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moonlightdreamzz · 3 days ago

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SOMEWHERE BETWEEN YOURS, AND HIS

chapter one — what we don’t talk about ☆ chapter two — half-truths and jungle juice ☆ chapter three — fuck!

chapter summary. a hoodie. a highway. a surprise you never saw coming. everything about today feels like a memory you've been waiting to live—until familiar faces show up.

pairing. jungwon x reader x sunghoon.

genre. college!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, smut.

themes. love triangle, messy relationships and decisions, love or lust?

authors note. sorry for the wait my babies...hope it was worth it. please give me full fledged reviews in the comments. it helps me a lot. shit is about to get crazyyyyy.

you wake up with your heart already racing.

your mouth is dry. your eyes burn. your whole body feels too warm, like your skin hasn’t caught up with the air yet. and for a second—for a split, beautiful second—you don’t remember anything.

just light filtering through the curtain. a blanket draped over your thigh. the faint smell of weed, sweat, and everything else that happened to you last night.

but then it comes back.

not all at once. not like a slap. more like a slow pour—warm at first. then scalding.

his hands.

his mouth.

his voice—“you feel everything, don’t you?”

sunghoon.

you squeeze your eyes shut. God. what did you do? you weren’t blacked out. you weren’t reckless. you were just drunk. and soft. and tired of being the girl who waits around for something that might not even be real.

that’s the part that makes your chest hurt the most. because the truth is—you didn’t think about jungwon at all last night. not once. not when sunghoon kissed you. not when he touched you like you were already his. not even when he asked if you were sure.

and that’s what’s eating you alive now.

you sit up, slow. your dress is bunched around your waist, your lashes halfway off, your head pounding in that slow, angry rhythm that always shows up the morning after.

your throat is dry. your hands are shaking.

you don’t know what to feel first—guilt? or shame? or confusion? or this strange, stupid ache in your chest that sounds like: but does he even want you?

jungwon.

his name hits you like something heavy.

like a weight you forgot you were carrying. like a person you loved in secret for so long, you forgot you were allowed to say it out loud.

you remember the almost-kisses. the nights you laid in his bed waiting for him to make the first move. the way his arms would wrap around you like a question.

the way he’d stop every time things got too close. too warm. too real.

and the way you told yourself that’s enough.

you told yourself his silence was softness. his distance was care.

but it wasn’t just that.

it was the way he always moved the charger to your side of the bed. the way he made sure the room was cold because you liked the blanket heavy.

the way he rubbed your back when you were sick. the way he remembered the way you liked your eggs. the way he’d watch your face instead of the screen when you were laughing at something dumb.

the way he held you like it meant something—even if he never said what.

and that’s what made it worse.

because sunghoon kissed you without fear. but jungwon holds you like he already has you.

but last night… sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

he didn’t second-guess the way your hand found his neck. he didn’t pull away when you leaned in. he didn’t stop to make space between your knees and his hips and your breath and his mouth and your body and his name.

he didn’t stop.

and maybe that’s why you let it happen.

because you were tired. because it felt good. because for once, someone didn’t make you beg for the thing you didn’t know how to ask for.

but now you’re here. alone. sober. skin buzzing like your nerves haven’t caught up yet.

you drag your hands over your face.

do i even owe him anything?

you think it, then hate yourself for thinking it.

you want to cry. or throw up. or crawl under the covers and pretend the last twelve hours didn’t happen.

because you feel like you cheated. like you broke something that wasn’t even real.

but it was. it was.

it’s not just friendship. not with jungwon. not with the way you touched. not with the way you slept wrapped in each other’s limbs like the world outside didn’t exist. not with the way your lips had almost met—how his breath had hit your cheek and his hand had tightened just once on your thigh before he’d backed away like he was scared of his own pulse.

and he never said why.

your legs move before your brain does. out the door. down the hall. through the faded music and soft snoring and tangled blankets on the living room floor.

the clock says 1:03 p.m. most people are still asleep. some aren’t. you don’t care.

you knock.

soft. hesitant.

no answer.

you open the door anyway.

the curtains are drawn. the light hits the wall in that soft, familiar way. and jungwon’s still in bed. fully dressed. half-curled around a pillow that doesn’t belong to him.

his eyes are closed. but his face is tight. his jaw clenched. his brow creased like whatever dream he’s in—it’s not good. you step inside. quiet. like always.

he doesn’t know what you did.

you tell yourself that.

he doesn’t know.

he’s just tired. he’s just sleeping in. he’s just—

his eyes open.

you freeze, and everything goes still. you don’t know what you’re expecting—maybe for him to sit up. maybe for him to ask you what the hell you’re doing.

but he doesn’t. he just looks at you. quiet. still. like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you and trying not to let it show.

your throat tightens. you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. unsure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of the ceiling fan and the creak of the mattress as you sit on the edge of the bed. your legs are cold. your skin’s still sticky from the night before. you haven’t even showered. you just wanted… this. something soft. something familiar.

you don’t crawl under the blanket. not this time. you just lay down. next to him. he doesn’t say anything for a long time. you lay there. on top of the covers. not touching. barely breathing.

and then—

“you didn’t come back last night.”

his voice is soft. unreadable.

you stare at the ceiling. “i know.”

another pause.

he shifts slightly. his tone doesn’t change.

“did you sleep in your room?”

you blink. your heart stutters.

“i…” you clear your throat. “i was drunk. i didn’t really sleep.”

he hums. not a laugh. not a reaction. just… something.

you risk a glance. his eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, but you can tell—he’s thinking. hard.

“didn’t even say goodnight,” he murmurs.

you look away again. your chest twists.

“you noticed?”

his jaw ticks. “i notice everything.”

the silence hangs.

and then—he glances at you. finally.

“was it fun?”

your breath catches. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just turns back toward the ceiling, like it’s easier to look at than you.

you open your mouth. close it.

your throat is burning. your stomach is flipping inside out.

you don’t want to say it.

you can’t say it.

so you pick the only thing that feels safer than the truth.

“nothing happened,” you say.

the words taste like blood in your mouth.

jungwon doesn’t move.

for a second—for one stupid, fragile second—you think maybe he believes you.

but then he blinks slow, like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“nothing?” he says, voice low.

you shake your head. your palms are sweating. you want to cry.

“we didn’t…” you clear your throat. “i didn’t sleep with him.”

he turns his head. looks at you. really looks. and somehow that hurts worse than if he’d called you a liar to your face.

you can’t tell if he believes you. maybe he just wants to. maybe he needs to. you should stop there. you should shut up.

but the guilt is eating you alive. the need to explain yourself—to justify something that doesn’t have an excuse—rises up hot in your chest.

so you say it.

you break your own heart before he can.

“but i don’t know what we’re doing anymore, jungwon,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i’m waiting for.”

his whole body goes still.

the words hang there, heavy and choking, like smoke in the room.

you press your palms into the mattress. dig your nails into the blanket. you’re shaking and you don’t even realize it.

“i—” you try again, but your voice wobbles. “i’m tired.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’m tired of being the only one who’s sure.”

and there it is.

the crack that splits everything open.

you wish he’d say something. fight for you. deny it. pull you back. but he just looks at you. jaw tight. eyes glassy.

and says nothing.

and somehow, that says everything.

he just looks at you—really looks at you—and it’s like everything he’s been trying to bury is clawing its way out at once.

his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“i waited for you last night.”

your heart stutters. your throat goes tight.

he leans back against the headboard, palms flat against the sheets, like he needs something solid to hold onto. his voice cracks—just a little—as he keeps going.

“i stayed up all night,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin. “i didn’t even move. i just… sat here. waiting. waiting for the knock. waiting for you to do what you always do.”

you feel yourself sinking into the mattress, smaller and smaller with every word.

“i kept telling myself you were just drunk. that you’d show up eventually.”

he laughs—sharp and hollow and nothing like him. “but you didn’t.”

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

he drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight you’re scared it might break.

“and then,” he says, voice dropping low, “i heard you.”

your stomach flips.

“giggling in the hallway. laughing with him like—like it was easy. like it was nothing.”

he blinks hard, like he’s trying to chase the image away.

“i heard you. and i realized…”

he swallows.

“i realized it was my fault.”

you shake your head, tears burning your eyes, but he doesn’t let you interrupt.

“i should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says, his voice breaking for real now. “i should’ve told you when you first started crawling into my bed. when you first started wearing my hoodies and looking at me like i hung the damn stars.”

he lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“i thought i was protecting you. i thought if i didn’t say it, i couldn’t ruin it. that i couldn’t ruin us.”

his hands ball into fists in the blankets.

“but all i did was make you think you were unwanted. and you’re not. you never were.”

your vision is blurry. your chest hurts. everything in you is pulling toward him and breaking at the same time.

he looks at you then—really looks—and it’s all there.

the wreckage. the regret. the love.

“i’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the only thing that matters anymore. “i’ve been in love with you.”

he breathes out, shoulders shaking.

“and it shouldn’t have taken another guy showing up and not hesitating to make me say it.”

the room is so quiet you can hear both your hearts beating.

you’re crying for real now. silent. broken open.

he reaches for you—slow, scared—like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you wrong.

and you let him.

you fall into his arms like it’s the only place you’re supposed to be. you curl into him, clutch his hoodie, bury your face in his chest. and he holds you like he’s scared to let go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

you shake your head. you don’t even know what you’re saying no to—his apology, his pain, the fact that you didn’t wait long enough, the fact that he waited too long.

you just know you don’t want to lose him.

not yet.

not ever.

after a while, when the tears slow and your breathing evens out, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“can i take you out today?” he murmurs. “just us. no parties. no noise. just… you and me.”

you nod against his chest.

you don’t trust yourself to say anything.

you don’t need to.

the car ride is quiet at first.

not awkward quiet. just... heavy. like the air hasn't caught up with what happened yet.

you fiddle with the zipper of your hoodie, thumb tracing the teeth back and forth. jungwon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, staring straight ahead like the road might disappear if he blinks too slow.

outside, the world is too bright. too loud. everything feels a little sharp.

you pull your sleeves over your hands. press your forehead against the window for a second, trying to cool down the inside of your head.

"you cold?" jungwon asks, voice soft but immediate.

you shake your head.

he nods like he believes you, but you know he doesn't.

you sneak a glance at him.

he's wearing the hoodie you like—the one that's too big on him, the one you always end up stealing halfway through movie nights. his hair’s messy from the hood. there's a small scar under his jaw you’ve never noticed before. you stare at it too long.

"i was gonna take you to that café you liked last semester," he says, voice careful. "the one with the swings instead of chairs."

you blink.

you forgot he remembered that.

you forgot how much he always remembers.

"but it closed down," he says, glancing at you quick, then back at the road. "so… plan B."

you hum, low in your throat. noncommittal.

he presses a little harder on the gas.

"we'll figure it out," he says. "i just wanted to get you out of the house."

you swallow thickly.

"thank you," you say, voice small.

he glances at you again.

and for the first time since you got in the car, he smiles.

it's not a full one. it's not the one that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes scrunch and his dimples cut deep.

but it's real.

and it does something awful and beautiful to your chest.

he switches the music on low.

something soft, something slow. you don't know the song, but it sounds like it was made for moments like this — moments too fragile for silence, too heavy for words.

you close your eyes for a second.

breathe.

pretend you’re just two kids in a car again.

pretend the world hasn’t shifted underneath you.

pretend last night never happened.

you glance out the window again. the highway starts to curve and narrow. you see the blue-and-yellow billboard before anything else.

your heart stutters.

no way.

you sit up straighter, eyes narrowing as more signs come into view—familiar landmarks, road names, the snack stand you once swore had the best fries in the world.

your stomach flips.

he doesn’t say anything. just smirks.

you whip your head toward him. “are we going to dreamwheel?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just plan the one date you always dreamed about but never got to take him on.

“i mean,” he says, flicking the turn signal, “you’ve only been begging me to come since sophomore year.”

“i didn’t beg.”

“you pouted.”

“i expressed interest.”

“repeatedly.”

you’re already grinning. you can’t help it.

the closer you get, the more it hits you. the skyline. the blazing red rollercoaster loop in the distance. the corny welcome sign.

you went with jake once, a long time ago. but jungwon had the flu and missed it. you talked about it ever since. every time you passed the highway exit. every time someone mentioned cotton candy or arcade games or churros shaped like hearts.

the gate attendant leans out and says, “$30 for parking.”

you automatically reach for your phone. “okay, i’ll send you fifteen—”

“don’t you dare.”

you freeze.

he glances over. “put the phone down.”

“wha—jungwon, it’s thirty dollars.”

“i know.”

“i’m not a broke b—”

“i know that too.”

you try not to smile. “you’re gonna make me get soft.”

he just raises a brow. “you already are.”

he parks. before you can open the door, his voice cuts through the silence.

“don’t touch that.”

you blink.

he’s already out of the car, walking around, and opening the passenger side like it’s second nature. you slide out, stunned.

“what is going on with you today?” you ask, squinting up at him.

he shrugs, locking the car. and then he does it—reaches for your hand. no hesitation. just laces your fingers with his like he’s been doing it every day of his life.

and you let him. because what else are you supposed to do?

this is all you’ve ever wanted.

“this place looks even cheesier than i remember you describing,” he says, walking beside you past the front gates.

you laugh. “that’s the point. it’s a tacky paradise.”

“you love tacky paradises.”

“don’t judge me. you’re literally smiling.”

