so it wasn’t a bad surprise as Quinn immediately was talking care of her.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Quinn said firmly, “Do you think you can take a shower?” He asked her gently.

Ophelia let out a breath and slowly nodded.

“Okay why don’t you go take a shower and we can head home and you can get some rest.” Quinn guided her back into the locker room and towards the shower.

“She okay?” Elias asked once Ophelia headed into the bathrooms and Quinn was grabbing her clothes.

“Sick but should be fine.” Quinn replied making Elias nod.

“Let me know if she needs anything.” Elias requested.

“You got it.” Quinn agreed patting Elias’s shoulder before heading to the bathroom leaving Ophelia clothes before taking his own shower.

Quinn headed back to the locker room seeing a exhausted Ophelia sitting in her stall holding a hair brush.

Quinn walked over to her and gently grabbed the brush and started to gently brush her hair out for her.

Jt was walking out and flashed the two an amused look, Quinn looks like him when he’s brushing his own daughters hair, Jt shook his head half amused and half fond as he walked out of the locker room.

“Ready to go home?” Quinn spoke softly as he helped her stand up and he noticed how much wobbly she has gotten.

Ophelia nodded and heavily leaned into Quinn’s side as they walked out to his car.

Quinn helped her get into the passenger seat and she curled into a little ball resting her head on the center console as Quinn got into the car as well.

Quinn glanced down seeing her eyes fluttering shut and her hand ended up resting on his arm making him smile a bit.

Quinn parked the car and got out heading to the passenger door and softly rubbing Ophelia’s arm, “Bee.”

Ophelia groaned a bit her eyes squeezing open, “Hm?”

“We’re home.” Quinn said softly and helped her get out of the car and they slowly walked up to their apartment.

Quinn helped her take her shoes and jacket off and brought her to her room, he pulled the covers back and helped her get into bed, she cuddled with hee sitter animals as he tucked her in and turned her heated blanket on.

“I’m gonna get you some meds and then you can get some sleep.” Quinn told her softly brushing back a piece of her wet hair.

Quinn headed out of the room grabbing a spare trash can, a box of tissues and medicine before heading back.

Ophelia barely lifted her and took the medicine, “Can you stay?” Ophelia sleepily asked sounding her age for a rare chance and making his whole face soften at her question.

“I wasn’t gonna leave anyways.” Quinn mumbled back in response and leaned down softly kissing her forehead feeling her burning up.

Quinn got in to the bed on the other side, he didn’t care if he got sick too because they had some time off and Ophelia was also more important.

March 10, 2024

It was a rough night for Ophelia having to use the bin multiple times and she was lucky she had Quinn there and talking care of her.

It has been a long time since someone took care of her when she wasn’t feeling good.

After Ophelia getting some much needed sleep in the morning, Quinn had her come into the living room and she laid on the couch using Quinn’s lap as pillow as he played with her hair and she took another nap.

Ophelia didn’t have a appetite in the morning so once she woke up from her nap all comfortable on the couch, Quinn got up and set up his phone face timing Jack and Luke so they can keep an eye on Ophelia as he makes them some food.

Quinn got their family soup recipe from his Mom and ordered for the groceries to all be delivery this morning and he started making the chicken noodle soup.

Ophelia glanced up seeing Quinn walk in holding one of her mugs and she perked up a bit realizing it was hot chocolate.

“Soup will be done soon.” Quinn told her as he sat down next to her and smiled a bit at her happy sighs as she started drinking her hot chocolate.

Jack and Luke kept Ophelia distracted for a while and she said bye to them once Quinn brought in two bowls of soup.

Ophelia took a small bite and hummed softly feeling her throat being soothed by the warmth and she really liked the soup.

Ophelia rested hee head on Quinn’s shoulder as she ate her soup, “Thank you.”

“Anytime Bee.” Quinn promised his rookie.