“i’m smiling because you’re smiling.”

you glance over.

he’s not looking at the park. he’s looking at you. and your chest tightens in that way you hate—the way that makes you feel like you don’t deserve this.

because last night, you didn’t come home. and he waited anyway.

you swallow hard.

but then he’s dragging you toward the first ride. it’s nothing huge—just the spinning teacups. dumb. simple. loud.

you let yourself enjoy it.

the screams. the music. the sound of jungwon laughing across from you as you spin the wheel too hard and almost fall sideways.

you’re a mess. dizzy. smiling too wide. out of breath. you don’t even realize you’re holding his hand again until you’re halfway across the park.

lunch is a paper tray of tteokbokki and fries. he wipes sauce from your cheek with a napkin like it’s nothing.

you say, “where has this version of you been?”

he pauses mid-chew.

then swallows, looking away for a second before he says, “hiding. i guess.”

you don’t press. you don’t have to.

the next ride is a water coaster. you get soaked. he gives you his hoodie to wear over your wet shirt and doesn’t say anything when your fingers brush his stomach while taking it off him.

you pretend not to notice. he lets you.

by the time you get near the ferris wheel, you’re buzzing from sugar and secondhand affection.

the sun is starting to dip, casting orange across everything—like the whole park is stuck in golden hour. you almost forget how heavy your chest has felt all day. almost.

jungwon’s hoodie still hangs off your shoulders. your hair is damp from the water ride. your fingers are sticky from churros and powdered sugar and holding his hand like you’ve been doing it forever.

the line curves around the corner. the wheel creaks above you, slowly spinning, each cart dipping into the sky.

you’re about to lean into him again when—

“yo, what the f—?”

you whip around.

jake.

standing three feet away. sunglasses pushed into his curls. holding a jumbo soda. flanked by two girls.

and sunghoon.

sunghoon is behind him. laughing at something one of the girls said. a hand on the railing. his other one swinging casually at his side like it’s not the same hand that was gripping your waist twelve hours ago.

your blood runs cold.

jake blinks. “what the hell are y’all doing here?”

jungwon’s body goes still next to you. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

jake laughs, like the moment isn’t loaded. “i thought y’all were on house arrest after last night. didn’t even know you were up yet.”

then he glances between you and jungwon.

sees the hoodie.

the hand-holding.

“wait.” his voice drops a little. “are y’all...?”

sunghoon turns at that. looks up.

and everything goes quiet.

your eyes meet. his mouth parts just slightly. he wasn’t expecting to see you.

not like this.

not wearing jungwon’s clothes. not smiling like the world isn’t still spinning from last night.

the girl next to him tugs on his arm, confused. you step back.

jungwon feels it. his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

he looks at jake. “we’re on a date.”

simple. straight. like it’s always been true.

jake raises both brows. “damn. my bad.” then he grins, recovering. “guess it’s a double date now, huh?”

you want to disappear. but you don’t. you just smile. barely. and pray your legs don’t give out.

sunghoon doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you.

like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he missed. what changed. when it changed.

his gaze flickers—jungwon’s hand in yours. the way your body’s angled toward him. the hoodie. the smile you’re pretending isn’t shaking.

you feel it. all of it. the weight of last night crashing into the mess of today.

“you okay?” jungwon asks, low.

you nod. barely.

but then—jake claps his hands.

“bet,” he says. “let’s race to the next ride. loser buys funnel cake.”

before you can react, everyone starts moving.

sunghoon walks past you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look too long.

just enough for your breath to catch.

and then he’s gone. walking ahead with the girl still trailing beside him, laughing at something he didn’t even say.

you’re still frozen when jungwon gently pulls you forward, like he’s choosing not to say what he saw in your face.

the group scatters, arguing about which ride is next. jake’s already halfway up the path. the girls trail behind. you and jungwon follow, a little slower.

you’re trying to focus. on the date. on him. on this version of your life where everything feels easy and soft and golden.

but your heart is thudding again. and your mind keeps spinning.

you tell jungwon you’re going to the bathroom. simple. no drama. no lingering looks. just a casual excuse to breathe.

you barely make it two steps past the bathroom when you hear him.

"so you're just gonna ignore me now?"

you stop.

close your eyes.

fuck.

you turn slowly, heart already thudding.

sunghoon’s standing there. arms crossed. jaw tight. no smile. no charm. just tension.

"what are you doing?" you ask, already exhausted.

he shrugs. "same thing you are. pretending."

you roll your eyes. "go back to your little group."

"why?" he tilts his head. "so you can play house with him a little longer?"

your stomach twists.

"don’t do this," you mutter.

"don’t do what? remind you what happened last night?"

you try to push past him, but he steps in front of you.

"don’t act brand new," he says, voice lower now. "you didn’t have this attitude when i had you bent over begging for more."

your breath catches. you stare at him.

"fuck you," you say quietly.

he laughs—cold, sharp, like you didn’t just stab him first.

"already did."

you look away, throat tight.

he leans in, too close. "you’re gonna tell me none of it meant anything?"

you hesitate. only for a second. but it’s enough.

he sees it.

"right," he says. "thought so."

you grit your teeth. "you knew about me and jungwon."

his smirk fades.

"you always knew," you continue. "you just didn’t care. you saw an opening and you took it."

"and you let me."

"i never said i didn’t. but don’t stand here acting like you thought this was something more."

"it wasn’t nothing."

"maybe not," you say, voice flat. "but i’m still choosing him."

his face twitches.

you don’t even hear the footsteps behind you. don’t realize someone’s listening until the hallway drops into silence.

jungwon.

standing there.

frozen.

his face unreadable. but his eyes—his eyes burn straight through you.

you feel your heart seize. he heard everything.

sunghoon scoffs behind you, like this is all too much. "man, whatever. this is a joke."

he turns like he’s about to walk—

"nah."

jungwon’s voice cuts the air like a blade. he steps forward. calm. cold.

"you cool?"

sunghoon spins. "are you?"

you try to step in, but jungwon’s eyes never leave his.

"she told you to back off. she’s here with me. you don’t get to keep pushing."

"she was with me last night," sunghoon snaps. "so what do you wanna do? let me know."

jungwon flinches. just barely.

but it’s enough to make your stomach drop.

"stop it," you say. "both of you—"

"no," jungwon says, eyes still locked. "if you respected her at all, you’d walk away."

"don’t act like you’re some fucking hero," sunghoon growls. “you waited too long. i didn’t. you just watched her walk away.”

jungwon doesn’t blink.

sunghoon tilts his head, eyes burning. “you know what your problem is? you were scared. too pussy to say how you felt. too pussy to make a move. and now a guy like me came around and got your girl.”

you flinch.

jungwon’s fist curls—but he’s still too still. too quiet.

sunghoon shrugs like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “don’t be mad at me for seeing her. for acting. for not hesitating.”

he nods at you, just once. and for a moment, it almost feels like a soft truth.

“she’s not a maybe. she’s not some game. and if you really gave a fuck, you wouldn’t have waited until someone else touched her to wake up.”

and that’s when jungwon speaks.

low.

measured.

but deadly.

“i’m a pussy?” he repeats, voice calm in that terrifying kind of way. “nah. you are.”

sunghoon’s brows twitch.

jungwon steps forward. not fast. not angry. just sure.

“because i had a choice,” he says. “i could’ve made her mine months ago. but i didn’t want to fuck this up. not like you just did.”

sunghoon scoffs, but jungwon’s not done.

“you want a medal for not hesitating?” he spits. “for seeing a drunk girl who’s been in love with someone else and still going for it?”

sunghoon opens his mouth, but—

“you fucked her, and the very next day, you showed up with another bitch on your arm.”

your breath catches.

jungwon doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t even flinch.

“don’t talk to me about being a man. if you actually liked her—if you respected her at all—you wouldn’t have touched her like that. you would've waited. you would've meant it. ” jungwon takes a deep breath before shooting his final blow. "and yeah, you two had a good time last night, but when she woke up, who did she want? you, or me?"

sunghoon stares.

jaw tight. eyes burning. but he doesn’t speak.

because there’s nothing to say.

you’re the one who’s shaking now. because every word feels like it landed in your chest.

and still—

you can’t take any of it back.

taglist❤️

@jvngw0nlvr @iamjusttryingtoreadapost @woibeb @xoseraphiina @tunafishyfishylike @onlyticket-home @k1ttyjwon @taehyunsfavmoa @doveblackboat @umanjofantasma

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loveyhoneydovey · 2 days ago

Text

Too Much

18+ MDNI

Summary: a tense situation with Robby brings out your deepest insecurities and possibly threatens your relationship.

Michael Robinavitch x reader

1.7K II Content warnings and tags: implied suicidal thoughts, mental health issues such as ADHD, PTSD and depression (reader has ADHD and is implied to suffer from depression), self hate, internalized ableism (related to reader's ADHD), Robby calls reader "sweetheart" and "kid", no physical descriptives for reader, written with an age gap in mind but no specific age are mentioned, open ending. Please let me know if I missed anything. AN: I suspect this story is the result of my Adderall finally improving my focus combined with my various hot girl mental illnesses (including anxiety induced by said Adderall). Big thank you to my hot, talented Greek mythology loving wife @butyoudidthis4what for coming up with the title, helping with the summary and beta reading this. I hope you'll recover from the mental damage you got from being friends with me.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

Michael’s voice cracks as he moves to pull you in a bone crushing hug as you step into his apartment for the second time that night. He inhales deeply as his lips fall to your forehead to kiss it. The gesture grounds him, eases some of the worry he’d been carrying on his shoulders ever since you left.

Truth is, you’d spent the last four hours contemplating everything and nothing on a bench in a park you stumbled upon when you left earlier. It’s a miracle you weren’t mugged or attacked at this hour, not that you were particularly bothered by the thought of finally being put out of your misery once and for all in the state you were currently in.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sor-”

“Please don’t apologize Michael.” You sigh as you cut him off, eyes itching from all the crying you did earlier. It’s true he shouldn’t have spoken to you that way earlier, shouldn’t have been so sharp with his words, but in his defence, he’d tried to let you know a few times he needed to be alone. You assumed you knew better as you always did when persisting with your attempts to cheer him up. Turns out you didn’t. In the end, you didn’t respect his boundaries and he was bound to lash out, as any overwhelmed person would. He wasn’t the first person you’d gone through this almost exact situation with, so why did you always keep making the same mistake while somehow expecting a different outcome?

“Mikey, I’ve always been an overwhelming person to be around. I’m a lot, and while a lot of people like my high energy in small doses, it eventually becomes too much. I could see it in my mother’s eyes how frustrated she was when I wouldn’t stop talking after she’d had a long day. Or when my teachers would have to move me away from everyone else so I’d stop being so disruptive. At the time I didn’t understand why I was so different, so… much. And you know, now I don’t really care about how annoying strangers can find me, not anymore. But I always thought someday I’d be able to somehow fix my stupid brain because I’m tired of being a burden to those I love. Because everyone’s got their own shit to deal with and no matter what, they eventually realize they can’t deal with my presence on top of it. And tonight just feels like confirmation that there’s no one on this planet equipped to deal with me on a daily basis.”

Michael’s face carried an expression of utter devastation at your hiccuped confession. As he pulled back to face you, you noticed his previously bloodshot eyes were now filled with tears and a pained grimace formed on his lips. You weren’t doing any better, you thought you’d dehydrated yourself to the point of not being able to produce tears anymore. You were wrong for a second time that night. As soon as you’d started your confession, your tears came back flooding. Your words hit you with the realization you were now feeling lonelier than ever, after you’d gotten so spoiled with Robby’s warmth and comforting presence.

“I even tried medication, you know.” You inhaled shakily as you prepared to continue your speech. Robby didn’t interrupt you, no matter how shattered the way you spoke about yourself made him feel, he knew you needed to let this all out. “And you know what? It actually worked, I finally slowed down, because almost bearable, but I also spent my days feeling worried and numb like a zombie, like I was going to fucking die, Michael. And it felt like a fucking cruel joke from the universe. The only time people start to actually tolerate my presence and the small price I have to pay is to lose the last bit of sanity I have left? Fucking count me in.” You laugh humourlessly at your last statement. You sniffle before looking down and whispering your last sentence.

“The worst thing is, I was ready to do it, to keep taking those pills and keep living in perpetual anxiety just so I could feel fully accepted for once. But I wasn’t strong enough, it was too much, it was so overwhelming. And sometimes I wondered, is that how people feel about me? Is that the feeling I cause to those who stuck by me? Because shit, if I was them I’d also be running for the hills.”

“I’m so sorry Michael, I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you, and you didn’t do anything wrong by telling me your limits. And the words you said did hurt, but I know you’re not a mean person, and I know you’ll try to convince me we can talk this through. But I won’t be able to handle the look on your face when you finally get up one day and realize you’re tired of me.” You broke completely toward the end, your decision making the loss you were about to experience feel too real, too tangible.

Michael’s eyes widened at the turn of events. This wasn’t where he’d assumed this was headed and he’d seen enough of his relationships to know what your words meant. That didn’t stop him from trying to prevent what seemed inevitable to you. Not this time, not with you.

He knew your words were right to some extent, god only knows he had his fair share of mental anguish to process and deal with. His days at the Pitt more often than not tested every last bit of his patience with unending staffing issues and a dire lack of resources, and that’s on top of the ever increasing amount of violence his staff had been made to deal with.

He was lying through his teeth when he said one must imagine Sisyphus happy. How could anyone be okay, let alone happy in this position? All he could do was stand there feeling utterly powerless and useless, knowing those counting on him to lead them, the colleagues he’s supposed to keep safe and protect, could at any moment lose their life to some idiot that’s too fucking grown to be lacking basic manners this badly, knowing all their legitimate fears were so easily preventable. Every rejected request for increased security and more staffing chipped away at his ability to keep doing this job. Every day he had to roll that boulder up an endless hill.

The resulting fried nerves and undealt with grief from this situation meant he wouldn’t always be able to afford you his full patience and attention. But he was trying, and for you he would keep trying. Meeting you and getting to know you is what allowed him to examine to what extent any positivity in his personal life was sucked out by the echo chamber he felt trapped in. It made him face the fact that he didn’t want that anymore. Life was already so short and fragile, he knew that better than anyone, he was ready to open himself up to new and better things and learn how to nurture and keep them. Within a week of knowing you, he’d taken up Abbot on his advice to seek out a therapist. He’d picked a different one, one better suited to his specific needs and to help him confront his years of emotional neglect towards himself.

He was finally starting to take care of himself, and he’s certain he wouldn’t have taken that first step if you two hadn’t crossed paths, if you hadn’t showered him with your love and extended him your kindness. He’ll be damned if he lets you leave without understanding your significance in his life, it’s not because he thinks he owes you, but because his love for you and your larger than life personality is the reason his heart’s still beating today.

“You listen to me and listen to me well, kid. This isn’t happening, you don’t get to bare yourself to me and take the easy way out by leaving because you’re afraid you’ll be rejected again. You don’t get to take away from me the only happiness I’ve been allowed to feel for the first time in god only knows how long. Your smile and warmth and the joy you seem to somehow always be able to carry despite how hurt I know you are, those are the things I look the most forward to coming to after spending my days wondering if what I’m doing is even helping anymore. Listening to whatever unhinged stories as you call them or new hyper fixation you choose to share with me that day is a fucking privilege to me. Getting to hear your voice, knowing you’re still here, still alive and still loving me, and god I realize how selfish that sounds, but that’s the only thing that keeps me going some days. Did you know you’re what encouraged me to finally seek help with my depression and PTSD? To start therapy? Abbot’s still annoyed at that by the way.” He had to momentarily look away after his attempt to deflect with humour how this was the first time he’d ever called his mental health issues by their real name. A significant step taken in the middle of this chaos. He misses your astonished expression brought on by the importance of his admission.

“Do you know how fucking empty and blank I am on days I know I won’t be able to see you? You don’t get to decide for me and assume I’d be fucking okay if you disappeared from my life, because I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.” His demeanour unraveled. His mind, having truly processed the scene in front of him, was panicking at the prospect of watching you walk out that door and never getting to see you come walk back in ever again. He cups your cheeks before making his final plea, imploring you to listen.

“We can find ways to talk to each other, better understand each other’s needs, but please kid, please don’t subject me to a life without you in it. I’m begging you.”

You both stand there never having felt more naked in your lives despite the layers of clothing covering your bodies. But no amount of fabric could shield you two from the emotional heaviness of the situation, from how the next few seconds would irreversibly shape your futures.

And so with the weight of the world sitting on your shoulders, you look at the only man you’ve ever loved unconditionally and choose to…

#michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #dr. robby #dr. robby x reader #dr robby #dr robby x reader #michael robby robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch fanfic #michael robinavitch fanfiction #dr robby fanfic #dr robby fanfiction #the pitt #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavich x you #dr robby x you #dr. robby x you #michaelrobinavitchmine

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joekitsu · 2 days ago

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OP your tags killed me I hope you know that-

Imagine worshipping your God your whole life, imagine watching him from a distance that you always feel like you could clear in one big jump but never dared to try to jump. Imagine devoting your life to his teachings. Pouring over them, following them, holding them higher than any standard you've ever had for yourself.

Imagine actually trying to reach him. Imagine going beyond your God and turning back to look at him and realise exactly who you have been worshipping as something untouchable. Realising he is not what you thought he was. He was reachable, touchable, and suddenly you see the ink that stains the pages forever. And suddenly you doubt him. Suddenly he's not on that pedestal you put him on. Suddenly his teachings are unwise, because you know better now, you've jumped past him, you go forth without looking back except you want to look back so bad it makes your neck hurt.

And then you finally do, if only to scream at him. Except for when he accepts it. He takes in your words and tells you that you were always better than him, cleaner than him, purer than him, holier than him. You were always meant to be more. A God in your own right.

And you don't know whether to let the molten warmth of his words flow through you or to cry blasphemy at the vile poison spilling from his lips.

Because he is still your God, perhaps fallen, perhaps not as all-seeing as he once was. But he still is. Perhaps not on the pedestal he once was on, but on a stage still.

The acknowledgment of your godhood might as well be the end of his. And are you quite ready for that?

Idk where I was going with this lmao-

Love that canonically the Batkids and Alfred all know when to clear out for a massive Bruce+Dick or Bruce+Jason fight. There’s a specific set to the shoulders you can see in both Dick and Jason when they’re about to challenge Bruce on something.

They literally square up like they’re about to physically fight, even though Bruce will never respond physically unless they start it first. Shoulders pushed back, spine straight, jaw clenched, chin down. The hands hover at the side in silent “what the fuck B” sign language.

You see Dick or Jason doing two or more of these things and Bruce is nearby or about to be nearby, you clear out.

#batman #bruce wayne #dc #batkids #batfamily #dick grayson #nightwing #Jason todd #red hood #hi batman fandom ig #something something you betray me like a god ill destroy you like i am #is this how i look at batman and nightwing? maybe #dick and bruce are soooooo unhealthy lord save them #or dont who cares #ahhhhhhh the god analogies and jason dying ohhhhhhhhh i need to be caged #it is when you devote yourself to something that you see the cracks #and when you see them you cant unsee it #the choice to continue believing is yours #questioning is healthy chat just dont be like em

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mocchiixxx · 3 days ago

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Words in Ruin Series # | 07 : Lee Jihoon (Woozi) 🍚

Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Breakdown, Reconciliation, Slow Realization

Warnings: Emotional yelling, miscommunication, insecurities, guilt, self-blame, heavy crying

Summary: To the world, Woozi is the quiet genius; the producer, the perfectionist, the heart of SEVENTEEN’s sound. But that brilliance comes at a cost. The sleepless nights, the endless revisions, the self-inflicted pressure to outdo himself, again and again, bleeds into every part of his life, even the part where he’s supposed to feel safe: with you. One night, when words snap and tears fall, he realizes music isn’t the only thing that needs harmony. And this time, he might have composed the most painful silence of all.

It was nearing 2:00 a.m. when you heard it, the unmistakable slam of a door echoing through the thin walls of the studio.

That wasn’t like him.

Lee Jihoon didn’t slam things. He didn’t raise his voice. He internalized. Drowned himself in arrangements and demo revisions until even time gave up trying to keep track of him. But tonight, something was unraveling.

You stood from the tiny studio couch you’d been quietly curled up on for the past two hours, watching him mix, waiting for a moment to speak, hoping he’d pause long enough to breathe. You carried over the still-warm cup of coffee you'd made for him earlier and cautiously opened the door.

“Jihoon?” you called gently.

He didn’t answer. He was hunched in front of the monitor, fingers clenched into fists, knuckles white.

“Ji…?” you stepped in slowly.

He finally spoke, but not to you— more to the air, to himself. “Why can’t I get this right?”

You placed the cup on the table beside him. “You’ve been working non-stop. Maybe you just need to step away for a bit to clear your head.”

“I can’t,” he said sharply. Then, quieter: “I don’t have time to rest.”

You blinked. “Jihoon, you haven’t eaten since lunch. You’ve barely spoken to me in days. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

He finally turned to face you, and the look in his eyes caught you off guard.

Frustration, yes, but also exhaustion… and something worse: fear.

“Don’t start this again,” he muttered. “Not tonight.”

Your chest tightened. “Start what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “The lectures. The concern. Like I’m a child who doesn’t know his limits.”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “I’m not lecturing you. I’m loving you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he snapped.

Silence...

Pain bloomed in your chest, sharp and fast.

Jihoon realized too late what he’d said. His mouth opened slightly, but no apology came out. Just silence.

You took a step back, eyes stinging. “You didn’t ask me to… But I did. I chose to stay. To wait. To be here. Because I care. And you’re throwing that back in my face?”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. You’ve never had millions of people waiting for your next track. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you produce is never good enough.”

“I don’t have to be a producer to know when someone is breaking,” you whispered. “You’re not a machine, Jihoon. You’re human. You can’t keep living like this, treating sleep like a privilege and love like a distraction.”

He stood now, face stormy. “So what? are you giving me an ultimatum now? You or the music?”

You shook your head slowly, tears finally slipping free. “No. I would never make you choose between me and the thing you love most. I just… I just wish I was somewhere on the list.”

His expression faltered.

You turned to leave. “I’ll go. Since being here is just getting in your way.”

He didn’t stop you.

Not immediately.

Because Jihoon didn’t know how to fix things that weren’t broken chords or off-beat rhythms. He could mend audio clips and rearrange harmonies, but heartbreak? Human emotion? You?

That scared him more than any production deadline ever could.

3:47 a.m.

The studio was quiet now.

The track sat on the screen, unfinished, unbalanced, and hollow.

Just like him.

The untouched cup of coffee still sat by the console. The one you made with tired hands and a hopeful heart.

He reached for it and finally felt the cold.

His fingers curled around the mug, and he swore he could still feel the warmth of you in it. That’s when the guilt hit him, fast, consuming, brutal.

He left the studio without saving the track.

He didn’t care anymore.

Back at the apartment, he pushed open the door gently, afraid of what he might find. Or worse— what he wouldn’t.

But you were there.

Curled up on the edge of the bed, hugging a pillow, your back to him. Small, quiet, still.

“Y/N…” he said, voice hoarse from more than just overuse.

You didn’t answer.

He moved closer, sitting carefully at the foot of the bed.

“I was wrong,” he whispered. “So, so wrong.”

Still, you said nothing. And somehow, that was worse than yelling.

“I took everything out on you when all you did was love me,” he continued, voice shaking. “I let the pressure get so loud that I stopped hearing the most important person in the room.”

You shifted slightly, but didn’t look at him.

“I told you I didn’t ask for your help,” he said softly. “But that wasn’t true. I needed it. I just didn’t know how to say it. I thought… if I let you see how messy I really am, you'd think less of me.”

Finally, your voice came... fragile and raw.

“Do you really think love only survives perfection?”

His head dropped.

“No,” he admitted. “But maybe… I thought I had to deserve you first. Like if I failed, if I cracked even a little… you’d see I wasn’t worth staying for.”

You turned to face him now, eyes swollen and cheeks damp. “I’ve already seen you crack, Jihoon. I stayed. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re you.”

He closed his eyes tightly. “I said such awful things tonight.”

“You did,” you said honestly. “And they hurt.”

A beat of silence.

“But… I also saw the man behind those words. The one drowning in expectations. The one who forgot that love isn’t supposed to be another performance.”

He reached for your hand, slowly and really carefully, like he was asking permission.

“I want to be better,” he said. “Not just for the fans. Not just for the group. For us. For you.”

You let him take your hand.

“I don’t need perfect tracks,” you said. “I need my Jihoon to come home. Even if he's tired. Even if he’s broken. Just… come home.”

Tears finally slipped from his eyes then.

Real, vulnerable tears.

He pulled you into him, burying his face in your neck like a child seeking shelter. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away. I was just… so lost.”

You stroked his back gently, feeling his shoulders tremble. “I know. But next time, don’t wait until we’re both falling apart.”

He pulled back, cupping your cheek. “Next time, I won’t. Next time, I’ll write us a better ending.”

You leaned into his touch, eyes glassy but steady.

“Or maybe,” you whispered, “we’ll compose one together.”

He smiled through the tears.

For the first time in weeks… he felt like breathing again.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

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lokiswifeduh · 2 days ago

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Hi! I just recently found your blog and love your work! I couldn’t see anywhere that said if your requests were open or closed, but if they’re closed, just ignore this. But I love the detail you put into your pieces, how you show what the different characters are thinking and the dialogue and how you involve multiple people. The ones I’ve read so far have also been very relatable and the way you write what the reader is going through is very realistic so anyway I was hoping to request something with Bucky and reader that is going through a tough time and really taking it out on herself. Like a depressive episode but she stops taking care of herself (self isolating, stops taking meds, stops eating, sleeps all day, can’t sleep at night, doesn’t want to shower, etc) so Bucky and the team step in to pick her back up. Even if she’s reluctant to it they don’t let her self destruct even if that’s what she’d rather do. You see the team and Bucky being concerned and trying to figure out what to do but eventually they get her to therapy, help her start eating, make sure she takes her meds, etc. This may be partially inspired by Thunderbolts* and partially inspired by current life events. 😬🙃

Take care of you

Pairings: Avengers!Bucky x Fem!Depressed!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been going through a rough patch, which has made you completely shut down and isolate yourself from your friends and family, including Bucky. But they're always there to pick you back up.

Warnings: ANGST, Self-destruction, talk of eating disorder, insomnia, sad!reader, neglectful Bucky (happy ending promise), self-isolation on the reader's part, depression, anxiety, arguing between Bucky and Reader, eventual fluff, use of Y/N.

WC: 1.9k

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!! I am definitely open to requests, and I loved writing this. I hope it's what you were hoping for! I LOVEEE writing/reading angst.

masterlist

It all started when Bucky got back from a particularly rough mission. Something had made him internally angry, and you were just there, taking the brunt of it. That was several weeks ago, and it hadn't gotten better.

"Will you just stop fucking nagging me?!" Bucky screamed, slamming his metal arm down on the countertop, making the corner of it split and crack.

You felt like your heart had cracked a small bit, just like the marble.

You stood there in silence, genuinely shocked at your boyfriend's outburst. You and Bucky had been either arguing or not speaking for weeks. Sleeping in the same bed, yet backs were turned toward each other.

You didn't know why. He wouldn't talk to you. But this, this was the final strike. Your mental wellbeing couldn't take any more. So you nodded, walking down the hall and slamming the door to your bedroom as you crawled into the safety of your bed. You smelled his sandalwood scent on your sheets, letting the tears fall freely. Hearing the door to your shared apartment in the tower slam, you let out a sob, crying yourself to sleep.

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Has anyone seen Y/n?" Natasha walked into the Avengers' shared kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and went to sit by Steve, who was filling out mission reports.

"She hasn't been out of our room yet?" Bucky questioned back, chopping up some vegetables for the stew he was helping Wanda make. He knew you loved her food and hadn't been feeling too well lately, so he knew her homemade beef stew would cheer you up...He hoped.

Steve glanced up, still filling out a report as he spoke, "What's going on with you guys, Buck? The energy is off between you two."

"The energy?" Natasha smirked, turning her head to Steve.

He rolled his eyes, looking back down at what he was doing, "Something the spidey kid taught me, I don't know."

Natasha laughed but looked back up at Bucky, "Seriously, what is going on? She hasn't been going on missions, I barely see her at team dinners, and Friday said she hasn't seen her pick up her prescription from Med Bay in weeks."

Bucky stopped chopping the celery, setting his knife down and looking at the redhead. "She hasn't been taking her meds?"

Natasha shook her head, "Have you seen her go to therapy lately?"

Now that Bucky was thinking about it, he hadn't. He hadn't paid attention to whether you were taking your meds or eating. He really hadn't noticed if you even came to bed most nights.

"I..." Bucky looked back down, continuing to chop the food, "We're just going through something right now, I'm sure it'll pass."

It didn't.