[the-bau-sugarbaby]

Hotch x GN!Reader: Relaxation

Aaron is many things. Smart, strong, kind, calculating, and the list goes on. Yet when asked what the first word you think of when you think of him, you think of stress. As composed as he may appear to most, you can tell that he is far more paranoid than people give him credit for. Aside from the rest of his team, you’re one of the few who truly understand that paranoia. And you’re one of the two in his life who somehow has found ways to ease that fear for him.

Life seemed so simple and mundane a mere three years ago when you think back. That same stressed man had bumped into you with his sweet son while you were at the library. After apologizing, Aaron noticed you holding one of Rossi’s books and made light conversation over it. You were always interested in criminology on a small level, leading to you being an avid reader of Rossi’s. So meeting one of his coworkers was very exciting, and hearing that he was as intelligent and humorous as he seems in interviews and book signings was very exciting.

As pleased as he was at talking to someone with an interest in criminology who wasn’t an agent for once, it irked him deep down that someone as breathtaking as you was a fan of Rossi of all people. He could already hear his eccentric colleague’s ego inflating when he brought this up later.

After a few minutes of chatting and playful banter, Jack interrupted with a smile. “Are you gonna go on a date with my dad?” He asked you, making you laugh, and Aaron lightly scolded him with a deep blush dusting his face. However, you surprised him (and yourself) when you said, “Sure! If your dad wants, of course.” He was almost certain that he had heard you wrong, or that maybe you were just being polite. But to his delight, you weren’t.

One date became two, then three, and so on. And now, you and he have been together for three long years of love. Of course, it wasn’t always perfect.

It started out with just him being a little clingy in public, and how he was very reluctant to leave you by yourself when you were out somewhere together. At first, you just shrugged it off as him being a little protective of you. But then you noticed how it got worse when he finished a case. He could hardly bring himself to let go of you after he’d get home, even if it was just to go to the bathroom or put Jack to bed. While you understood that he was naturally paranoid after he lost his ex-wife, you worried that he would give himself a heart attack at this rate.

When you confronted him about it, he confessed that he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know how to stop worrying. I’ve tried meditation, journaling, and breathing exercises, but none of them work. Journaling almost makes it worse somehow, since it just makes me focus on my anxiety even more.” He said, and your heart broke a little for him. Surely there was something that could help him relax, even when you weren’t there to spend time with him, right?

When you initially bought it for him, he was hesitant to try it. He seemed more inclined to give it to Jack, since it seemed more his speed, and Aaron didn’t really have any interest in video games. But after a little bit of encouragement, you got him to try playing one of your favorite games: Animal Crossing: New Horizons.

At first, he only played it once a week or so. Usually when you were there to help him get the hang of the game. But over time, he slowly got the hang of the game and started packing his switch in his go-bag for cases. He didn’t have much spare time during investigations, but he found himself becoming drawn to playing whenever he was alone in his hotel room. Something about befriending his villagers and doing simple tasks to earn money was very fulfilling. What made him even happier was when you both would play online together while he was away. You’d always send him letters with cute gifts like fruit, clothes, or furniture. Even cuter, he’d be wearing the clothes and displaying the furniture somewhere on his island next time you visited.

It felt like a way to spend time together and bond, even when he was far away. It made him feel less guilty about being away all the time, since you both still had a way to keep your connection alive. You were happy with this and considered it a good compromise that he and Haley never had when they were together. And even though it didn’t erase the painful memories or make his problems go away, it at least made his worries a little easier to handle. It made the brutality of cases slightly less upsetting, and his anxious fears about something happening to you a little easier to ignore.

And as he turned on his switch and started up the game to find a letter from you in his mailbox, he smiled as he read it.

Hi, honey! Hope all is well!

Me and Jack picked this out for you, hope you love it!

We miss you!

Opening the gift, he audibly laughed to himself when he saw that it was a Viking helmet. But even so, he happily put it on. Because as long as you kept sending him things like this while he was away, he knew you were safe and still waiting for him when he came home.