A week later and Natasha had had enough. You had stopped coming to the kitchen, opting to stay in bed all day. You had even started calling in for every mission Steve threw you on. Something was wrong.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked on the door, not hearing anything from the other side. A couple more knocks later, and she was fed up. Sliding a bobby pin from out of her braided hair, she slipped it into the lock and moved it around until she heard the gears unlock the door.

Walking into your shared apartment, she was shocked. The curtains were all shut, blacking out the living room. Dishes were untouched in the sink, and it looked like Bucky had made a permanent bed on the couch, his dog tags still lying beside the pillow.

Moving down the hall, she squinted in the darkness as she stopped in front of your door.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked, making your head snap up in response. Pulling your weak body from the bed, your raspy voice called out, "One sec."

Natasha silently let out a breath, thank god you were awake and she didn't have to unlock another door without your consent.

You slipped your feet into some house slippers and wrapped your robe around your body, tying it in the front so Natasha couldn't see how much weight you had lost.

Opening the door, you tried to smile as best you could. Nat could see through it, of course. "Hey, Nat, is everything okay?"

Natasha looked at you, like really looked at you. Your eyes were dull compared to the light that was usually there. Your cheekbones had sunken in a little, and the bags under your eyes were as dark as your room. The redhead gulped, "Why don't we come in here and talk for a minute?" You wanted to decline, opting to go back to bed, but it was Natasha; you knew she was only being nice and not giving you tough love for your benefit.

"Y-yeah, okay." Closing the bedroom door behind you, you both made your way down the hall and into the kitchen. Natasha flipped on the light, making your eyes water as you hadn't been around anything compared to daylight in more than a few days.

"How about I make you something to eat? A sandwich? Or even some pasta?" Natasha kept talking over your mumbling protests, knowing she was making you food whether you wanted it or not.

You sighed, sitting silently as you watched her pull out some sandwich meat and a loaf of bread; surprisingly not molded out by now.

"Nat?" She stopped, looking at you with worried eyes. "What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and handed it to you, "We're worried, Y/n."

She was about to continue when Bucky opened the door, making you drop your head and stare at your lap as you played with your nails. You hadn't really talked to him, let alone see how far gone you were. He didn't seem to care, so you thought.

"Doll?" Bucky walked over, making Natasha move from her seat and continue working on the food she was preparing for you. "Honey, can you look at me?" You did, bringing your eyes to his ocean blue ones.

His heart dropped seeing the dark circles under your eyes, paired with the way you looked like you had lost half of your body weight. Tears came to your eyes as you saw the way he looked at you.

"You hate me."

"W-what? Why would you ever say that, doll? I don't hate you." Bucky cupped your slender cheek with his hand, his heart cracking even more from those three words you spoke.

"You won't talk to me, I-I realize i'm not physically attractive to you anymore and I nag you and-" "Shh, doll, stop." Bucky quietly calmed you down, "What are you talking about?"

Natasha quietly stepped out after putting the plate of food up on the kitchen island next to you, wanting to give you and Bucky some privacy.

"I don't know, I've just been...not myself lately, and I don't know what to do anymore, Buck." You nuzzled your hand into his palm, feeling the tears seep down your cheeks as he held your head up.

"Have you been taking your meds?" You shook your head.

He sighed, "When was the last time you ate something or even slept a full night?" You stared blankly at his chest, genuinely trying to think. "I don't remember."

Bucky silently moved forward, kissing the crown of your head. "I should've paid more attention sweetheart, I'm sorry."

You started to protest before he shook his head. "No, there's no excuse. I should've seen what was going on, and I didn't. I'm so sorry, doll."

You let your body melt into his as you cried, listening as he apologized over and over. His hand rubbed up and down your back as your tears soaked his shirt. He could feel the bones of your spine as he comforted you, hurting his heart even more.

He knew he could fix this. He would bring you out of this hole you had fallen into, even if it's the last thing he did.

"So what do we do?" Natasha spoke up. Everyone on the team was sitting in the lounge as Bucky walked in, having just tucked you into bed after holding you for hours. It was in the middle of the night, but with your mental wellbeing on the line, no one cared if their sleep schedule was a little messed up.

"Do we take her somewhere to get help? Like an in-patient situation?" Sam asked, making Bucky shake his head. "I'm not sending her away. She's depressed, she doesn't need to think we don't want her here." The team nodded, making Tony suggest, "What about getting her back into therapy and making sure she's taking her medication?" "I thought she was already in therapy." Wanda looked up at Bucky.

"She is, well, is supposed to be. I got an email from her therapist saying she hasn't come in for the last fifteen sessions."

"What about someone new?" Steve offered, "Sam, don't you know some people you used to work with over at the Veterans Center?"

"I might know a couple, but she's not a Veteran Steve, they only take people who've been victims of war."

"We have some contacts in different offices for Shield Agents who might take her even though she's on the team." Tony took a swig of his drink, feeling hurt over the whole situation. You were like a daughter to him, and he had been so caught up in his work lately, he never noticed.

"A female therapist." Bucky spoke up, "She'd only talk to a woman."

Tony nodded, pulling out his phone, "I'll see who I can find. Just make sure she goes."

A WEEK LATER

"It's gonna be okay, doll." Bucky sat in the waiting room with you, holding your hand as you shook your knee up and down anxiously.

You nodded, looking around as the entire team had come to support you. Natasha, Steve, Sam, Tony, and Wanda were all sitting with you, taking up almost the entire waiting room as other clients sat in awe of the Avengers next to them.

The past week had been hard but good. Sam got you out of the house and took you on a drive upstate.

Natasha got you back into the gym and helped you regain some strength.

You helped Tony out in the lab, holding a flashlight as he worked, even though he had robots that could easily have helped.

Wanda talked to you as you sat in the kitchen, watching her cook meals for the team.

And Bucky. Bucky was the one who made you start to feel like yourself again. He took you on picnics near the newly made compound. He made sure you were taking your meds and would help you wash your hair when you didn't have the energy.

Bucky held you at night like you would suddenly slip away. He kissed you with such gentleness that you believed you didn't deserve.

As the therapist called your name, you stood up on shaky legs, turning towards Bucky. "I promise I'm fine, I don't need to go, Bucky please."

"Doll," Bucky shushed you and placed a hand on your jaw, "I just want you to feel better, and this is a part of that." He kissed you softly on the lips, "We're all here for you. Every single one of us will be here when you get finished, and we'll be here to support you."

You wanted to object, but you knew you needed the help. Sighing reluctantly, you kissed Bucky once more before he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

"I'll always be here, doll. I'll always take care of you." -

masterlist

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erwinsvow · 3 days ago

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being popes wife while he’s in prison means the most world shattering sex when he gets out he is not gonna stop for HOURS you really would just have to let him get it out of his system and fuck you into a coma

this actually made me like almost faint i'm not even kidding. i'm just gonna set aside the internal worry i have that nothing i write for him makes any sense or is out of character and just write about this for a minute thank you -> i wrote this like a week ago and never answered and look how far we've come so i'm gonna post it because this is the anon that started it all!!!! wherever you are thank you!!

in my perfect little world he would go to his old apartment first, before going to the house. you, his perfect little wife, would be the devoted type who came to visit him once a week, once every two weeks if you really had to. it's a really long drive but it was always worth it to you. the type who without fail asks his family if anyone wants to come with you this week. in my little au i would make her a nurse who works three on, four off and she uses those four to go visit pope, sometimes staying overnight in some hotel and then visiting again the next day before she drives home. as much as it means to pope that you would drive so long to see him week after week, i don't think he would like it. he would think it's too dangerous for you to drive eight hours by yourself, that it's dangerous to visit him when there's so many leering, unbelieving eyes that this is the wife that pope's been hiding back at home. and i think he wouldn't want you to see him like this, even though you're just moping at home, that this is the part of each week you look forward to. i don't know, maybe even after a year of marriage before he got arrested and the time you've been going to visit him, pope can't process that there is someone in his life who loves him this much. that he's not a burden, that you're not scared, that you do all of this willingly just to see him and hold his hand for a couple of hours, that you're always in tears when it's time for you to go home, that you answer his calls immediately, even if you're at work.

so you can imagine the kind of loyalty he has to you, since he's seen firsthand the kind of love you have for him. so when he gets parole, he doesn't tell you about it. doesn't want to get your hopes up like he did last time, and then he had to break the news to you over the phone and listen to you cry for the rest of the allotted time, and go back to his cell with the realization that you're still at home crying and there's nothing he can do to help you. so he keeps it quiet, drives himself home with the windows rolled down so he can hear the ocean again, thinking about the face you'll make when he's in front of you again. and fuck if it doesn't live up to every expectation he's had in his head for the last three years. the way you look in the comfort of your shared home, not just dressed up for him inside the barren prison. you're probably doing something that's part of your routine, the one he's had memorized since the two of you got together, cleaning up from breakfast and baking something since it's saturday.

you freeze when you hear the door open. pope's brothers usually tell you if they're swinging by, but they normally never come around unless they need you to stitch one of them up or something. you don't think they had any jobs planned for today, but then again, you could be wrong. but it's not loud enough to be them, you'd hear cursing and shouting and screaming if it was. a little stupidly, you step out of the kitchen towards the front door, without so much as a weapon to defend yourself. but you have this hope, that one day your husband will walk through those doors again like you haven't been living alone for the last three years.

today is the day your wish came true. and he does love your expression, wants to memorize it so it can never truly leave his mind. but what's better is when the two of you get into bed because he has no intentions of getting out of bed, because he has a lot to make up for. three missed birthdays—yours and his, three wedding anniversaries (and three other anniversaries, the first day you two met). all the times he should have been there for you when you had a bad day at work or got anxious around his family or needed him there, like when your car wouldn't start or the breaker short-circuited and the power went out. i've talked enough about pope and wifey's sex life, but same as the show, he goes to smurf's house after. someone asks him where you are. "i'll bring her by tomorrow. she couldn't walk."

EXCUSE-

#📮 asks #pope cody #sorry this took so long to answer!!! my brain kept going blank because i loved this prompt so much. i love you

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thirdsaltyhunter · 3 days ago

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Morning After

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: you're feeling a lot of feels the morning after you and Dean admit your feelings for each other

Warnings: fluff, cuddles, slight angsty thoughts, happy sadness? very slight implications of smut

You slowly drifted awake, your eyes adjusting to the low light in the bedroom. You felt warm and relaxed. The night before had been filled with love and passion, making up for so many years of pining. And it was now morning and he was still here. No one night stand like you were used to. No awkward goodbye. No leaving in the middle of the night. He was still here. Still asleep next to you and that made your chest tighten.

His arms were wrapped around your middle, your back pressed against his chest and you felt safe. And that made you want to cry, because in the hunting life, you rarely felt truly safe. You turned in his arms, slowly as to not wake him and your gaze landed on his sleeping form. He looked equally peaceful and that also made you want to cry.

You watched him sleep for a few minutes, watching his steady breathing. You hoped he wouldn't wake up just yet, because you knew he would tease you about being creepy. Smiling at the thought, you slipped gently form the bed. You were going to grab a cup of coffee and try to shake off all the emotions you were feeling.

The night before, he had told you he loved you and you still couldn't quite wrap your head around that. You realized that maybe you had been broken for a long time and hadn't realized it until those words healed something in you.

When you reached the bunker's kitchen, Sam was already seated at the table, scrolling on his laptop, coffee in hand. You gave him a wave as you poured a cup for yourself. When you turned back to him, he had an expectant look on his face, clearly wanting you to tell him about the conversation you and Dean had had the night before. Sam, bless him, had been your wingman for years, urging you to admit your feelings. You had always been too scared. You felt a little silly for that now. You guess you'd have to tell Sam he was right.

You laughed softly at how excited he was for both of you and promised him you would tell him everything later. You poured another cup of coffee for Dean and headed back to the bedroom.

You set the mugs on the nightstand and crawled back in bed, causing Dean to stir. He immediately pulled you back into his hold.

"Where'd you go", he asked, voice gravelly from sleep, eyes still closed.

"I brought coffee."

"You're amazing." He nuzzled his head in your neck causing you to laugh.

You felt him smile against you and you had the thought that, in this moment, you were truly happy and you don't think that you've been truly happy in a long time. You didn't know how long this would last, given that you had yet to deal with the fact that Dean now has the Mark, but you would savor this moment for as long as possible. You didn't know what a relationship with Dean would look like, but you had him. After so many years of wanting him you finally had him and there was a little comfort in knowing that whatever came next, you would face it together.

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean x reader fluff #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x reader fluff

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gooner127 · 2 days ago

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back 2 u - lee jeno

word count- 861

summary- you and jeno dated for about three years. broken up multiple times, he says he’ll change but never does and everytime you take him back, not this time though!!! you’re tired of his lies and his bullshit so you finally stand up for yourself in hopes that he’ll move on and finally give you the peace you’ve been needing.

w- cussing, angst and idk

authors note- hai guys i tried angst also based it off back 2 u one of 127s best songs of course!!! jeno take the damn hint bruh🥀 but uhm enjoy please😛 also for @neogotmysam who requested jeno for angst!!!

01:27 AM

you wake up to the sound of your phone ringing for the 5th time that night. you sigh and reach for your phone about to decline until you read the contact name ‘jeno.’, with slight hesitation and a groan you answer the call rubbing your eyes and running your hand through you hair.

“y/n plea-“ jeno opens his mouth to speak but you quickly cut him off. “jeno, don’t do this.” you manage to say with a groggy voice.

jenos voice is shaky, sounds like he has been crying. “baby, please. i can change for you i swear just give me sometime to get everything together then it’ll all go back to normal yeah? sounds good right? that’s what you want for everything to be ho-“

“jeno stop.” you cut him off once again. “you say that every single time. when have you actually changed? no, no, when have you actually put the effort into changing? you always say “oh baby i’ll change i swear” but you never fucking do. it’s the same bullshit over and over again and i am tired, exhausted of letting you walk all over me.”

that’s when he finally stays quiet. “..i..” “you what jeno? what’s your excuse this time? is it finally something different and believable or is it the same bullshit you’ve fed me the past three years? i’m serious jeno i’m not doing this anymore, i’m not going back. not to you.”

pushing through sniffles and shakiness jeno opens his mouth again. “please just he-“

you groan loud enough for him to hear you, holy shit he can’t take a hint. “stop calling me. stop coming by my place. stop looking for me. you have to let it go jeno. you’re making this worse for the both of us. move on. let me go. you’ve done this way too many times and i fall for it each time. every single fucking time i’m left hurt and feeling like shit, i don’t want that anymore. stop trying. i’m not letting the cycle repeat itself again. this, us, it’s already over. there is no place left for you.” you managed to choke the last part out, this hurts to say the more you think. one little part of you wants to take jeno back but you know you shouldn’t, it’ll end up like every single other time. he wont change. so you need to.

silence after that. you can hear a pin drop kind of quiet. after multiple calls every night, hundreds of desperate messages, showing up at your apartment about two times a week, he’s quiet. his mouth is shut. he has nothing left to say. it breaks your heart a little feeling as if you were too harsh, well then you get out of that haze and remember the hell he put you through.

the next thirty seconds are in silence just you, your mind and jenos shaky breathing. you’re pulled out of your thoughts when jeno opens his mouth to speak, his voice cracking.

“..i..i..i-i’m.. s..sorry.” took him about 10 seconds to just say those two words. “i..i’m sorry for pushing my luck. i should’ve backed off the second you told me to…stop.”

you immediately talk after him. “you’re hard headed. one thing that bothered me about you at times. i get that..you want us to give it another try but that’s not going to happen jeno. i’ve given you so many chan-“

he cuts you off this time. “and i’ve fucked them all up i know. i’m the dumbass but i can’t help how i am no matter how hard i try.”

you sigh. “which is why i’m not taking you back jeno. you never actually change. you don’t try to and you don’t want to. you saying ‘i can’t help how i am’ doesn’t help your pleas. you could’ve put an effort into wanting to be a better person but you never have. what we used to have is no more. it’s gone. it wont happen again. you need to let me go and go our separate ways. stop contacting me jeno. please.”

like always jeno opens his mouth and you’re back to square one. “please i’m serious i can change, were so good together and you know it too. i can’t live without you i love you.” you can hear him crying more as he continues to speak “please y/n just once more, i can’t do this i need you here with me i wont be me anymore without you. i’m sorry for being a dick take me back, one more chance i’ll do anything i’ll put an effort into changing just like you want i swear. please i don’t know what more you want fro-“

you can’t handle it anymore, you grab your phone and hang up the call. hearing him saying the same phrases that you’ve been an idiot to and believed made you so fucking irritated.

he calls you again. you decline.

once more jeno calls. you decline, you click his contact and block his number. maybe this way you’ll finally get the peace you’ve hoped for because one thing is for sure, you’re not going back.

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callikari · 2 days ago

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OFF ╰┈➤ THE SCRIPT

PRECIS 。 "then let's write something new."

김순우 x fem!reader 648 fluff co-stars to lovers ─ mild emotional tension mutual pining very soft and safe ( no angst !! ) made this for my @saefy > <

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

it starts with a casting call.

you get the role of the female lead in a coming-of-age romance drama — your biggest break yet. and the male lead?

kim sunoo.

idol-turned-actor, known for his expressive eyes, soft voice, and a smile that makes your director go, “he doesn’t even have to speak. he just feels like a love story.”

you’re nervous.

not because he’s famous — though he is — but because the script says you’re supposed to fall in love with him.

and you’re worried you might do it too easily.

from the beginning, sunoo is easy to like.

he remembers everyone’s coffee orders on the first day of filming. calls you by your character’s name even off-set, just to help you “stay in the zone.” makes silly faces behind the camera to help you nail your crying scene.

he’s professional. thoughtful. kind.

he’s also infuriatingly good at what he does.

in every scene where he’s supposed to look at you like he’s falling in love, you find yourself holding your breath.

because it feels real.

like you’re not acting at all.

one night, you’re filming a scene on a rooftop — your characters’ first kiss. the script says you’re supposed to hesitate, nervous, unsure… until you look at him. and everything changes.

“trust me,” he whispers, in character.

you look into his eyes.

and for a second, you forget the cameras.

you don’t kiss for real that night — the scene cuts right before — but something shifts.

afterward, when you’re both sitting on folding chairs with script pages in your laps, sunoo nudges your knee gently.

“you okay?”

you nod. “just tired.”

he looks at you for a second longer. “you’re doing really well. i hope you know that.”

you blink. “thanks. i’ve been trying not to mess up your close-ups.”

he laughs. “my close-ups are better when you’re in them.”

your heart stutters. you hope he can’t hear it.

weeks pass. the drama wraps. the last scene is quiet, bittersweet — your characters walk separate ways in the rain, looking back only once.

the director yells “cut,” and the crew claps. the project is over.

but sunoo doesn’t move.

he’s still looking at you.

and even when they hand you flowers and you smile for press photos and thank the writers and staff, a small part of you keeps circling back to that moment on the rooftop. that almost-kiss. the look in his eyes when the cameras stopped rolling.

you don’t expect to see him again so soon.

but a few days later, he texts you:

sunoo: hey.

sunoo: i found a spot that looks exactly like the fake cafe we filmed at.

sunoo: wanna grab coffee and pretend we’re still acting?

you laugh, but your fingers tremble when you type:

you: only if i get to order for you this time.

sunoo: deal. but i’m paying. actor privilege.

the cafe is small and quiet. sunoo sits across from you with his chin resting on his hand, smiling like he already knows how this ends.

you stir your drink to keep your hands busy.

“do you miss filming?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah. weirdly a lot.”

“me too.”

there’s a pause.

then he says, “i kept thinking about that rooftop scene.”

you look up.

his voice is soft. “i wasn’t acting.”

you freeze.

his eyes meet yours, warm and nervous.

“i mean, i was,” he adds, “but only because it felt easy with you. too easy. like it was already there.”

your chest tightens. “sunoo…”

he laughs nervously. “sorry. i know this is out of nowhere. i just didn’t want the drama to be the end of our story.”

you take a breath.

reach across the table.

and smile.

“then let’s write something new.”

falling in love on set was never part of the script.

but you’re pretty sure the real story is even better.

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @ijustreallylike2read @manariees @ijustwannareadstuff20

vi says :: i'm sorry guys this was so rushed TT

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ivvyw · 2 days ago

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Less than nothing | Vinnie Hacker

pairing: vinnie hacker x fem!reader

summary: some promises are meant to be broken.

warnings: angst, mean Vinnie

─── ୨୧ ───

No feelings, nothing. Just touches and lust.

Because you didn’t want a relationship. You didn’t want flowers, forehead kisses or sweet, little dates.

You wanted someone to remind you that you were real. That you were worth a lot more than everyone thought.

And he wanted someone to see him as him. Not as person on the internet. Just him, Vinnie.

That was all. And you both agreed on the rules.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew where this would go from the begging.

The touches, words of lust and looks of desire suddenly weren’t enough.

You wanted more.

You didn’t know when it all changed. When it all went wrong. Maybe when he held your hand during your first tattoo. Or maybe the way he held you when you cried your heart out.

Maybe it was the fact he was the only person, who made you feel…something.

Or the way he talked to you. Voice so sweet and full of honey. Like you were a little girl, that’d start crying if he’d talk a different way.

You weren’t sure.

But all of sudden, you craved those forehead kisses, just because flowers and dates that weren’t your cup of coffee before.

Because maybe, it’d be nice. Maybe all those romantic and cliche things were actually nice.

And you were missing out on something, that would make you feel better.

You were sitting on your bed, your sheets around your naked body as you stared at him.

Your eyes disappointed, even though you knew it’d end up this way. As it always did.

He moved his gaze to you, putting his jeans back on. As he let out a sigh, you knew exactly what he’d say.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby”

He mumbled out in that low voice of his. The one he used in bed, when he whispered in your ear about how good you were.

You looked away from him for a second, your hand moving to your neck to play with the necklace around it.

You kept quiet, only the sound of his belt could be heard, as he buckled it.

“You know, we don’t have to do this anymore if you don’t want to.“

He let out, looking at you.

And you moved your gaze to him too, shaking your head.

“No, it’s not that”

And he knew what this was about, he knew what was going on in that pretty head of yours.

But he didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t want to hear it from you. It’d be too real.

And he didn’t want real.

You took a deep breath, looking down for a moment before back at him.

“Is this-“

You started, trying to calm your racing heart down. Your voice shaking, just like your hands.

“Is this just fun to you?”

You finally got out of yourself, looking at him with hope in your eyes.

And he knew what that look meant.

He let out a sigh, reaching out for his shirt. But he kept quiet. And that made you mad.

“Is this just a way to fill your free time?”

You threw another question at him, titling your head to the side.

He got his shirt on, looking at you now.

“Don’t do that”

“Don’t do what? I want to know what this is for you. I want you to tell me what I mean to you”

“We agreed on something, baby.”

His tone was serious now, making you regret everything you said. Making you regret even starting this conversation.

“I know.”

You let out quietly, looking down at your hands.

“You told me you didn’t want anything serious. That’s why this all started. We both wanted the same. No feelings, just sex”

He had his shirt on now, looking at you. His voice harsher than you ever heard.

And you understood him. Because he was right.

You looked away from him, not being able to look him in the eyes.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on in your mind”

He started, sighing as he grabbed his keys that were on your desk.

“But it isn’t what we agreed on”

And with that, he left. The only thing you could hear was the front door being shut, meaning he was gone.

Like a shadow. Like a one night stand that you met in a bar, flirted with him and invited him over for some fun.

But this wasn’t fun.

Well, not anymore.

─── ୨୧ ───

HIII, MY LOVES.

let me know if you like it because I’m already working on pt.2.

Or if I should write something else.

Maybe you can give me some requests!!

thank you so much for supporting.

Love you all ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

#vinnie hacker #vinnie hacker x reader #vinnie hacker x you #vinniehackerxfemreader #vinnie hacker angst #vincent hacker #vinnie hacker fluff

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0ogiebo0gie · 3 days ago

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Sally face x

Pregnant!Reader

headcanons!

Request from @larrrrryjohnson! I had a lot of fun writing this, thankyou!

Another lil bit, I know Travis is canonically gay, and i'm a she/they so in my mind, Pregnant!Reader is a surrogate for him. But transmascs exsist, so i never outwardly said that was what's going on. Implement yourself however you please! Anyway 🔽🔽🔽

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✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Sal Fisher:

The pregnancy wasn’t planned. You both had agreed on a kid-free life—or so you thought.

Deep down, Sal always wanted to be a dad. He just didn’t think he deserved to be one.

He cries for days after you tell him. Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears. Soft, silent, endless tears.

Becomes ridiculously protective—he’s always been gentle, but now it’s extreme caretaking mode. I’m talking he won’t let you carry anything heavier than a sock. Overdresses you if it’s even slightly cold: “Just in case.” Spoon-feeds you. Puts you on “bed rest” even when you insist you’re fine.

Likes pressing the scarred side of his face to your belly so the baby can “feel” him before they see him.

Secretly terrified the baby will be scared of him. Never says it directly, but you know. Sometimes you wake up at night and he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, deep in thought, quiet and anxious.

“You’re doing it again,” “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” “I don’t mind,” you say. “But you should come back to bed. I'm cold without you behind me.” “I was just... thinking.” “C’mere, Sal.” He crawls back under the blankets without protest, but you tug him into a proper hug, his body fitting around your bump like a puzzle piece. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m scared they’ll be afraid of me,” he whispers. “When they see me.” “Then they’ll learn to see you the way I do,” you whisper. “They’ll grow up hearing your voice, feeling your hands, and knowing your heart. That’s what they’ll know first. Not the mask. Not the scars. You.” “…I sing to them,” he admits, sheepishly. “When you’re asleep.” “I know,” you say with a little smile. “I pretend to be asleep so you’ll keep doing it.” He groans and buries his face in your shoulder, embarrassed and pink at the tips of his ears. You guide his hand to your stomach, where a gentle flutter stirs under the skin. “They know you, Sal. Already.”

He goes to Henry (his dad) constantly for advice—especially about your cravings. Henry shows him recipes Sal’s mom used to love while pregnant. It becomes a bonding ritual.

Sal sings to your bump all the time. Quiet lullabies, soft melodies. He hopes his voice will comfort the baby.

Gives you full-body massages every night. From your feet to your scalp. No skipping, no exceptions.

Likes sleeping as the big spoon so he can wrap his arms around the baby bump—it calms him.

If you even hint at discomfort, he’s already adjusting pillows, making tea, or Googling something with terrifying intensity.

Refuses to let you feel guilty for anything—your moods, cravings, sleep schedule. "You’re building a person. You win. Every time."

Keeps a small music player on your belly sometimes so the baby can hear his guitar playing, calling it “band practice.”

He starts writing songs again—soft, private things he never plans to share. Some are for you, some for the baby, some just for himself.

He pulls out old tapes from the band and plays them quietly for the baby—even the rough demos—just so they can “hear Uncle Larry.”

Labour and Birth!

The first sign something’s happening is a sharp gasp and a hand on your belly—Sal’s immediately at your side, asking “Are you okay?” on repeat, fumbling with his phone and the hospital bag in a panic. But before you can even answer, there’s a sudden gush—your water breaks right there. He freezes. Then he starts crying—tears of excitement, fear, love—all while rushing around trying to get ready.

In his panic, he forgets a few minor essentials: his prosthetic mask, his shoes, and oh yeah, his pants. So there you are, in your sleep shirt, soaked in amniotic fluid, and Sal, in just a hoodie and boxers, barefoot and frantic as he speeds down the road well over the limit. You're breathing like the books told you, and Sal's knuckles are white on the wheel.

The second you arrive, he picks you up bridal style and bolts inside, still pantless. When you’re in the delivery room, he doesn't leave your side for a second. He's holding your hand, breathing with you, whispering affirmations through tear-choked words. When the moment finally comes and you’re handed your baby girl—tiny, crying, with tufts of thin blue hair—Sal places a trembling hand on your arm.

She’s crying… but as soon as her head rests against your chest, she stops.

Then a shadow crosses his expression—fear. What if she’s scared of me? What if the scars… what if it’s too much?

But you meet his eyes and silently beg him to come closer. Your daughter opens hers, looking between you both—no fear, no tears, just quiet wonder. He reaches out, hand shaking, and gently touches her head.

She’s perfect.

And as he finally cradles her in his arms, the weight of the world seems to fall away. It’s clear in that moment—he was born for this.

════════════════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Larry Johnson:

The pregnancy was kinda planned, but also kind of not—it started with, "Hey, babez, do you wanna have a kid?" and you were just like "I wouldn't mind a kid." Then BAM! baby is conceived.

He was right there in the bathroom when you peed on the test. When it came back positive, you both jumped for joy—until he promptly told you to stop, "We want a baby, not a milkshake! you're giving little dude-or dudette, motion sickness, bea."

From then on? Feet up, snacks ready, Larry’s your loyal servant. Except for cooking. Cooking is not his ministry.

Constantly has his ear on your belly. If the baby kicks? He weeps into your stomach like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Told EVERYONE immediately—bounding up like a puppy, showing you off like you’re Peter Steele’s bass guitar.

He constantly puts headphones on your belly and plays Sanity Falls. “Gotta teach ‘em the classics,” he says, totally serious about it.

Every two weeks, he paints you nude—capturing the way your body changes, worshipping every detail. You were shy at first, but over time, it became your favourite kind of love letter.

You tug at the edge of your robe. “Larry, I really don’t feel like—my skin’s all weird today and I’ve got that stupid puffy face thing going on—” “Babe.” He kneels in front of you, resting his warm hands on your thighs. “I need you to understand something.” You raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “I’m not painting you because you’re some perfect porcelain goddess or whatever,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I mean—don’t get me wrong, you are—but that’s not the point.” “Then what is the point?” He leans forward, presses a kiss just under your belly button. “It’s you. Us. All of this. Your stretch marks, the way your body’s changing, the little frown you get when you’re feeling insecure. I love it all. I want our kid to grow up and see these paintings and know how much I adored you through all of it.” You blink at him, heart all gooey and sore. “And if I don’t keep doing this,” he adds, half-smiling as he grabs the brush again, “I’m gonna forget what this exact version of you looked like—and that would be the real crime.” You sigh, loosen the robe. “You’re lucky I love you.” Larry grins, already sketching. “I know.”

Your expanding belly button sends him into hysterics. He pokes it constantly and kisses it every time he walks by, like it’s your stomach’s little nose.

Skincare days stay a common occurrence(if not more often)— but now he puts a face mask on your bump and wraps a headband around it like it's a spa guest.

When he told his mom, he broke down crying. Not from fear—but because he realised this was something he’d dreamed of giving her since he met you.

He always sleeps facing you, one hand under your cheek, one hand on your belly. He says it helps him feel close to both of you.

If you even think you’re having contractions, he’s dropping everything and sprinting home. He’ll ghost friends, call in from work, climb out a window if he has to.

When you’re throwing up from morning sickness, he’s right there holding your hair and whispering you through it. You’re flushed, sweating, miserable—and still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

He makes everyone touch your belly if you’re okay with it. He wants the whole world to know how special this is.

He paints a mural in the nursery—stars, skeletons, and one massive sun—just like the ones he used to draw with his mom. It’s his way of passing childhood magic forward.

Labour and Birth!

Somehow, Larry just knows. He’s been saying for days, “Babez, I think it’s gonna be soon,” and obsessively checking the hospital bags by the door. Then, in the middle of the night, you bolt upright—and Larry’s instantly awake.

“Larry… I think you were right.”

No panic. Just game face.

He throws on the outfit he’s dubbed “Meeting Mini Bae,” helps you clean up and change into something comfortable, and hauls the bags to the car like he’s trained for this moment. The whole drive over, he’s grinning, throwing out “WOO!”s between red lights, and hyping you up like you're on your way to a concert. Once at the hospital, he doesn’t bother parking straight—he’s too busy carrying you through the doors like Simba, shouting, “I need the doctor who's gonna make me a daddy!”

In the delivery room, he’s glued to your side. Hand in yours, smiling like a maniac, cheering you on between pushes. And when your baby boy is finally in your arms—with a full head of hair and a little mole on the opposite cheek from Larry’s—he breaks out into a full-blown victory dance. Headbanging. Jumping. Nearly slipping on the tile.

You’re about to ask why the baby isn’t crying—but instead, you hear soft laughter. Your son is laughing, watching his dad like he’s the funniest person in the world.

Larry doesn’t wait long. He gently takes him from your arms, cradles him close, and starts humming the lyrics to Sacrifice by Sanity Falls under his breath. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so tired.

Larry eases onto the bed beside you, still in awe, as if he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He lifts the baby boy up with a reverent grin, whispering, “Babez. Look at him. He’s perfect.”

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Ashley Campbell:

You weren't sure if Ash wanted kids, but the day you brought it up, she agreed so fast, it shocked you! And when you told her you were pregnant, her eyes widened with wonder—she hugged you so tightly you almost fell over. She whispered, “We’re gonna be so good at this,” like she already knew your baby was in good hands.

Ash is endlessly sweet, but she takes charge in the best way. She brings you snacks before you know you're hungry and organizes doctor visits with militant precision—but all out of love. You never have to ask for anything, because she's already halfway done doing it.

She loves massaging your back and feet, but never makes a show of it. It’s just part of her routine now—grabbing lotion, propping your legs up, quietly kneading the day’s stress out of your body while humming to your bump. She thinks your comfort is non-negotiable.

When you get emotional or anxious, she’s the calm to your storm. She wraps you in her arms, talks in a soft voice, and reminds you that you're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling. Her gentle reassurance is like a weighted blanket for your soul.

Ash is obsessed with your baby bump. She’ll cuddle up to it like it’s a separate person already, holding conversations with the “little one” while rubbing circles on your skin. Sometimes she even tells your bump secrets, like “Your mama is the bravest person I know.”

She’s a bit superstitious about health stuff. Like making you wear socks on cold floors because “pregnant feet are sacred,” and buying every fruit that supposedly helps with brain development. You’re not sure it works—but you’ve never eaten this well in your life.

Ash starts knitting. Badly. She's never knit a thing in her life, but she insists your baby will wear a handmade hat, even if it looks like a squished jellyfish. It's endearing as hell watching her cuss under her breath with pink yarn tangled around her fingers.

She paints little stars and vines around the crib. It’s a soft, homey touch, and she always invites you in for feedback—“Should I add a moon here?”—but you love whatever she does. It smells like paint and lavender when you fall asleep in her lap.

She’s deeply protective of you, in quiet, feral ways. If someone makes an insensitive comment, she’ll glare them into silence. If a doctor dismisses your discomfort, she’ll be firm but respectful, and always advocate for you like a warrior with a clipboard.

Every morning, she presses a kiss to your belly and says, “Morning, starshine.” It doesn’t matter if you’re throwing up or cranky or tired—she still does it, as if to remind you both how precious this chapter is. You start to look forward to it more than coffee.

Ash gently rests her hand on your growing belly, her thumb softly tracing circles on your skin. She smiles, eyes glistening as she whispers, “Good morning, little starshine.” You chuckle, half-sleepy, and press your head back into the pillow. “Morning, hon,” you murmur, sleep still thick in your voice as she brings her lips to your temple. Ash leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your belly, “You’re gonna be perfect, you know that?” she says, voice tender but full of certainty. “Like, the perfect little human.” You grin, turning your head to meet her eyes, “Perfect little human? What, like their mom?” She laughs softly, her fingers running over your bump. “No,” she says, pretending to be serious. “They’ll be perfect because they have you to teach them everything they need to know. I’ll just be the backup dancer.” You laugh, reaching out to tug her closer. “I think you’re the main event, Ash.” Her grin is as warm as the morning light flooding through the window. “Why don’t we both take centre stage then.”

She documents the pregnancy with Polaroids. But she never forces you to pose—instead, she catches you laughing, sleeping, wearing mismatched socks and talking to the belly. The photos are messy and real, and she keeps them in a shoebox labelled “Our Universe.”

She plays soft music in the mornings, classical or instrumental post-rock. Says it helps “set the baby’s vibe for the day.” You both end up lying on the couch, her hand on your bump, half-asleep in a sunbeam while Explosions in the Sky hums in the background.

Ash will happily carry everything you even look at for more than a second. You reached for a bag of rice once and she practically threw her back out trying to beat you to it. “That’s not a craving, that’s a lifting hazard,” she muttered.

She reads every queer parenting blog she can find. Half the bookmarks on your shared browser are titles like Lesbian Moms & Lactation Tips and Raising Baby in a Gay Way: Pride from Day One. She wants your baby to grow up knowing that love built their world.

Ash insists on decorating the nursery with “you energy.” She brings home trinkets, dried flowers, little frames with quotes you’ve said. “I want them to feel you in the room, even when you’re not here,” she tells you one night while holding your hand.

Labour and Birth!

Ash has been tracking your contractions to the minute. The second they hit five minutes apart, she’s hauling you onto her bike—no protests, no hesitations. Ideally, you would’ve taken the car, but it was out of fuel, and Ash isn’t about to waste time with that. Good thing, too, because your water breaks right as she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

She secretly loves that it happened on the bike. “It’s official,” she grins, steadying you. “Baby Maker lives up to her name.”

As you walk inside, she holds you close, supporting your weight with gentle strength. When your legs start to give out, she just picks you up—no warning—cradled securely under one arm like you weigh nothing at all. She has zero patience for the slow-moving receptionist and demands a room without taking no for an answer.

During the delivery, she never once lets go of your hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, soft and steady, as she whispers how much she loves you, how proud she is of you, how ready she is to become a mother by your side. When the doctors try to offer instructions mid-push, she waves them off—“Let them breathe, damn.”

And then, your handsome baby boy is here.

Ash immediately asks the nurses to wait for the cord to turn white before cutting it. While she’s bickering, you steal a first look—bald as a cueball, but already scrunching his face into the goofiest expressions.

Ash turned back just in time to catch that. And then she cried.

“He's gorgeous,” she whispered, pressing a trail of kisses across your face while her pinkie curled into his surprisingly strong grip. “I knew he’d be perfect.” She sat beside you, overwhelmed and glowing, whispering to him between happy sobs. When you finally passed him into her arms, she cradled him to her chest like he’d always been there.

“Welcome, little starshine,” she breathed, voice cracking. His eyes blinked open slowly, like he already knew her—her voice, that nickname, the love surrounding him.

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Travis Phelps:

Emotional Distance but Deeply Caring: Travis may act tough, but there’s an undeniable softness when it comes to the baby. He can’t help but care for you, and the growing bump reminds him of how much he has to protect.

Struggling with Touch: He’s used to being the tough guy, and touching, especially in this vulnerable situation, makes him uneasy. He’ll stand a little too far away, watching the way you cradle your belly. His hands shake when he wants to touch, but he doesn’t know how. You’ll often guide his hand to rest there, reassuring him with a quiet “It’s okay.”

Words Are Hard: Travis doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it. He’ll stumble over his words, usually saying something like “Uh, how’s... uh, how’s it feel in there?” He tries, but he’s never been great at being open about his feelings. Still, you can see the way his eyes soften when he watches you with the bump.

Silent Conversations: He’s not one for sappy talks, but you’ll catch him staring at your stomach in silence, like he's trying to figure out what’s going on in there. He doesn’t need words to show he cares; sometimes, he’ll just rest his hand near your belly, silently connecting with the baby, and you can tell it means a lot to him.

Reluctant Affection: When he does manage to touch your belly, it’s quick and almost hesitant, but it’s there. If the baby kicks while his hand is on your belly, he’ll freeze, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He’ll mutter something under his breath, like “Damn, that’s crazy,” and then look away, still processing the whole thing.

Protective and Observant: Travis has a habit of quietly observing how you’re doing, making sure you’re comfortable or not overexerting yourself. He won’t say much, but he’ll notice when you’re uncomfortable and take a mental note to fix things. He’s always looking out for you and the baby in his own, gruff way.

The First Kick: The first time the baby kicked, Travis was mesmerized. His hand was on your belly, and he felt the movement, not realizing at first that his eyes were filling with tears. When he noticed the tears, he tried to act tough, quickly wiping them away, but his hand stayed in place, not wanting to move. It was a moment of raw emotion that he didn’t know how to handle.

Travis sat stiffly at the edge of the couch, his hand hovering awkwardly over your bump. “I don’t… I mean, you sure it’s okay?” You took his wrist and gently placed his palm against your belly. “They’re your kid, Trav. You don’t have to ask permission to feel them.” He didn’t respond at first, too focused on the stillness beneath his hand— Then a flutter. A kick. Just one. His breath caught. “Was that—?” You nodded, watching his face change in real time. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent. Then… a tear slipped down his cheek. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing at his face with his sleeve like it betrayed him. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, sorry.” “Don’t be,” you said quietly. “They kicked for you.”

Protective to the Extreme: If someone bumps into you or is too rough around you, Travis doesn’t hesitate to get mad—really mad. His first instinct is to throw hands, and he’ll get in their face, fists clenched, ready to explode. But once the initial rush of anger settles, he forces himself to calm down. He knows getting into trouble would mean missing the birth, and that’s something he’s not willing to risk. After a few sharp words and a deep breath, he’ll mutter something like, “You better watch it next time,” and keep his distance from the person, but his anger doesn’t easily fade.

Secretly Reads Baby Books: He’ll act like he’s too tough for it, but Travis has been sneaking baby books when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s a weird mix of him wanting to be prepared but not wanting to admit it. It’s not his idea of fun reading, but he wants to make sure he’s not totally clueless when it comes to taking care of the baby.

The First Ultrasound: The first time you both see the baby on the ultrasound screen, Travis is hit with a wave of emotion. He’s never been the type to cry in public, but this moment hits him hard. He feels a connection, something raw and unspoken, and he can’t help but stare at the screen, a quiet "Holy shit" escaping his lips. It’s the first real glimpse of his child, and it shakes him to his core.

His ‘Big Brother’ Instincts: Growing up with his own chaotic, unpredictable home life, Travis often finds himself worried about creating a stable environment for his child. The thought of being a good dad nags at him constantly, but he’s determined to be better than what he had. He asks for advice more often than he’d admit, just to make sure he’s doing right by the kid.

Sleepless Nights: Even though he puts on a tough guy act, Travis finds himself unable to sleep at night, especially if you’re not feeling well. He’ll be up, pacing the room, trying to think of ways to help, and all the while, he's silently worrying about you and the baby. If you wake up and catch him, he’ll try to pretend he’s fine, but you can tell he’s not.

Baby Shopping with You: Travis tries to act all tough about baby shopping, but he’s surprisingly good at it. He’s picky about what the baby wears, insisting on getting only the best (but without going overboard). He’ll try to get the most practical things, but you can see the glimmer of pride in his eyes when he picks out something that looks perfect for his little one.

Belly Casting Obsession: Every time he notices a change in your bump, Travis insists on having a professional belly cast made. He’s fascinated by the process and wants to preserve every moment, from the smallest change in size to the curve of your belly as it grows. The casts end up all over his place, a testament to his odd but heartfelt desire to immortalize each stage of the pregnancy. At first, you think it’s a bit much, but the thoughtfulness behind it is something you can’t help but love.

If you ever try to do something yourself—like pick something up or bend over—Travis will immediately stop you, giving you a hard, almost scolding look. "What did I tell you about that?" he’ll say, gently but firmly. He’ll do everything for you, even if you protest, because he’s determined to make sure you don’t strain yourself. He’s very much in overprotective daddy mode and won’t hesitate to act on it.

Labour and Birth!

Travis gets the call while he’s at work. Your voice is shaky, telling him you think your water just broke. The moment you finish speaking, he doesn’t say a word—he just hangs up. There’s no time to waste. He storms out of the office without telling anyone, knowing the clock is ticking.

On his way to you, he quickly types out a message, his fingers shaking with nerves. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hang up like that... Don’t move a muscle, I’m on my way.”

He’d been preparing for this moment, keeping the bags in his car for weeks. Still, that doesn’t stop the whirlwind of anxiety tightening his chest as he drives. He mutters to himself, “Don’t panic, just breathe, don’t panic.” You’re not sure if he’s talking to you, or trying to convince himself of that.

His speed? Well, it’s more than a little reckless. You end up getting tailed by a cop, and instead of slowing down, he steps on the gas. It’s a high-speed chase now. When he finally pulls up to the hospital, he swings open your door… but is immediately tackled by the cop tailing him.

The officer looks down at him, then at you, clearly understanding. He doesn’t press charges, but Travis still gets a ticket. The cop helps you into the hospital, making sure you’re seen immediately before walking off.

As you’re labouring, Travis paces the room, hands raking through his hair. Then, he hears you shriek—everything in him shifts. He’s at your side in seconds, holding your hand, reassuring you through the pain. You’ve never seen him so raw, so vulnerable.

In between your contractions, he starts to speak, voice shaking, tears slipping down his cheeks. “You’re amazing, y’know that? I don’t say it enough… but I really do appreciate you, everything you’ve done for me, and everything you’re doing for us. I love you… I’m just so grateful for you.”

When the beautiful baby girl is born, Travis doesn’t waste a second. He scoops her up, bringing her close to his chest, overwhelmed with pride. He whispers to her as he holds her, a promise forming in his voice. “I’m gonna be the best dad the world’s ever seen… You’ve got a good one, kid.”

She’s perfect—golden eyelashes, a tiny strand of golden hair sticking up at the top of her head. Travis looks at her with a love you’ve never seen before. There’s no doubt in your mind—he’s going to be an amazing father.

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︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Also had to draw Larry snotting over your baby bump, I couldn't not, it was so clear in my head.

#fluff #sally face #larry johnson #ashley campbell #travis phelps #larry johnson x reader #ashley campbell x reader #travis phelps x reader #sal fisher x reader #sketch #digital art #sally face fanfiction #sally face fanart

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satorupi · 24 hours ago

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❦ pairing! ⭑ collegestudent!satoru x collegestudent!reader

❦ sum! ⭑ satoru just hates seeing his hardworking gf stressed to the point of tears because she can't wrap her head around something she's working on. he tries to leave you be for long enough but makes everything better when it looks like it gets to being too much ˙⋆✮

❦ cw! ⭑ sexual themes, established relationship, f!receiving oral/cunnilingus, fingering, stress themes (?), foul language (mild), might count as comfort sex so i'll list it too, eatergojeatergojoeatergojo!!

next in queue! ⭑ exhusband!nanami x wife!reader

it’s just a little past 10 pm and you’ve been hunched at your desk for god knows how long. birds have long resigned for the day, the street lamps cast long shadows on the pavement outside. that and your own lamp are your only source of light save for that emanating from your screen in a steady stream of blue. the prolonged blue light exposure is sure to give you eye sensitivity with how long you’ve been staring, fixed on the same jumble of words for the past 10 minutes.

your mind feels all fogged up and your brain feels like it’s just taking up space in your head being useless. the headache building has actual claws, pulsing behind your eyelids as a heavy, weighted throb.

you might actually freak out if you keep sitting here but what other option do you have?

this shit is due next week, you’d let your anxiety and procrastination win this time and look at where you are now. the clock ticks louder with every second you waste not getting it. you can feel the burn of tears hot behind your eyelids—annoying, stupid tears. other people got this just fine, and here you were about to cry over it. you don’t realize you’ve been biting the inside of your cheek till you taste that slight metallic tang, blinking rapidly to get your thoughts in order.

he notices all of this, of course. had been trying to keep from saying anything, knowing how dire it was for you to get a bit of this done. but you look like you’re a moment away from tears, and what kind of boyfriend would he be leaving his darling girl to suffer?

“alright, now,” the bed springs creak with his shifting as his weight eases off, crossing over cool hardwood to get to you, hands smoothing over your hair from behind. “been at it for hours.”

you close your eyes and breathe out a slow breath, willing the rise of irritation down. not at him, of course – but you can’t help but feel all volatile right now when your frustration level is already this high. you’d kept a calm head, you hadn't cried. you’re sure all his niceties and placation would undo you.

you shake your head. a warning. a please don’t, even if little part of you wants him to.

“baby. come take a break.”

“god, satoru. can you not?” the words are like the crack of a whip, sharper than you’d hoped for them to come out. the halt of his hands running over your hair has the growing ache of guilt in your chest settling deeper, punching through your ribs. “i just..” your head tips to look up at him, glad for the angle that staved the building flow on your waterline even if momentary. his brows are furrowed a little, head tipped, eyes so filled with tenderness and concern that it makes your skin prickle.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” you mutter, softer this time. “the assignment just..” you cut yourself off, breathing slowly. “i’m not mad at you, it’s the assignment. ‘m sorry.”

he'd showed up to keep you company through the grueling hours, been the absolute sweetest checking up and you and you’d snapped at him for no reason at all. your whine is low in your throat, sniffling gently as his fingers begin to circle your temples. “i feel so stupid. i’ve been sitting her for ages, you saw—” your voice hiccups a little, nose scrunching to fight the tingling, “and nothing’s even sticking. then i’m mean to you f’no reason.”

satoru hums, hands slipping away from you just to brace on either armrest at the side of you, spinning the chair so that you’re facing him so he can actually see you. “not mean. just a little overwhelmed, princess.”

he coaxes you up into his hold easily with a slight dip to your height in the chair and a tap to your hip, “come on up.” it’s an easy shift out the seat, arms banding around the back of his neck, legs around his hips to cling like a koala like you always should be – where you feel safest.

a whimper muffles against his neck as his hands sweep up and down your back over the soft cotton of the shirt you’d stolen borrowed, kissing the side of your head as he rocks you in his hold.

“you’re taking a break with me.” leaves out the whether you like it or not. “you’ll catch up, baby. i’ll help you catch up after you take a break.” never mind the fact that you’re in different majors -- you don’t question him though, just nodding against his neck. maybe a nap with him is all you need to feel better.

you end up in bed of course, but there’s not much napping going on. soft kisses and massaging your temples turned to hushed reassurances and the gentle coaxing of your body to the sheets as he swore that he’d make you feel better.

satoru didn’t need a bio degree to know that orgasms were good for stress.

tee high over the softness of your abdomen, thighs parted -- satoru’s on you like fire to kindling.

his teeth skim over the softness of thighs he’d gotten between, settling your legs over his shoulders at a better angle. all the teasing had done was work you up a little more, pulling mewls and slightly irritated calls of his name as he continues to deny you. all he does is grin, biting down on the same spot again before kissing it better. “jeez, have some patience.”

and when he does give you what you want? yeah, he’s intentional with everything he does – including this. his mouth is everywhere--slow, deliberate, like he's trying to replace every unkind thought you had about yourself with the sweet, grounding drag of his tongue over the soppy fabric. you’re already high strung from all the teasing, hips jolting upward just to be leveled by the gentle but firm press of his hands, lips smacking a kiss over your clothed ones just to make you squirm. “toruu..” you sigh, all high and reedy, brows creasing. “quit teasing. i thought you wanted to help me.”

he makes a sound against you that sounds something like agreement, licking through the panties till the cloth feels a wetter with your arousal and his saliva, need reaching it’s peak. you’re near ready to bed again, really. “i am helping. see?” his lips pucker to blow cool air over where you’re hottest for him, needy clit throbbing at all the attention as your breath hitches. you’d so get him back for all this, but for now all you can do is moan softly, hand lowering to thread your fingers through his hair. he wouldn’t deny you too long of course, never could.

he pulls the fabric aside with a tug, first sweep of his tongue against your bare cunt slow and devastating. you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, and he groans into you like he’s the one being touched instead. his tongue flattens and drags and long stripe from your entrance to the needy bud tucked at the apex of your folds, lips suction there till you’re curling your toes from how good it feels. you tug on his hair to get him a little closer, thighs spread around his head, hips lifting in little bucks to feel more of his tongue greedily. a light smack to your inner thigh has you yelping softly, hips falling back to the sheets with just that.

“i have such..” satoru pulls away from you with one last slurp to gather your honeyed slick on his tastebuds, shifting a little so he can get his hands back down to your inner thighs, “an impatient girlfriend. so very impatient.” shiny gossamers of slick and spit connect your cunt on his mouth and he just grins, tongue dragging over the softness of his damp lips to snap them.

his thumbs swipe near the side of your folds, parting the slick swollen pair to expose more of you to his sight. his staring is unabashed, half dopey pussy drunk smile already spreading, head dipping to drag his tongue through the exposed pink. he loves it when you’re spread like this, when he can see every little flutter, how you clench around nothing. “missing my tongue already. just greedy.”

his eyes follow the rush slick that leaves you just from that, and you swear his pupils dilate a little more. satoru runs his tongue along his inner cheek and you don’t have much time to react before he’s spitting directly onto your folds with a soft, throaty sound of pleasure, watching it drip and mix with the rest of your slick in a sticky mess.

“so wet for me..” he mutters, voice almost reverent as he watches the way your cunt clenches around nothing in the dimly lit space. then he’s back on you, mouth messy and ravenous, tongue tracing circles over your entrance, then pushing in, curling and stroking as though he’s trying to memorize the feel of your insides. his nose nudges your clit, his thumbs stroke the edges of your lips as he feasts on you.

“d-don’t stop—hnng, toru--” you whimper, fingers threading tighter in his hair, hips grinding without any rhythm at all. satoru’s clear hum of pleasure reverberates through you, hands pulling off you – one finding place on the upper curve of your ass, the other moving a shorter distance up to your clit. familiar tips of his middle and ring finger circle your bud momentarily just till he’s pulling his mouth back again to free up your core, both sliding lower till they’re prodding your wet entrance. your pussy welcomes the intrusion almost eagerly and you keen loudly into the cool air, thighs shaking, calling out his name. “oh fuck,” he huffs, tongue dragging a slick path up your slit before latching onto your clit again, sucking with obscene wet pressure. “listen to her,” he pants, voice thick with arousal, “she’s so noisy for me, baby.”

lips wrapped around your clit and lengthy fingers inside you to the knuckle, you’re not sure you know a better combo. the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you is downright nasty, sappy wet sloshes as he intrudes and pulls back out over and over again mixing with your breathy moans in the air. you’re not quite sure what you’d be upset before about this now really.

his lips suction around your clit again while his fingers scissor you open, sweet spot giving to the press of his fingers. he massages and curls his fingers into the spot relentlessly, solely breathing through his nose as he works you now. no time for pulling back when he needed to make his sweetheart cum, right? the twitch and growing weight in his boxers doesn’t go unnoticed, subtly humping into the sheets this whole time – this was about you, his boner is really the least of his concerns.

“g’nna make you cum..” he sings in a low voice, fingers fucking into you a little faster, tongue moving over your clit in fat wet swipes. the slick slosh of your juices floods his palm, heel practically humping the underside of your bud. “mm, you wanna cum right? wanna make a mess on my face?” his jaw and wrist is a mess with you, the sheets are surely a little soaked and he isn’t letting up for anything.

“uh huh. i wanna cum..i wanna- oohmygodddsatoru!—fuck!“ the tension that’s been hot and heavy curling in your gut finally snaps, tug his hair hard enough that you’re sure some strands pulled free (oops). your thighs shudder around his head through every bit of it of your orgasm expression twisted in the prettiest way, feeling his eyes on your face, mouth angled to let you finish right in his mouth. his own sounds are throaty, not so subtle humping getting jerky as hot ropes shoot against the front of his briefs unbeknownst to you. each pulse is sharper than the last, squeezing his fingers until he groans against your cunt, the vibration sending another shudder racing through you. he licks at you tenderly through all the pleasure, only amplifying your high, free hand keeping your thighs open when you’d tried to close them to run away from him.

when his fingers finally leave your spent heat and his tongue isn’t on your body, he's breathing as heavily as you are down where’s his cheek is smushed on your thigh. languidly licking at his fingers to savor your taste a little longer.

jaw wet, eyes glazed over. dopey ass grin spready on his pretty mouth. “not thinking about that paper now, are you?” god you love hate him.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　

cool baby wipes to the heat between your thighs and around his mouth has you two clean enough and cuddling for a good couple minutes after the orgasm he’d gotten out of you. quick change of his briefs too.

“10 minutes then we get back to work, hm? i’ll try to research and summarize.” even if the terms would probably have his mind all jumbled. didn’t matter though. “we’ll get some ice cream.”

you hum, shifting to nuzzle closer, thigh slipping between his two to get tangled up with him just a little more. he’s warm and he smells as good as he usually does – you can’t help it.

and if the ice cream wasn’t enough incentive for you?

“i’ll give you something better than my fingers if you get at least two more pages done.”

note: switched to all lowercase bc shift f3 wasn't being consistent </3

#sena's script ⏾#satoru gojo x reader #satorupi 𓃠 #student satoru #jujutsu satoru #gojo satoru #where was my satoru when exam szn was beating my ass </3

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mirainwonderland · 1 day ago

Text

Contents: Apocalypse AU, OC (side character), kind of self insert but I didn’t specify details so that you can imagine what you want, some body horror but not over graphic, afab reader (you/your fem OC/whatevertheheckyouwannaimagine are the “she” mentioned because yes I have lore for that too)

A/N: I think about Leon in a zombie apocalypse a lot. Like the world has been taken over completely, and he sees everything he’s been fighting against his whole life win. What would that be like? What would happen? Soooo here’s how I imagine this would start. this is also very self-indulgent because I’m a sucker for dystopia and i need to self-insert my ass off Let me know if you want me to continue this. Idk if this will be consecutive if I write more set in an apocalypse, but if you want me to continue this bit of it I will cause I think you know where this is going I just wanted to give a little taste. otherwise I’ll bounce around in the timeline probably I’ll probably do that anyway. I imagine either RE4R Leon or ID Leon, either works and it depends on the scenario. Indulge yourself how you will. Okay I’m done ranting bye please tell me if you liked it

Word count: 1.5K

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The slam of a car door rings in his ears like a gunshot kickstarting the beginning of a race.

A race he’s been running all his life.

He hauls his backpack up onto the open tailgate of the beat-up old pickup, as the breeze on a cloudless day whips his sweaty white t-shirt around his waist. He jerks open the zipper, looking for the faded blue button-up— the only one he has to his name anymore. Pulling it out and slipping it on, Leon secures his pack, tugging the straps taunt and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Fucking dammit!” Gus kicks the bald tires of the truck as he comes around the side. The old geezer’s whiskered face scrunches up into a toothy (minus a few) look of dismay and disgust. He tugs off his cap and wipes the sweat off his balding forehead, staring down the road into the muggy eastern heat.

“This damned truck was supposed to last us ‘til we got to to the next town.” He sets his cap back onto his sandy-silver hair, hands on his pot-belly sides. Leon glances up from what he’s doing, looking at the wooded area that surrounds them on both sides of the ghost town highway. Not an ideal place to be stranded. A great place to be ambushed.

“Yeah well.” He sounds more nonchalant than he feels about the vehicle, as he secures the pack buckle across his chest. That truck gave them an increased chance to actually *make* it that far, because now on foot the odds were going to be slimmer.

“No use crying over an empty gas tank.”

Gus growls in frustration, kicking the tire again for good measure, knocking the cap off the hub. He goes to the back for his own pack as Leon lifts the shotgun out of the bed.

“How much farther we gotta go?” Leon slams the tailgate closed.

“‘Bout 30 miles or so, I reckon.”

Great. He’d figured the truck would run out of gas before they got to the next town, but he had hoped it would have only been about 10 or so miles out.

“This is gonna take all fucking night.” Gus grumbles as he secures his backpack.

“Better start walking, then.”

***

A cry of distress echoes down the dingy, abandoned hallway, crawling with groaning infected.

A human cry.

She jolts upright in the hospital bed, the room dark and musty. Coughing, the smell of rotting flesh chokes her lungs, pungent and impossible to miss.

She lifts her hands to run through her hair, a strangled cry of pain falling from her lips when the action rips the IV out of her right arm. An IV long run dry.

Whimpering, she cradles the bleeding wrist to her chest with her other hand, eyes darting around the bleak room.

She looks for the call light, but the glowing button has long since dimmed. Everything is dead silent. No heart monitors with their incessant beeping, no wheezing of oxygen machines.

“Hello?” She calls out tentatively, hoping a nurse will come to her aid and tell her why there’s no light in her room, no power. Was there a surge? Will it come back on soon?

She doesn’t even remember how she got here. Hell, she doesn’t even remember her name. Scared and confused, she throws the bedsheets aside and gingerly lowers her bare feet to the floor.

“Hello?” Again as she creeps toward the door to her room. An eerie feeling settles in her back and creeps up from the base of her spine.

“Anyone?”

Something is horribly wrong. She can feel it.

She reaches out for the doorknob, just waiting for something to happen as she turns it quietly. The hinges squeak as it slowly swings open, and she cringes, the adrenaline building up in her body like a bathtub approaching overflowing.

She peaks down the hallway, the space even dingier and stretching on forever.

She steps out into it, the trashed state of it sending chills skittering down her spine. Vital trees, caretaker stations, medical supplies and trays are scattered everywhere like a tornado had come through. Something dark splatters the white floor and walls. Her eyes trail slowly down her body to her feet, lifting her soles to check the viscosity of the liquid she stands in.

With a horrified cry she recognizes the coagulated blood. She stumbles backwards, catching herself on a toppled, bloody gurney.

Her vision blurs in and out, and she can hear her breathing echoing in her ears like she’s in a tunnel. She pushes herself up off the gurney, shaking like a leaf as she takes careful, cautious steps down the hallway, trying to make out what’s ahead of her in the dark.

She hears noises in the distance. Grunting, growling, moaning. She’s never heard sounds like these before, and she’s trying not to let it make her panic. Were they dogs? If they were, they didn’t sound well. And dogs couldn’t have done all this by themselves.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” She calls out once again, her heart beating in her throat, hoping against hope that something familiar would answer her.

She detects movement in the shadows, and suddenly two shiny eyes appear in the dark, looking at her. She freezes, petrified like stone and as still as a statue. She doesn’t know if she should call out to it again, but something in her gut tells her it’s not human.

Her body grows taut when the eyes begin to move toward her, down the hallway to where she can see through a little bit of light filtering through the window in the small hours before dawn. As the creature steps into the light slanting in to the hallway, she swallows her heart.

Grey, blue veiny skin on human limbs and a half-rotting human face. The horror catches in her throat as it limps toward her. The ‘thing’ is wearing scrubs. She’s not 100% sure she’s even seeing right. Disbelief makes her pause. Her feet feel like they stick to the bloody floor, slipping under her as she attempts to scramble backwards.

She backs up in front of a window to a patient’s room, a loud slam against the glass echoing down the hall. An even more emaciated creature in a hospital gown— just like hers— bangs against the glass, letting out the most inhuman growls and snarls. It claws at the window, writhing and straining to reach her through the barrier as if it was ravenous.

Her scream reaches the street.

***

Early hours of the morning, dusk barely paints the sky with color. Two figures creep into town, wary of the streets that crawl with undead.

“I was beginnin’ to like them peaceful stretches like ten miles ago.” Gus grumbles under his breath as both men creep down the street with guns at the ready. Abandoned cars and debris litter the streets, some places impossible to get through unless you climb over them.

“Yeah not many campers this time of year.” Leon mutters, skilled eyes scanning every shadow and alley they pass. “They’re all here.”

Gus glances over at Leon, eyeing him appraisingly like he’s been doing for the past few days.

“Now why do you wanna get to DC again so bad?”

Leon doesn’t even look at him as he replies. “Need to know how widespread this thing is.”

Gus is quiet for a second, his gaze narrowing.

“You know… you don’t seem all that disturbed by this whole ‘Walkin’ Dead’ bullshit we’re suddenly smack dab in the middle of. You act like you seen this shit before.”

Leon glances over at him, but doesn’t offer an explanation. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“At this point, I might believe aliens were real if you told me you’d seen ‘em.”

Leon turns back to staring down the barrel of his gun as they slink down the street.

“There ain’t even any guarantee that the capital isn’t overrun with whatever this is. We’ve come hundreds of miles, and we’re met with endless livin’ mummies.” Gus huffs, clearly full of questions and annoyed that Leon won’t give the answers the older man is convinced he has.

“That’s why we’re going to DC.” Leon replies, nodding in the general direction of the Capital. “It’s only been about three weeks, there might still be some hope.”

Gus scoffs. “Keep lookin’, son. I ain’t found any yet. If we could find even a shred of electricity in this whole state I’d say ‘hell yeah’. But we’re coming up dry wherever we go. No electricity, no cell towers, no *nothin’*!”

“We don’t know that for sure. There’s a lot of land in this country. There’s gotta be some that’s untouched.”

“Well good luck finding it.”

Few undead roam the streets as they make their way through the outskirts. Leon nods down toward Gus’ boot when he notices the older man has begun to limp again.

“How’s your leg?”

“Eh, it’s actin’ up again.” He grumbles, hobbling along beside Leon.

“We ought to get something to put on it to make sure it heals properly.”

“Yeah? Where do you propose we get that?”

Leon pauses, glancing up at a tall building that rises above the rest, the ‘H’ already missing from the sign at the top. He motions toward it with his chin, lowering his gun.

“The hospital.”

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #apocalyptic fiction #apocalypse AU #leon kennedy fanfic #writing #fanfiction #Leon Kennedy au #zombie apocolypse au #self insert #I’m indulging myself leave me alone

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starhvney · 3 days ago

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hi! this request event is honestly so cute, i love your work! i would like this order to stay anonymous, if that's alright :)

would love to have mys!gene × selectively mute reader <3 drink: tea, toppings: cinnamon, and snack: warm pretzel!

𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫!!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: romantic tension, hurt/comfort, festival

𝐚/𝐧: of course! this prompt was kind of relatable to a younger version of me, so i enjoyed writing it. anyways, i hope you like it! thank you!! (and also thank you for confirming who you were hehe)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You don’t even remember what it was. Maybe a teasing comment from Zenix, or someone in the loud crowd bumping into you, but suddenly everything became too much all at once. It was so frustrating when this happened; When moving each foot in front of the other took most of your effort, and the lights seemed to each be as blinding as the sun. When you could hear every sound but couldn’t make one yourself.

You hated it when you were supposed to be having fun, but all you could focus on was the lack of control you had over your own body. You were at a festival, with rides, good food, and your friends. But all you could do was owlishly look around, your mouth trapped shut as you followed your friend group like a lost puppy.

“Hey, you want a drink?” Gene leans in to ask you.

You shrug, twisting your mouth as you look around uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowing when he notices your tense shoulders.

“It’s too much.” You want to say. But the words won’t even start to form on your tongue. You can’t even part your lips to say the words, despite all of your focus being set on the response. And suddenly, you forget the words you were going to say in the first place, leaving you staring up at him dumbly.

After a moment, you just shake your head dismissively. You don’t want to ruin the night or the moment. Maybe you should just leave before you do.

“Oh.” He straightens up and looks around before quietly putting his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. He nods at Sasha and Zenix, waving a hand. “Hey, she wants a snack from over there. We’ll be right back, okay?”

Sasha gives a curious look at you before nodding and shrugging, looking over at Zenix, who was already distractedly walking off. As they continue forward, Gene starts to guide you through the crowd, his hand steady and stride confident as he heads off to a less crowded area. There were only a few stalls here, and the lights weren’t as concentrated, leaving a calm, dim environment amongst the rest of the festival. Like the eye of a storm. Once the voices of the crowd faded from an overstimulating buzz to a distant white noise, the two of you sat down on an empty bench, staring off at the commotion ahead.

“That’s a lot of people,” Gene notes, leaning back casually, his arms stretching out across the back of the bench.

The slight touch of his skin against your back is much more comforting than expected, and a wave of gratefulness washes over you at how little of a deal he was making this out to be. He doesn’t seem to be troubled or inconvenienced by sitting out away from the fun. In fact, it seems like he enjoys it, his head nodding along to the distant music as he looks around, drumming his fingers to the beat.

“Was it too loud?” he asks softly after a moment, glancing over at you.

You shrug. You could almost cry at how gentle he was being. How understanding he was despite how you hadn’t given a single word in explanation.

“Hey, it’s okay. You already know I'm not irritated. We can just sit here and chill for a bit.” He hands you the half-eaten churro that he’d been carrying in his other hand.

“Want a bite? It’s good…” he coos in a low, singsong tone.

You swallow. The tasty treat does look pretty good, so you lean in, taking a small bite and sighing happily at the taste of cinnamon and sugar on your tongue.

“Good?”

You nod.

He grins, placing it in your hand. “Have the rest of it, then.”

You shake your head, frowning as you try to hand it back to him.

“It’s yours.” You want to argue.

“I already ate half, I don’t want the rest. It’s a lot of sugar.” He chuckles. “Just eat it, doll.”

You look down at the pastry, trying to conjure up a thank you, and quietly sighing when it doesn’t come. Robotically, you raise your arm, motioning a “thank you” in sign language before taking another bite into the churro. Somehow, even that was nearly impossible to do. But as your nerves calm, you ease back into Gene’s arm and the steady, firm back of the bench.

“It’s nothing, but you’re welcome,” he nods, before looking back out at the crowd. “You okay?”

Are you? You think so. Just a few moments of respite like this is helping you calm down. It’s just the words you couldn’t begin to conjure on your tongue that’s making you upset.

“Do you want to try and go back in? You can squeeze the shit out of my hand, dig your nails in it, whatever you need to do to let me know when it gets too much, and I’ll take you back out,” he suggests, leaning forward to get a good look at your face. “You don’t have to try to talk either. And I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who gives you a problem for it.”

He ruffles your hair and pinches your cheek. “I still want you to have fun, yeah? What do you say?”

You raise your eyebrows at the visual of his threat, though you’re unable to stop a small smile from forming on your face as you slowly nod.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he says fondly, grasping your hand in his and standing up. “Let’s go have some fun, yeah?”

taglist: @wasting-away-on-the-internet @angelhyperfixates @valentique @arienic @dazedbydeath @theaquaticplant @starsbrightly @kalegrinch @izzybella1807 @marst4rz @vyladsgirl @allieyaaa @luvsymai @yoom-ss @garrothswiferealnotfake @fartmonster98 @di-itzy

#aphmau #aphmau mystreet #mystreet #mystreet x reader #aphblr #x reader #mystreet gene #aphmau gene #gene x reader #mystreet gene x reader

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